In the yellow light of early morning, we sailed under the canopy of acacia thorns, Land Rover tires silently throwing fine clouds of dust in our wake. Lewis allowed us to stop and scanned the horizon with his binoculars, a worn steel-cased pair from the British Army. We were in the Samburu National Reserve in northern Kenya and this is always my favorite part of a safari: just after sunrise, entering a game park with the taste of morning coffee and biscuits still lingering and a basket full of promising brunch next to me.

Lewis whistled softly. “Vultures,” he said. “About two miles away, I think on the river bank.”

I looked too and could see in the distance what looked like three or four brown glasses circling lazily above the trees. More arrived and joined the whirlpool as I watched, as if expecting to be sucked into the center and out of sight. But none landed.

Lewis started the engine and we drove on, turning toward the river and following a red dirt road that wound through tall grass. The animals turned out in numbers. Millions actually. From the lake of ballet dancing pink flamingos in Nakuru to the incredible spectacle that is the Masai Mara wildebeest migration. But these were guaranteed. “Sport driving is like fishing,” Lewis had told me. You may get lucky on your first outing and see something special.

So, back to Samburu. The sun came up quickly and I had to take off my fleece as we followed the winding path along the river. The Land Rover groaned and lurched through a dry creek, and within minutes we were under the vultures, in a clearing where the river turned sharply south. Standing less than fifty yards away, head down and deep-set eyes looking out at the circling birds, was a huge lioness. One side of her face was turning black with blood and her breathing was heavy, her chest heaving with exertion.

Lewis turned off the engine and we fell silent. Slowly, the lioness caught her breath and looked around her. By now she had already chosen the tawny forms of at least four cubs who waited patiently with another large lioness. It was as if everyone was waiting for something, as if I was missing something.

Then I saw it. The first lioness turned and walked slowly towards the rest. Behind her was the body of an adult Grevy’s zebra. The lions had killed at dawn and would feast here for days. The lioness stopped, looked back at the zebra and the flying scavengers, and did not go on. She wasn’t in the mood to share yet. A jackal trotted hopefully in a wide circle around the group, being watched closely by the other lioness. We waited long enough to absorb the scene, and then we left.

Later on the trail we met a group that hadn’t seen big cats and Lewis reported our find to his guide:

“Kunaya masharufu!” [There are lions!] (‘masharufu’ means ‘beard’ in Kiswahili)
“Wapi?” [Where?]

“Kando ya mto.” [On the riverbank.]

“Wangapi?” [How many?]

“Saba. Watoto watano, wake up wawili.” [Seven. Five cubs and two lionesses.]

The other guide smiled and his clients looked at us hopefully, unsure what our news was.

“Wapi?” [Where?] the driver asked anxiously.

“Barabara iliyo karibu na mto”. [The road near the river.]

“Unaenda upande wa kulia kidogo” [Go a little bit to the right.]

“Wako hapo kwa corner.” [They are right there at the corner.]

“Asante Sana! Kwaheri!” [Thanks! Bye!]

They sped away and Lewis looked at me and smiled wryly…

“Guerba leads, others follow!” she laughed.