‘That I know is Fundimvelo. It was my grandfather’s land. They have offered it to me. I will take it back and join with you. We will then do the joint project you have spoken of for the benefit of my people.’ Again, simple as that.
‘Thank you, Nkosi.’
‘Now the Ntambanana land, why are they taking so long in releasing it to us?’ he asked, referring to the tract of bush and thorn on my western boundary. Ntambanana was originally land excised by the apartheid government from various tribes some decades ago and was now being returned. The Biyelas had the biggest claim over it, and so for Nkosi Biyela to query why this process was taking so long meant that the project was now going to get massive impetus from him.
‘I do not know, Nkosi. It worries me as well.’
‘We must start pushing them now,’ he said, referring to the local government. And when Nkosi Biyela talks about ‘pushing’, it certainly gets people’s attention.
In those few minutes – completely out of the blue – he had described most of the land that made up my dream African game reserve, but not all of it. There was one last piece of the jigsaw, the most important piece: Mlosheni, an 8,000-acre section which ran north from Ntambanana rightup to the White Umfolozi River, the gateway to the worldfamous Umfolozi game reserve. Once we had that, we could lower fences with the Umfolozi reserve and have a massive tract of pristine Africa.
‘Mlosheni,’ I said, then hesitated.
‘What of Mlosheni?’
‘Mlosheni will join us to the Umfolozi reserve. It is important.’
‘Of course! I have spoken with my izinduna, it is already agreed,’ he said matter-of-factly. ‘The animals will migrate as they used to before the apartheid government put up the fences.’
I reached out and we shook hands. I was elated, scarcely able to believe what I was hearing. This project would do more for his people than anything that had ever happened before and my mind raced, assessing the benefits to wildlife as well. Nkosi Biyela would lead a coalition of traditional communities into a brave new world.
I knew too that while this agreement represented a fundamental breakthrough that had been twelve years in the making, there was still a lot of work to be done and many lengthy tribal meetings lay ahead. But at long last he was fully committed – now we would win. His word was absolutely crucial; it was without question what we needed most. Everything now could start happening.
That evening in the lodge we continued discussing the Royal Zulu project and what it could do to regenerate our area. I felt the gloom of Mnumzane’s death lift; his soaring spirit would be part of a magnificent new reserve that would be Africa as it should be: wild, beautiful, with people and animals living in harmony. Indeed, to me the new reserve would be a monument not only to Mnumzane but to Max and baby Thula as well, who had also shown in spades the qualities most needed in the fight for our last remaining wild lands – courage, loyalty, and above all, perseverance.
It was an evening I will remember for the rest of my days – a vision of what Africa can be. And not least thanks to the cooperation of a remarkable leader, Nkosi Biyela. This new reserve, imbued with Zulu history dating from their first king, Shaka Zulu, will kickstart the area both physically with job creation and investment, and spiritually with a true wilderness ethos. One only has to look at the comments in the guestbook at Thula Thula to see how often tourists remark on the spiritual effect the wild has had on them during their stay. Now with Nkosi Biyela onside, the final major barrier had been removed. Royal Zulu would at last become a reality and, I hope, a cornerstone of conservation in Africa.
The next morning, after a hefty breakfast with the Nkosi during which his enthusiasm for the new project seemed, if anything, even more animated, I switched on the TV news. The looming war against Saddam Hussein in Iraq was being ratcheted up by the hour. It seemed now that an invasion was inevitable. But that morning the news also featured a clip on the Kabul Zoo in Afghanistan and filling the entire screen was a lion, blind in one eye with a tormented face full of shrapnel. A Taliban soldier had thrown a grenade at him. Somehow he’d survived. His name was Marjan. His pock-scabbed face, his baleful, accusing stare seared into my soul. This truly was the reality of animals caught up helplessly – faultlessly – in the vicious vortex of man’s folly. More graphic than any words, that awful image was an indictment of our species. Something snapped in my mind. My anger gnawed corrosively at my innards. I knew I had to get to Iraq and make sure the same thing didn’t happen to the creatures at the Baghdad Zoo, the biggest menagerie in the Middle East.
Ten days later, during the coalition invasion, I was in the bomb-blasted Iraqi capital. It didn’t long take to grasp the enormity of the task before me and I needed a good man atmy side. It took one phone call, and a few weeks later Brendan arrived.
Brendan was with me in those crucial first few months when we saved the last remaining animals in the zoo and elsewhere in Baghdad. He then stayed in the Iraqi capital for more than a year after I left doing absolutely critical work in making sure the animals were well cared for.
After that he went to Kabul where he also did sterling stuff in advising the Afghans on how to improve their zoo. Sadly, Marjan had died long before he arrived. In the process, he left Thula Thula. But I take immense pride in the fact that he had
