The Mzungu Boy by Meja Mwangi

the forest. We clung to the log where we sat and listened as the dogs bayed and yelped after whatever it was that they were driving toward us. We were really scared now.
    With a deafening roar, the sound burst upon us — a shocking wave of blurry, black fury that knocked us off our log with the force of its passage. The thing barely glanced at us, its dilated nostrils spewing steaming breath, the terrifying red eyes burning with rage. Then it turned away, stepped back into the blackness and was gone.
    â€œWow!” Nigel was totally amazed. “What was that?”
    â€œBuffalo,” I told him.
    He was shaking now, and I was breathless with fear.
    The dogs shot past us, running like the wind after the disappearing disaster. Nigel leaped to his feet and went after them. I ran after him. He blustered through the darkening forest, oblivious to the thorns and things that clutched at his clothes and tore at his hair.
    By the time I caught up with him, the chase was miles away from us and fading. I took his hand and ran in a different direction, led him away from the direction the dogs had taken.
    â€œWhere are you going?” he yelled at me.
    â€œHome,” I yelled back.
    â€œAre we not going after them?” he asked.
    â€œNo,” I said, still running with him.
    â€œWhat if they catch the buffalo?”
    â€œJimis don’t catch buffalo,” I said. “Jimis can’t catch buffalo. Buffalo kills jimis. Buffalo kills people too.”
    â€œWhy are they chasing him, then?” he asked.
    My guess was that the jimis had not actually seen their quarry yet. That they were chasing the fury and the thunder and had no idea what they were running after.
    We ran on. We cut across the forest at an angle to emerge from the valley as far away from the buffalo’s path as possible. We were out of breath when we climbed the last rise onto the grass plateau. Far away to the left we could hear the dogs in full cry after their prey. Only then did we stop running.
    Nigel was worried about the dogs. I told him to think of us instead. We were miles from home and it was getting dark.
    But he came from a land where dogs mattered more than people, it seemed.
    â€œDon’t worry about the jimis,” I told him. Jimis were survivors. I had never known of a jimi to be killed on a hunting expedition. On the other hand, I knew of scores of boys who had been seriously gored by a rampaging buffalo. But these facts did not interest Nigel.
    â€œHow will they find their way home?” he asked.
    His concern for the dogs amazed me. So did his endless ignorance.
    â€œDogs know their way home,” I said to him. “Dogs always find their way home.”
    When the buffalo stopped running and they finally realized their grave mistake, the jimis would be so surprised that they would get home before us, I assured him.
    Shortly afterwards we heard an angry bellow on the plains to our left. It was followed by a violent commotion. We heard angry grunts and the whining and screaming of terrified dogs.
    â€œHear that?” I said. The buffalo had stopped running. The jimis would soon be on their way home.
    â€œWhat is he doing to them?” Nigel asked, listening to the terrible cries of the dogs.
    He was scattering the jimis all over the plain with his mighty horns. That was how an enraged buffalo dealt with impudent dogs — tossing jimis in the air with their horns and stomping on them as they hit the ground. Buffalo did not bite except when they were extremely angry. And I could tell by the sound the dogs made that this buffalo was extremely angry. A buffalo could demolish a village hut with one toss of his horns.
    I told Nigel everything I knew about buffalo as we hurried across the plain. The sun was going down over the Loldaiga hills and it was getting cold. We started running.
    Darkness descended as we made our way across the last stretch of forest before the Nanyuki river. Nigel