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The Game Goes On
Robert F. Jones
May 22, 1978
A field on the outskirts of Nanyuki: at one corner a garbage dump smolders behind a row of shops lining the highway; the sun pounds down through a stiff southwesterly breeze; and smoke flattens toward a hut not far away. The hut is built of old tin cans and branches, whose dead leaves flap in the acrid wind. Inside the hut, seated on cattle skulls, three men and a woman are drinking tea from chipped enamel mugs. A small fire sputters. Outside lies what looks like a bundle of sticks wrapped in a tattered, faded red blanket. But something stirs for a moment, black skin through the holes. It's not a bundle of sticks. It's old Nyngao the Hyena,-the Eater of Meat, and he is dying.
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May 22, 1978

The Game Goes On

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Across the river near our camp a lion roared, that long, rising, hollow thunder that sets the scalp atingle. Another lion answered out on the plain. I picked up a book that Winter had loaned me: The Recollections of William Finaughty, Elephant Hunter—1864-1875. The opening sentence was priceless. "Being a harum-scarum from youth, a good horseman, and a very fair shot, I determined to get into the interior of Africa for the purpose, mostly, of shooting big game."

Yes, it would be good to get back to Naibor Keju.

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