This Week at Angama #383

It wasn’t the usual kind of traffic jam. No honking horns, no frustrated drivers — just the gentle hum of the morning interrupted by a vehicle brought to an unexpected halt. A bull hippopotamus stood squarely in the middle of the dusty track, his barrel-shaped body glistening with river mist. Eyes scanning, ears twitching, nostrils flaring — he was undecided, caught between the safety of where he’d come from and the uncertainty ahead. In the wild, hesitation speaks volumes. Perhaps ousted by a dominant male, this bull had likely been driven out with brutal force. It’s not a gentle disagreement when hippos clash — it's war. Jaws, grunts, and gnashing tusks. Those tusks, actually enlarged canines, can grow over half a metre long and are sharp enough to pierce bone.

The bull's agitation showed in the taut muscles beneath his skin, and his glare towards us was like we were part of his problem. It was clear he wasn’t in the mood for company. After a few tense minutes, he made up his mind. With a low grunt and surprising grace, he crossed the road and vanished into the tall grass, away from the river and the herd, toward solitude. Perhaps to find a quieter, safer pool where he could lick his wounds and reclaim his pride.

It’s easy to think of lions as stoic, frozen in strength, unchanged by time or mood. But this morning, we watched a male lion tell a story without so much as a roar. He lay in the soft morning warmth, seemingly relaxed, yet his face shifted with subtle emotion: a gentle squint as the sun touched his mane, a slow blink of contentment, a wrinkled nose catching the breeze, a grimace when a fly dared interrupt his peace. 

In those fleeting moments, I realised that facial expressions aren’t just a human trait. Animals, too, wear their moods. Lions may not raise eyebrows or flash smiles, but they express themselves through tension, stillness, and the quiet language of their faces. Looking at him, I didn’t just see a predator; I saw moods, memories, and moments of peace, just like us. 

The sun had barely crested the horizon when we noticed her — a lioness from the Border Pride, frozen like a statue, eyes locked in a single direction for minutes that felt like eternity. We raised our binoculars, following her gaze. There, moving with slow and thunderous confidence, was a small herd of buffalo, headed straight for the shallow gully where lionesses lay hidden with their cubs. One female let out a low growl, but the buffalo didn’t flinch. Their hooves beat an ominous rhythm into the earth, each step a challenge, each one closer to confrontation.  

Unseen by the herd, a shadow stirred. A male lion had been watching from afar. Crouched behind the cracked rise of a termite mound, his golden eyes tracked every hoofbeat. The breeze shifted, betraying him. Hesitation wasn’t an option. With a burst of raw muscle, he lunged. The buffalo spun on instinct, hooves thundering as they bolted. But he was on them — fast and furious, chasing chaos into the heart of the herd. Horns flashed, but the prey proved too swift even for the king. 

The buffalo had escaped, but they hadn’t triumphed. Not today. The lion’s gaze followed them into the distance, a silent warning etched into his posture. He had not struck for hunger; he had struck for territory, for the unspoken law of the savannah. This wasn’t just a failed hunt. It was a message. Between buffalo and lion, there is no peace — only brief pauses in an endless war.

A herd of elephants approached the river with measured grace. There was no rush — only instinct. At the water's edge, they paused briefly to scan the current. Hippos floated nearby, their bulky forms half-submerged, but the elephants showed no fear. Between the giants, there was a silent understanding.

With a low rumble and a reassuring nudge, the matriarch led the way, stepping confidently into the shallows. The little ones were gently herded to the centre, shielded by older siblings and mothers. The water barely reached their knees. They knew where to cross, guided by memory deep within the matriarch's bones.

They stopped briefly to drink, calves splashing under the safety of watchful eyes. Then, in unison, the herd moved forward across the river and into the waiting grasslands beyond. 

The harsh afternoon light cast short shadows across the open grassland at Maji ya Ndege when we spotted him pacing restlessly — a lone male cheetah. His slender frame moved in slow, uncertain circles, tail twitching, ears alert. Then came the sound: a sharp, haunting chirp, repeated over and over, a call meant for one, and one only — his brother. 

The two had been inseparable — a coalition bound by blood and survival. But now, the landscape echoed with a single voice, unanswered and filled with growing urgency. We watched in silence, the air thick with tension, as he paused, listened and called again.

Minutes passed. His circles grew wider, his calls growing fainter under the scorching sun. Worry crept into every cautious step. We continued our journey back to the lodge with no sign of his sibling. But one question lingered in silence: would the brothers reunite before nightfall, or would this be the start of a lonelier chapter? Perhaps the coming weeks will turn the page.

This week, a young male leopard appeared near the Shieni Crossing, perfectly perched in a tree — a picture-perfect frame spotted by Guide Robert. Unlike most newly encountered leopards, who often scramble down from trees at the sight of an approaching vehicle, this one remained calm, watching quietly from a distance. His relaxed demeanour suggests he may have settled here, perhaps already familiar with the low rumble of passing vehicles. Leopards, after all, reveal themselves only when they choose to. His features strongly resemble Shujaa, and he could possibly be one of Shujaa’s sons, now calling the forests of Angama Mara home.

With a shimmering chestnut forehead, blue crown and snow-white underparts, the wire-tailed swallow is a flash of colour in the soft green hues of dawn. Early morning, while the world is still waking, it skims low over the water’s surface, plucking insects mid-air with precision honed by generations of flight. It builds its mud nest under bridges or the eaves of quiet buildings, where the soft calls of chicks mix with the gentle lapping of water below.

On a warm afternoon in the vast savannah, the Egyptian Pride lay sprawled across a towering termite mound, lulled into slumber by the sun’s gentle warmth and the comfort of their full bellies. Yet, one lioness remained upright, amber eyes scanning the horizon. No creature would dare disturb the kings and queens of these plains, apex predators whose very presence commands respect — her vigilance instinct. A silent guardian ensuring that the peace of her family remained undisturbed. 

We came across the young leopard known as the Salt Lick female's cub — a true master of stealth. Moving silently through all golden grass, he seemed to melt into the landscape, his rosetted coat mirroring the dappled light and shadow of the savannah. For a fleeting moment, he emerged — sleek, low and deliberate, each step placed with precision — and then, as if the grass had swallowed him whole, he vanished again — a sighting for the attentive few. Blink, and you’d miss him. —Rio Marvin

After an intense period of musth, the iconic gentle giant Craig has returned to his favoured roaming grounds just outside Amboseli National Park. As Craig ages, these periods of dominance and reproductive competition become shorter and less frequent. This is not unusual; it’s part of a natural transition. With the rise of younger, stronger bulls, Craig is gradually stepping back from the intense rivalries of musth. 

Amboseli has long been renowned as a home for giants, and it continues to uphold its reputation with remarkable Tuskers. This is X04, a designation code given to him by the Amboseli Trust for Elephants as part of their ongoing research and monitoring X04 is a true spectacle — a colossal bull whose presence evokes awe not just for his size, but for his enormous, near-ground-length tusks These ivory pillars, symbols of strength and survival, place him among a rare and endangered class of elephants known a 'Tuskers' — bulls with tusks weighing over 45 kilograms (100 pounds). 

During musth, big bulls like X04 move into the park in search of receptive females — he indeed found what he was looking for, when we spotted him closely trailing a receptive female, unmistakably in estrus. But he was not alone. Flanking the pair at a respectful distance were two younger bulls, their postures attentive, their energy quietly simmering. They were biding their time, waiting, watching, for any opportunity that might arise should the dominant bull tire or become distracted. 

Such interactions are common during musth. Dominant bulls, especially those in full musth, typically have priority access to females, and their elevated hormone levels make them more aggressive, assertive, and less tolerant of rivals. Yet younger bulls, still outside their cycles, linger nearby, knowing that patience might earn them a brief chance. And that is precisely what happened: in a moment of distraction from X04, they chased the female and managed to mount her before the big bull caught on.

Fresh from a successful hunt, having just devoured a hare, this female cheetah is a new and exciting arrival in Kimana Sanctuary. Previously spotted in the corridor linking the Sanctuary with Amboseli National Park, her appearance here marks a promising development. This sleek predator — the very picture of speed and grace — seemed utterly at ease, unfazed by our game viewing vehicle or even a towering bull elephant passing nearby. Her calm confidence suggests she may be exploring the area more seriously, and we’re hopeful she will claim this safe haven as her own.

Fighting in the wild ensures that only the strongest traits are passed on. It’s nature's way of establishing dominance and territory, with the victor earning the right to mate. These two male Thomson’s gazelles locked horns in a spirited clash, pushing and twisting as each tried to overpower the other. Such battles, though often brief, are common during the breeding season when males compete for access to females.  

As the dry season sets in, the landscape gradually transforms. This shift forces prey animals—from zebras and wildebeest to gazelles and impalas—to rivers, swamps, and watering holes in search of food and water. With this seasonal congregation comes an inevitable ripple effect; predator sightings during game drives are on the rise.  

This iconic raptor lives up to its name — the African fish eagle, a true master of the hunt. With its powerful talons clutching a freshly caught fish, it flew past us, searching for a quiet perch to savour its catch. One of Africa’s most celebrated birds of prey, it never fails to impress.  

Not to be outshone by the mighty fish eagle, this Blacksmith lapwing surprised us with an unexpected catch — a small fish. Lapwings can seize the moment, though they are not built for fishing and are usually found foraging for insects and invertebrates in shallow waters. Snatching up a stranded or dying fish is rare, but not impossible. — Robert Sayialel