This Week at Angama #389

Conservation is, at its core, a game of hope and heart. Safeguarding a place like Kimana Sanctuary takes deep commitment — and above all, trust — trust between organisations, partnerships, and the local communities that call this land home. 

Kimana has served as a vital corridor for wildlife of all sizes for decades. From elephants to antelopes, from predators to prey, animals pass through this narrow pinch point — usually under the cover of darkness — moving between Amboseli and the open expanses of Kuku Group Ranch, the Chyulu Hills, and the vast Tsavo ecosystem. Some pass through in hours, while others pause for days or weeks, finding shelter, food, and rest within its borders. 

Among those that use the corridor are big cats — cheetahs, leopards, and lions — each navigating this wild mosaic in search of water, safety, and space to call their own. We noticed a shift when Angama Amboseli opened its doors at the edge of the Sanctuary. Wildlife wasn’t just moving through anymore; they were starting to linger. And some, like one young lion we’ve come to know intimately, decided to stay. 

His name is Osunash — the son of the legendary Loonkito, the oldest known wild lion in the world at the time of his death. Unlike his father, who roamed the harsh edges of human-wildlife conflict zones, Osunash carved a different path. He settled in Kimana alone at first, but not without trouble. He began raiding nearby villages for easy prey, prompting Lion Guardians and Big Life Foundation conservationists to collar him and closely monitor his movements, hoping to steer him away from his father’s fate. 

Soon after, another male lion — Male 263 — entered the scene. The two fought, as males do, but eventually formed a shaky alliance. Over time, that alliance became a bond, and together they began to claim the Sanctuary as their territory. A few weeks later, four lionesses arrived. Two stayed. And just like that, what was once a corridor began to look like a home. 

But the path to establishing a pride has not been smooth. As the lionesses mated with both males, tensions flared. Osunash, older and the first to settle, was unwilling to surrender dominance to the younger 263. Their fights were frequent and fierce, each walking away with scars. For months, we watched as the females mated again and again. We hoped for cubs, but each time, if they were born, they likely didn’t survive. Infanticide, often by the same males, is a grim reality in lion society. 

Then, one morning, everything changed. While tracking the lions through the Sanctuary, we spotted tiny cub footprints following behind a lioness. It was the moment we had all been waiting for. 

Memusi, one of the two females, had given birth. She had two cubs but tragically lost one, perhaps to scavengers during a move through tall grass. Since then, she’s carefully raised the remaining cub in hiding, allowing only fleeting glimpses — a new mother, cautious and fiercely protective. 

Not long after, Noltulali, the second female, disappeared for a few weeks. We suspected she might be nursing, and to our joy, one of our guides spotted her moving two tiny, fuzzy cubs through the long grass. Then, this week, the mothers made a bold decision: they introduced their cubs to the world. 

On an evening game drive with Guide Jeremy, we turned toward a fallen tree I’d been curious about. And there they were — all three cubs, tumbling playfully across the branches, with Noltulali resting in a bush nearby, calmly watching. The moment was overwhelming. After days of observation, we confirmed that Memusi’s cub — now about five months old — is a female. One of Noltulali’s cubs is also a female. 

This is an auspicious sign. In lion dynamics, female cubs are the future of a pride. They often remain in their natal territory, forming the core of a pride over time. The mothers have already introduced their young to both males, and — miraculously — both Osunash and 263 have accepted them. 

The little ones are pure joy to watch, climbing anything in sight and chasing each other through the undergrowth. The older female is especially gentle with her younger cousins, watching over them before joining their games. 

What we are witnessing here in Kimana is nothing short of extraordinary. These lions and their new generation prove that conserving wild spaces works, that life returns with patience, collaboration, and care, and that this area becomes more than just a corridor — it becomes home. 

And with hope still burning bright, we now watch as a pride begins to take shape.

Motonyi has found her way back into the Sanctuary, and fittingly, we spotted her with Guide Elvis and his guest David atop Cheetah Hill — a spot named after her family, who often climbed to survey the land below. It was a nostalgic sight to see her back in the place where she was raised, using the same lookout her mother once did. 

A few days later, on a late morning drive back from Amboseli with Guide Jeremy and his guest Michael, we reencountered her — this time in full hunting mode. She had her eyes on a small herd of gazelles, moving silently through the grass. Just as she began to approach, a wildebeest strolled unknowingly into view, alerting the herd and foiling her plan. Motonyi immediately dropped flat — a classic tactic — hoping the startled animals would relax and forget she was there. 

Moments later, her focus shifted to a reedbuck grazing nearby. Using the cover of the tall grass, she began a slow, calculated stalk. She waited patiently for the perfect moment — when it turned its back — and then launched forward. But the chase was short-lived. She pulled up before the final burst, letting it escape in a cloud of dust. 

It’s clear she’s still refining the skills passed down from her mother. Every failed attempt is a lesson, and as she explores her old home with new independence, she’s learning how to become the predator she was born to be.

Elephants are among the most nurturing animals in the wild, and nowhere is this more evident than when a little one grows tired during a long journey. When rest is needed, the entire herd comes to a gentle stop, often under the shade of an acacia tree or in a quiet clearing. The adults instinctively form a loose, protective circle around their resting calf, shielding it from potential predators, the harsh sun, and the bustling pace of the group. Some stand guard, others settle nearby — all in quiet solidarity. In these pauses, the matriarch’s leadership shines — not through command, but through patience and care, ensuring the youngest are given time to regain strength before the journey continues.

In the northern reaches of the Kimana, we came across a large flock of hybrid lovebirds — flashes of colour darting between the acacias. These striking creatures, a cross between Fischer’s and yellow-collared lovebirds, wear the best of both worlds. Their plumage gleams with Fischer's soft orange blush and vivid green, while the unmistakable yellow band hints at their other lineage. Though such pairings are relatively rare, they occur naturally where the ranges of the two species meet, and Kimana, as always, proves to be a crossroads for all kinds of wild wonders. — Japheth Supeyo

The second wave of the Great Migration has arrived, and the Maasai Mara is again alive with movement. From a distance, the horizon shimmered with wildebeest and zebras, their unending columns snaking toward the river. With grunts, snorts, and high-pitched whines, the herds poured into the Greater Mara, a living tide of hooves and horns. This seasonal spectacle is more than a journey; it’s a survival saga. 

Back in the Triangle, the plains were alive with anticipation. From our vantage point opposite Lookout Hill, lines of wildebeest and zebras stretched across the riverbanks, their movements deliberate yet hesitant. The urge to cross was overwhelming, but each step came cautiously, lured onward by the promise of greener pastures on the far bank. 

This tense pause signalled the prelude to nature’s most sought-after spectacles — a Great Migration river crossing. Every flick of an ear, every splash, heightened the suspense. The air itself seemed to hold its breath, knowing that one brave step would unleash a torrent of motion, turning quiet anticipation into the roaring drama of survival. We left late in the evening, mindful of the park’s closing time, to ensure an early return the following morning. 

Early the next morning, there was already a buzz in the river at the lookout crossing point. We were met by a score of herds that had already made it to the other side. River crossings during the Great Migration don’t follow a strict schedule; they are dictated by instinct, environmental cues, and herd behaviour rather than a specific time of day.  

We quickly secured a prime spot along the riverbank, hearts racing with anticipation. The wildebeests braced their daring descent, leaping from the steep banks with astonishing agility and plunging into the churning waters below. Spray rose with every powerful launch — a dramatic spectacle unfolding before our eyes.

Chaos often erupts the moment a crossing begins. A sudden splash, shadow, or predator's cry can trigger the wildebeest into a panicked retreat. This hesitation splits the herd, leaving some stranded on the far bank while others remain behind, nervously pacing. Their urgent calls echo across the water, each bellow fueling the determination of those still waiting, until instinct wins and the river swells once more with the surge of life. 

As the initial chaos subsided, the plains hinted at more drama to come. One herd after another edged toward the river, the air thick with tension and the distant chorus of grunts and snorts. We moved between crossing points, eyes scanning the banks, patience wearing thin under the sun.

Then, as the day began to fade, our perseverance was rewarded. At the U-Crossing, the first wildebeest descended in a cloud of dust, plunging into the river one after another. The resident hippos had no choice but to yield to the surge of wildebeest and zebras sweeping through.

What unfolded next had our cameras firing nonstop. The grunts and high-pitched whines echoing across the river are nature’s signal flare, and predators know that the herds will cross sooner or later. And sure enough, they were waiting. As the wildebeest clambered out of the water — soaked, exhausted, and slipping on the muddy bank — a sudden movement shattered the scene. From the cover of the bushes, Nusu of the Inselberg males burst into action, charging with lethal intent. The drama of the Migration collided with the raw reality of predator and prey. One wildebeest, unable to react in time, was taken down. 

Unsurprisingly, as life slipped from the first wildebeest, Nusu turned his attention to another target. Surplus killing is common during times of abundance, when prey is plentiful, predators often seize the moment to kill more than they can immediately consume. 

But this wildebeest was no easy prize. The hunt became a fierce duel even for a powerful adult male like Nusu. The lion lunged for the throat, but the slippery rocks betrayed him, and the wildebeest countered with a desperate fight for survival. Horns slashed the air as Nusu leapt and twisted, almost in a macabre dance, evading each strike. 

The struggle pushed the battle up the riverbank, the wildebeest careful never to expose its flank or back to the predator. Then, in a moment that could have been lifted straight from The Lion King, the usually timid herbivore charged with fearless aggression, driving Nusu backwards. The king of beasts, humbled by the courage of his prey, retreated, ears flattened, tail flicking, choosing to save his own skin. It was one of the most breathtaking displays of predator-versus-prey drama I have ever witnessed.

Undeterred by the missed opportunity, Nusu launched himself into the fray again. With a burst of raw power, he crashed into a line of scrambling wildebeest, leaping onto the back of a chosen target and clamping down in a crushing chokehold. After two failed attempts, the third proved successful — a second wildebeest fell to the king of the Inselberg males.  

Meanwhile, a young lion of the pride joined the scene, spurred on by the excitement and the tantalising scent of the impending feast. It made a playful chase with a young wildebeest that was luckily too fast. 

As the drama finally settled, we briefly stopped at Lookout Crossing on our return to camp. There, too, scores of wildebeests and zebras were braving the river, their silhouettes framed by the warm glow of the setting sun. For several days, guests in the Mara have been treated to this once-a-year, timeless Migration drama. 

Days after witnessing several dramatic river crossings, we set out to track the herds now settling into the Mara Triangle. Near the Maji Machafu area, the landscape had transformed into a sea of wildebeest and zebras, grazing and resting in every direction. Their presence filled the air with the unmistakable chorus of grunts and snorts, a constant soundtrack of the Great Migration. 

Unrelenting in our pursuit of the Mara’s rawest moments, we took a detour for a quick stop at the Main Crossing point. Sure enough, a small dazzle of zebras stood hesitantly at the river’s edge, their gaze fixed on the churning waters. This crossing is notorious, teeming with massive Nile crocodiles, patient, ruthless, and ready to strike at the slightest ripple. 

As always, patience tested our resolve. Hours passed under the sun before the first zebra finally gathered the courage to enter the river. The current was swift, pushing the animals off balance as they waded deeper. The disturbance was all the predators needed as prehistoric giants stirred from the depths, gliding upriver with silent precision. 

Then chaos erupted. In a swift, brutal ambush, two zebras were pulled under. Drowning is the crocodile’s weapon, an energy-efficient way to subdue land-dwelling prey. Minutes later, the river’s grim ritual surfaced, the lifeless bodies of the zebras, gripped firmly in the jaws of their killers, as a curious hippo approached to investigate. 

What followed was a macabre feeding spectacle, a violent death roll, the signature move of the crocodile. Their massive bodies spun with terrifying force, tearing flesh into manageable pieces before swallowing them whole.