This Week at Angama #391

This week, the plains turned into what I describe as the wildebeest’s version of a Black Friday sale. Thousands poured in from the Serengeti border, moving in unison, looking determined, yet occasionally pausing to question why they came in the first place. 

Right beside them, as always, were the zebra — nature’s clever freeloaders. While the wildebeest handle the heavy lifting (and by lifting, I mean getting chased, attracting attention, and trampling down the grass), the zebras take the opportunity to rest, graze, and perhaps gossip about who has the best stripes this season. 

One of my favourite zebra photo opportunities is the 'head-to-tail buddy pose’, where two zebras rest their muscular heads on each other’s backs. This pose is part headrest, security system, and fly-whisking service. 

The wildebeest herds are full of calves, all legs, ears, and boundless energy. They dash past each other, dodging and leaping, kicking up dust like they’re in a trailer for an action movie. Sometimes, they seem to forget they are considered prey; instead, they focus more on outpacing each other in a playful race.  

With the abundance of animals, you’d think lions have it easy. Not quite. Bringing down a wildebeest is no stroll in the savannah; it’s a full-body workout, and once a lion earns that meal, ‘sharing’ dissipates. Even a marabou stork venturing too close is like a nosy neighbour crashing a party — it won’t end well. 

This week, the Sausage Pride lioness scored herself a wildebeest. But instead of tucking in immediately, she played an extended game of tug-of-war with the carcass, trying to drag it into the shade. Between hiding lunch from prying eyes, keeping her cubs safe from predators on the ground and in the sky, she had a lot on her plate — literally and figuratively. 

Eventually, she settled on a dried mud puddle as her makeshift dining room and slipped into the tall grass, cubs tucked away from the glare of the sun and the glare of unwanted guests. 

Nothing goes to waste in the wild. The clean-up crew swoops in once a predator finishes its hard-earned meal and wanders off. Vultures and marabou storks are nature’s waste management department, ensuring no scrap of carrion goes unused. It's more than opportunism — it’s vital for the ecosystem. By consuming rotting meat, they prevent the spread of diseases like anthrax and botulism, making them essential for keeping the savannah healthy. 

But harmony is rarely part of the equation. Among vultures, even within the same species, there is always one that refuses to share. Africa is home to several species — from the small hooded vulture to the large lappet-faced — and competition between them is intense. Squabbles erupt without warning: wings flare, beaks snap, and the air fills with drama that would make even hyenas roll their eyes. Only the fittest, fastest end up with full bellies. 

The marabou stork, however, plays the long game. It's perfectly adapted for scavenging with a wingspan of up to three metres and a beak that can reach deep into the carcasses. Its strategy? Let the vultures, with their hooded beaks, rip the tough hide open first. Then, in the chaos, it steps for a well-timed bite, no fuss, no fighting, just well-timed thievery: less effort, more free food.

It only takes one wildebeest, one bold step, to set off a chain reaction that turns a quiet morning at the Mara River into one of Africa’s most spectacular wonders. One moment, the banks are calm; the next, dust fills the air and the ground trembles under the weight of thousands of hooves. Calves cry out as they scramble to keep up with their mothers, while mature bulls push ahead, desperate to escape both the snapping jaws of crocodiles and the churning rapids beneath them. 

Robert, one of Angama’s resident photographers, proved once again that in wildlife photography, patience is just as important as skill. He had been watching the Egyptian Pride female for a while as she crouched low in the long grass, every muscle coiled like a spring. The wildebeest grazed, blissfully unaware that lunch was about to become a headline. 

Minute by minute, the lioness crept forward, using every dip in the terrain and every gust of wind to mask her presence. Then, in a blur of power and precision, she closed the distance and brought the wildebeest down. 

In the tall grass, she began to feast, her golden coat barely visible between the swaying stalks. After she had had her fill, the cubs emerged hesitant at first, then bolder, to grab their share of the kill. Between playful swats and small growls, they got both a meal and a lesson in the unspoken rules of the pride table. — Rio Marvin

The savannah tells its stories in shapes, sounds, and fleeting moments. Out here, even the trees carry the mark of life around them. Acacia trees, with their unmistakable flat-topped canopies, owe much of their 'umbrella' silhouette to the work of giraffes. Using their height and nimble tongues, they trim the lower branches just above the reach of smaller browsers, creating sweeping shades for the plains.

Out on the dusty plains of Amboseli, this elephant family walked quietly but with purpose — mothers flanking the youngest calves, older sisters keeping the pace, and the matriarch setting a steady course. A short distance behind, two colossal bulls followed in their wake, their heavy steps unhurried.

They are not part of this family, nor do they share its daily responsibilities. Instead, these old giants are patient opportunists. In the world of elephants, adult males live largely alone, rejoining female-led herds only when the scent of opportunity drifts on the breeze, a female in estrus, perhaps, or simply the pull of familiar company. By keeping to the rear, the bulls avoid unnecessary tension at the front, yet remain close enough to make their move when the time is right. 

Life-long bonds aren’t reserved only for elephants. In Kimana Sanctuary, a pair of black-backed jackals rested after a long trot through the grass, a reminder that these devoted partners work together year after year to defend territory, hunt, and raise pups. Such cooperation ensures survival in a challenging environment, and even allows them to pass prime hunting grounds down through generations. Nearby, a male Kudu and some Thompson gazelles kept a close eye on them.

High above, the lilac-breasted roller flashed its dazzling palette — lilac chest, turquoise wings, olive crown — a kaleidoscope in motion. Known for their breathtaking courtship dives, these fearless birds are both a symbol of Kenya’s cultural diversity and a testament to nature’s artistry. Nearby, a pair of African fish eagles called in duet over the water, their ringing cry both a love song and a firm declaration of territory. 

As evening settled over the Sanctuary, Guide Jeremy’s spotlight picked up the reflective yellow eyes of a spotted eagle-owl, perched quietly on a low acacia branch. Its mottled brown and grey feathers provided excellent camouflage, making it almost invisible until the light caught it. This owl is a skilled nocturnal predator, using its sharp talons, keen hearing, and silent flight to catch small mammals, birds, and insects.

The following day, the Sanctuary revealed a different cast of birdlife. A male cut-throat finch, with its distinctive crimson throat patch, foraged along the grass edges. Nearby, a small quailfinch darted between tufts of grass, preferring to run rather than fly, while a crimson-rumped waxbill moved quickly through the reeds, its bright red rump standing out against its otherwise soft, grey-brown plumage. These sightings highlighted the variety of bird species that call Kimana home, each adapted to its niche in this diverse habitat. 

Not all the week’s wildlife encounters were calm. On the open grassland, two towering bull giraffes faced off in a necking contest — a test of strength, skill, and endurance. They swung their long necks like living sledgehammers, the heavy weight of their heads striking each other’s sides with a resounding, resonant thud.

Despite their elegance, a giraffe’s neck hides an incredible design: over two metres long but made up of just seven elongated vertebrae, the same number humans have, supported by powerful muscles and reinforced ligaments. This unique structure allows them to deliver blows with precision and brute force, settling disputes over dominance or access to mates. 

One of Africa’s most unusual raptors came from the wetlands, the palm-nut vulture. It looks like a fierce predator with white plumage, black flight feathers, and a bare red face. Yet over half its diet is palm fruit, a vegetarian twist in a carnivore’s body, with only the occasional fish, crab, or carrion to break the pattern. A reminder that in nature, appearances are rarely the whole story. —Japheth Supeyo