This Week at Angama #398

This week, our safari began gently with a rustle in the forest as we made our way from the lodge just before sunrise. A common duiker darted into cover, a small, shy antelope true to its name.

The Egyptian Pride has emerged from hiding. For three weeks, they have been lingering along the edges of their territory, which is inaccessible to us. Their sudden return is exciting, as we noticed that two of the Taliban Males have joined them.

After hunting a wildebeest, the brothers turned their strength on each other, tackling and grappling like players in a rugby scrum before switching to a tug-of-war, testing their neck strength. These kinds of bouts are common at a kill: feeding is always a balance of cooperation and competition for male lions.

Even within coalitions, a loose hierarchy prevails, with dominant males muscling in for the best cuts while others jostle to secure their share. The urgency is intense given how much a male can eat in a single sitting, especially when the kill is small. Yet once the pecking order is reinforced, tempers cool, and the coalition settles to feed, keeping their bond intact.  

By mid-morning, the Pride was sprawled across termite mounds, bellies round and faces bloodied, with one wildebeest still untouched for later. Being near them as they feasted, you could hear their bones snap. It was chilling when they looked up with blood-stained faces, their stare — unforgettable.

In the savannah, scavengers must master patience. Top predators simply take what they want, with little fear of challenge; however, animals like the jackal need to be cunning and rely on bravery. We watched as one lingered close to the feeding site, then darted in to snatch a hefty portion from a lion kill, leaving a tawny eagle wide-eyed in disbelief. Tawny eagles often share peacefully with white-backed vultures. Still, both step aside when the formidable lappet-faced vulture arrives, undisputed at the very top of the scavenger hierarchy among birds. 

With an abundance of animals still in the Maasai Mara, the Pride killed more than they could consume, leaving a half-eaten wildebeest exposed, attracting a restless crowd of scavengers. But the feast was too valuable to be abandoned. Two young males of the Egyptian Pride remained behind, standing guard after the rest retreated to the shade. Fully bellied and battle-ready, the young apprentices endured the day's heat, driving off any scavenger bold enough to edge too close to the kill. 

Nusu, one of the Inselberg Males, has returned to the Triangle. During the peak of the Migration crossing, he was seen spending time with his brothers in the Greater Mara.

While his siblings still linger along the Sand River, in hope for the last herds to push across from Tanzania, Nusu has found company elsewhere. We came across him with another female that we believe is from either the Maji Machafu, or Purungat Pride.

We watched Nusu sit patiently, waiting for his partner to show interest. After a few false starts that led to grumbling quarrels, the persistence eventually paid off.

A flash of colour swooped down with perfect precision. A lilac-breasted roller snatched a giant grasshopper in its beak. It perched proudly, then burst into dazzling blues and purples as the sunlight hit its feathers. The roller took off again, wings fanning wide as it carried its oversized lunch to a quieter perch, away from prying eyes, where it could feast in peace. 

Bathed in the golden light of the savannah, we came across the Angama lioness with her son and daughter, their eyes fixed on a lone warthog that had strayed into view. For a moment, a hunt seemed inevitable. Still, guided by its sharp instincts, the warthog bolted just in time, leaving the trio disappointed and on the move again in search of another opportunity.

The young male still lingers with his mother and sister, but his time is running out. Once both females come into season, he will be forced to leave the pride to fend for himself. Once both females come into season, he will be driven out, cast into the harsh wilderness to carve out his own future. For now, he lingers in the shadows of the hunt, letting the lionesses lead, unaware or perhaps all too aware of the trials that await him. 

The three Siligi boys have returned to the Triangle, covering impressive distances in a single day, ranging from the border all the way to the northern reaches. It’s likely the pressure from lions and hyenas keeps them from lingering too long in the southern region of the Mara Triangle. Near Kichwa Tembo airstrip, we caught up with them the following day, their bellies heavy from a successful hunt, as they shifted lazily from one patch of shade to the next, marking the trees. — Japeth Supeyo and Robert Sayialel

At first light, elephants are already on the move. Although it was quiet, you could hear leaves crunching in the distance as they slowly appeared in the frame. I raised my camera, realising I was part of a conversation between light, land, and life. The towering creatures looked like ancient guardians walking in a dream as they passed by the silhouettes of the acacia trees.

Led by the matriarch, the herd fans out, browsing on bark, branches, and fresh leaves. They need up to 150kg of food daily, so mornings are for focus — feeding, drinking, and teaching the young where to find both.  

A bat-eared fox lay still, soaking up the gentle warmth of the rising sun while trying to shelter from the wind. Primarily nocturnal, they venture out under the cover of night when the world cools and insects stir.

Unlike many of Africa's carnivores, they enjoy beetles and termites. In fact, these insects make up the bulk of their meals. Their sharp ears aren't just for curious charm; they are finely tuned instruments that guide them straight to their hidden feast beneath the soil.

The cubs were at it again with their games, tumbling and chasing each other with their little roars, nothing more than squeaks. They pounced, rolled, and batted at each other with oversized paws. 

And then, as all children do, their storm of energy gave way to stillness. They collapsed together in a tangle of fur, resting cheek to cheek, their tiny chests rising and falling in rhythm.  

In that pause, they looked less like fierce hunters in the making and more like sweet siblings sharing a quiet embrace.  

Perched high on the branch, a Bateleur eagle spread its wings as if testing the air. With its vivid red face and legs, dark plumage, and striking white underwings, this raptor is one of Africa’s most unmistakable birds of prey. What fascinates most is its posture; regal, alert, and commanding. Its name, Bateleur, comes from the French word for 'tightrope walker,’ a nod to its distinctive rocking flight as it glides across the skies. 

Keeping the ecosystem balanced, these birds are known for their extraordinary hunting and scavenging skills. They feed on small mammals and birds, including carrion. Their keen eyesight allows them to spot food from incredible distances, while their strong wings make them powerful fliers, often covering hundreds of kilometres in a single day. 

Two young male giraffes faced each other off in the open, their necks swaying in a rhythm that was part dance, part duel. Dust rising around their hooves as they tested each other’s strength — not with force, but push-and-pull practice. At one point, in the tangle of movement, one hooked his legs around the other’s ossicones, an awkward hold that lasted only a heartbeat before a twist of the neck freed them both.

This wasn’t a fight born of rage but of ritual. Young giraffes spar this way to prepare for real battles when maturity sets in. This is when sparring becomes 'necking', violent clashes where the swing of a skull can decide who wins the right to mate. For now, though, it was rehearsal, a test of balance, strength, and the patience to endure.  

The sun was melting into the horizon, spilling the sky in shades of gold and amber. In the glow of that golden hour, a herd of wildebeest began their slow march from the day’s grazing grounds toward the open plains. With every step, their hooves lifted clouds of dust that rose and danced in the fading light.

Ahead of them, a flock of helmeted guineafowls scurried across the ground, pecking and scratching hurriedly for whatever scraps they could gather before nightfall. Their urgency matched the dwindling light, for soon, they too would lift into the sky seeking the safety of high roosts away from the reach of predators. 

Elephants are walking maps; in Amboseli, they wear the land, dust, time, and memory etched into every wrinkle. Their massive bodies, once grey, are dusted white by the powdery salt earth. The Maasai gave this place its name, Amboseli, 'a place of salty dust,’ and nowhere is that more evident than on the backs of these elephants. 

On this day, the horizon stretched wide and quiet. Behind it, rising out of a faint haze, stood Mount Kilimanjaro, its peak seemingly suspended above the clouds. Across the plains, we could see a family of elephants. A calf, still learning the ways of the herd, trotted close to its mother. Its little trunk curled and fumbled as if eager to mimic the adults. — Rio Marvin