This Week at Angama #409

The rains have brought an abundance of life to Kimana Sanctuary. Erupting of termites from their mounds, filling the air and setting the plains alive with movement. It’s a lifetime’s feast for many — swallows and swifts slicing through the skies, bee-eaters flashing their colours in joyful pursuit.  

With the softened ground, life also stirs in the savannah’s most overlooked corners. Dung beetles, nature’s tireless recyclers, are back on the move, rolling their perfectly sculpted spheres across open patches of earth, navigating blades of grass and uneven terrain with unwavering determination.

The morning began with a search for the Kimana Pride. The drive started in the centre of the Sanctuary, scanning the long elephant grass, patch by patch.

These lions are masters of camouflage, choosing grass over open ground whenever possible. Unless they step into a clearing, they are easily missed. Despite time and patience, the pride remained hidden. Eventually, the search was set aside and the morning allowed to unfold elsewhere.

Ahead of us, two bull elephants came into view. Among them was Per, a well-known Super Tusker who had broken his left tusk a while ago. He moved alongside a younger bull, the two crossing the Sanctuary’s landscape en route from the Chyulu hills with a calm, steady presence. We repositioned ourselves and began photographing quietly, taking in the moment. 

As we watched Per and the younger bull, our attention was drawn upward. High in a tree nearby, a pair of bateleur eagles were engaged in a beautiful morning grooming ritual. Their movements were slow, deliberate, almost prayer-like. Facing Mount Kilimanjaro, they appeared to be giving thanks for the new day.

Among the Maasai community, it is believed that prayers are offered toward the mountain, the sacred place from which life began. In that stillness, it felt as though the eagles shared in the same reverence.

As Guide Leshan turned the vehicle, we noticed something unusual, something hanging from Per’s lip. It was immediately clear that this was causing him discomfort. We alerted the Big Life Rangers, who arrived swiftly, assessed the situation, and decided to call in the veterinary team from Sheldrick Wildlife Trust. 

While the teams coordinated, Craig from Big Life flew over in a plane to confirm Per’s location as rangers stayed close on the ground. Once everything was in place, we moved into a clear area.

The vets acted quickly. A tranquilliser dart was administered, and Per ran briefly into the open before gently going down. In less than ten minutes, the small wire lodged in his lip was removed.

Thankfully, it had caused no severe damage and hadn’t affected his feeding. Soon after, Per was back on his feet — free, relieved, and once again moving peacefully through his home. 

It felt like a good deed completed, not for recognition, but for the sake of balance. And almost immediately, Mother Earth responded. 

Just a short distance away, we encountered Motonyi, and she had been missing for over a week. We chose to stop and sit with her, giving her space. Within minutes, she rose, slipped effortlessly into a stalking posture, and launched into a chase after a Grant’s gazelle, attempting a takedown right before our eyes, which ended up in an eruption of dust and a well-earned meal. 

Whether Motonyi is still pregnant or has already given birth remains a mystery; her belly tells no clear story yet, but it seemed pretty empty to the eye even before she got to feed. For now, we wait in hopeful suspense, watching closely and dreaming of the possibility that cubs may soon emerge. 

It felt impossible not to see the connection. A morning that began with reverence, patience, and care for Mother Earth and her creations was rewarded with one of the wild’s most electrifying moments. Days like this remind us that when we show up with respect, for the land, for the animals, for the unseen threads that hold it all together, the wilderness gives back in ways far greater than we could ever plan. 

Some mornings are just sightings. Others become stories we carry forever. —Jay Supeyo

At the foot of the Oloololo Escarpment, the Angama Lionness (Nala) territory had been crossed, not by accident, but by intent. Five nomadic males, the Topi boys, moved in from the Greater Maasai Mara with one purpose: to take over.

She was caught at her most vulnerable, tucked away with cubs not yet a month old, their lives still wrapped in milk, warmth, and trust. She fought fiercely, instinctively, but nature does not bargain with strength alone. The males overpowered her, and by afternoon, both cubs were dead. This is infanticide: a calculated act that brings the female back into oestrus and resets the lineage.

Later that evening, one of the males returned, moving deliberately through the bushes where Nala had hidden her young, checking and ensuring that nothing had been left alive. His presence startled an elephant feeding nearby, a silent witness disturbed by a scene it could not intervene in. 

As darkness crept in, we hoped the Topi boys would not push farther toward the River Pride, where other cubs still breathed, unaware of how fragile their hold on life truly was. In this land, survival does not remember who you were but only who remains. 

The following morning, the Topi boys were gone. We headed south into the Triangle and found a pair of hamerkops already deep into their busy work of building a nest. One ferried sticks and twigs with patient focus, each piece carefully chosen, each flight purposeful.

Their nest, still unfinished, would soon become one of the largest built by any bird in the world: a massive, domed fortress of thousands of sticks, mud, and vegetation, heavy enough to bend branches beneath its weight. A narrow tunnel will lead to a hidden chamber, a place of warmth, safety, perfect for protecting their eggs. Here, both parents would incubate, guard, and raise their young together.

By midday, the sun bore down mercilessly, pressing even the most resilient into surrender. Unlike animals that rely on sweat, hyenas regulate their body temperature largely through behaviour.

During the hottest hours of the day, many animals seek out shallow pools, mud wallows, or damp ground, allowing heat to dissipate through their belly and limbs, where the fur is thinner, and blood vessels run closer to the surface. Water and mud act as natural heat sinks, drawing warmth away from the body and slowing energy loss. 

On our way back, one of the Nyati boys lay stretched beneath a gardenia, its thorny branches casting broken shade across his mane. Nearby, the remains of an old hippopotamus told an earlier story. One already written and already finished. 

Two hooded vultures stood at a respectful distance, statues of patience, knowing better than to rush a lion. They waited not out of fear alone, but also out of understanding. Their time would come. 

For a moment, the lion’s attention drifted elsewhere, toward a herd of topis grazing in the open. The antelopes had already seen him. Heads were up, bodies angled away, distance quietly increasing with every step.

Once prey acknowledges a predator, the advantage dissolves, and the hunt ends before it begins. Eventually, the Nyati boy settled back into stillness, the vultures remained where they were, and the topis moved farther into safety. 

African Cape buffaloes are heavy, horned, and alert. They are difficult prey, which is why they matter. One buffalo can feed a lion pride for days; a successful hunt secures energy and reinforces dominance.

Buffaloes rarely stand alone. They move in numbers, watching constantly, bodies angled inward, each animal part of the defence. Even paused at a termite mound, cattle egrets lifting above them, the tension holds. Buffaloes know lions look for weakness and separation, so they stay close, ready to move or fight together.

For cattle egrets, buffalo herds are an opportunity in motion, stirring insects with their hooves. The buffalo sits at the centre of consequence: strong enough to resist, valuable enough to be hunted, and when it falls, sufficient to sustain many. — Rio Marvin