This Week at Angama #439

This year, the Migration is keeping everyone guessing. Localised rain has left pockets of fresh grazing across the ecosystem, and the herds are responding in their own time — gathering here, scattering there and arriving in the Mara in waves rather than one great rush. They are very much on the plains; you simply never quite know where the next gathering will be.

The Great Migration is full of stories, and I’ve come to realise that the better part of this experience simply goes undocumented. There's a particular thrill in witnessing an iconic crossing each and every time: the guessing, the anticipation, the will-they, won't-they, that makes every crossing feel one of a kind. Sometimes you're lucky enough to see a massive herd thunder across the river. Other times it's a smaller group, perhaps a hundred wildebeest with a scattering of zebras.

This week, it began without warning as the herd grazed along the riverbank. A male tried to mount a female, and in her attempt to escape, she leapt and landed straight in the river. There was no turning back from there. The rest of the group followed in quick succession. The zebras, ever cautious, picked their path carefully, mindful of the crocodiles patrolling the Mara River below.

Other times this week, we drove back and forth along the riverbank, watching, hoping for more. Parking on the opposite side, we found ourselves willing the moment to happen. At one point, the group fell in line behind a single individual, forming a long chain that ran nearly two kilometres before doubling back and curling into an endless circle.

Even the zebras among them seemed to pause and watch, as puzzled as we were, wondering if this was a rehearsal or the real thing. When the second crossing finally came, it was calmer, quieter, and with about a hundred wildebeest and around twenty zebras, who all made their way across.

The week ended with a remarkable sighting for Guide Johnnie and his guests: a lioness hunting across the river. From their vantage point, they watched her move patiently from side to side, never taking her eyes off the herd as she waited for the right moment to strike. Johnnie explained that, during a crossing, lionesses may bring down as many as three. That's the real magic of the Migration. It can't be scripted, and no two crossings ever tell quite the same tale.

This week, I joined Guide Lemaalo and guests on a safari. On our way to enjoy a Picnic Lunch, toward Laggar ya Nyoka, Guide Lemaalo stopped the vehicle, binoculars up and pointed at a tree. We saw nothing at first. And then he whispered, 'There's a leopard on that tree.’ We moved closer, and I scrambled to set up my  Sony Alpha 7III with the FE 200-600mm lens.

The leopard was feeding on a wildebeest kill that looked a day old. He was calm, unhurried, occasionally glancing our way as camera shutters fired around him. Mid-bite, a chunk of meat slipped from his mouth, and the whole carcass dropped to the ground.

As leopards famously drag their prey, often twice their body weight, up trees, he was undeterred by having to climb down to reclaim it. Carefully, so as not to alert scavengers who might try to steal his prize, he dragged the carcass back up the tree, where it would be kept safe.

The leopard carries deep cultural meaning for my community: young men, after circumcision, were once sent into leopard dens to prove their courage. The stories are old, but our elders still tell them like they happened yesterday.

On another morning safari drive this week, as golden light spread across the Mara, we came across the Siligi Brothers — a coalition of three male cheetahs: Oldanyet, Osiligi, and Olopano — beginning another morning around the Kichwa Tembo airstrip. They were moving with purpose, patrolling their territory with intention

Every few moments, they stopped to scan the surrounding plains before continuing on, occasionally scent-marking to remind any rivals whose ground they were walking.

With the Migration now in full swing, food is plentiful. There was no urgency to hunt, no desperate search for prey. The morning belonged to routine, a steady patrol through a landscape that offered both opportunity and responsibility.

As the sun climbed higher and the air began to warm, the brothers slowed their pace. One by one, they settled onto the soft morning soil, rolling over before taking time to groom themselves.

As we moved further north, we came across one of the impressive Taliban males, a coalition of five dominant lions, lying beside a thick bush, his massive body partially hidden within the vegetation.

My lens locked with his eyes, and for a brief moment, it felt as though he was looking straight through me rather than at me.

Even in rest, there was strength in every line of his body. A dominant male can never afford to be completely relaxed. Every sound, every scent and every movement could carry the message of a rival nearby.

After a long morning of feeding on the savannah grass, a herd of elephants set off in search of water. Leading the way was the matriarch, guiding her family with confidence. Along well-established paths, she led the herd, following routes shaped by instinct and generations of experience. She knew exactly where the water lay.

As they reached the pond, the mood quickly changed, because a young calf could hardly contain its excitement. While the older elephants drank calmly, the little one rushed into the shallow water, splashing and spraying water with its tiny trunk, stomping through the muddy edge, playing with endless curiosity.

For the calf, it seemed to be more than just a drink. Every attempt to curl its little trunk and spray water was part of learning one of the most remarkable tools in the animal kingdom — a trunk that, with time, would become essential for drinking, feeding, communicating and exploring its world.

The Shamba is the source of fresh produce for the Angama, from the farm to guest plates. It's also where we welcome guests to enjoy lunch and explore the gardens.

As I moved through the Shamba with curious guests, a small garden caught my eye, a burst of flowers in different shades tucked away from the main paths. For a photographer, this was gold. Butterflies drifted in and out of the frame, chasing nectar, adding movement and life to every shot.

Shamba Keeper, Leshuna, explained how these particular flowers had no medicinal or dietary value, but every plant has a purpose, he explained, even if that purpose isn't for humans. Some exist for other creatures, for the smaller cycles of life that keep everything else running.

It stopped me in my tracks. We often measure things by what they can do for us, forgetting that value doesn't only exist in usefulness to humans. That small section of the Shamba, and the butterflies that call it home, are a reminder that even the things we overlook can matter deeply, just not always to us. —Salim Kwoba and Victor Mumo

The Kimana Pride enjoyed another successful hunt this week. Guide Salash expertly tracked the lions and found them feeding on a young zebra, a well-earned meal. And as is often the case in the wild, there was a clear order at the feast.

Male 263 had taken complete control of the carcass and had allowed the youngest cubs to feed. However, the rest of the Pride had to wait in the distance. Only the curious middle-aged cubs lingered nearby, watching every movement.

Any lion bold enough to challenge Male 263, while he was feeding, quickly learned that interfering with a dominant male comes with consequences. His warning growls and commanding presence ensured the Pride hierarchy, and his authority was respected.

The ruling lion fed until he was satisfied and stepped away, leaving behind what little remained of the zebra. The waiting lions wasted no time. Within moments, the scraps disappeared, each member grabbing whatever they could before it was gone, knowing there was no room for hesitation.

An hour after the Kimana Pride disappeared into the surrounding bush, the scene around the zebra carcass was far from quiet. Another set of predators had arrived to investigate what the lions had left behind.

From a distance, it appeared to be a vulture circling over the remains. But as we drove closer, the unmistakable features of a pair of Aquila rapax, commonly known as tawny eagles, came into view. Their exceptional eyesight had led them straight to the carcass. Proving once again that these magnificent raptors are always watching the landscape for an opportunity and that nature wastes nothing.

One of the eagles landed beside the remains, tore off a piece of meat with its powerful hooked beak and flew to the safety of a nearby tree, where it could feed without disturbance. The second eagle stayed on the ground, taking advantage of the leftovers while keeping a watchful eye on its surroundings.

Although often overshadowed by larger scavengers such as vultures and hyenas, the tawny eagle is an opportunistic hunter and scavenger. It feeds on small mammals, reptiles, birds, insects, and carrion, making it one of Africa's most adaptable birds of prey.

Unlike vultures, which rely almost entirely on carrion, tawny eagles are skilled hunters capable of catching live prey. Yet they never ignore an easy meal, especially after lions have finished feeding. In doing so, they play an important role in the ecosystem — helping recycle nutrients and ensuring that little goes to waste.

Midweek brought an exciting encounter as one of Kimana's iconic Super Tuskers, Conor, returned to the Sanctuary after roaming the wildlife corridor between Amboseli and Kimana. His return was a welcome sight for everyone who witnessed him.

This time, however, Conor was not simply passing through. He was in musth — a natural period in a bull elephant's life marked by heightened testosterone levels, increased aggression, and an overwhelming drive to find receptive females. Scent is carried by the wind and helps reveal the presence of a female in estrus, and like many mature bulls in musth, he was focused on one mission.

Musth is one of the most fascinating stages in an elephant's life. During this period, dominant bulls often travel long distances, leaving their familiar ranges to find breeding opportunities. Their movements become more deliberate, and other males usually give them space, recognising the authority that comes with this powerful hormonal state.

Later in the week, in Kimana Sanctuary, we spotted a serval cat — Leptailurus serval — out of its usual territory near the ‘Mlima wa Giraffe’ area. As we approached, it moved slowly through the tall grass, stopping every few steps to listen with its large, rounded ears, rotating independently, picking up the faintest sounds beneath the vegetation. Suddenly, it froze and, with remarkable precision, leapt high into the air before diving headfirst into the grass. A hunting technique that makes it one of the most successful small predators in Africa.

The wild cat is perfectly adapted for life in grasslands and wetlands. It has the longest legs relative to its body size of any cat, allowing it to see over tall grass and pounce accurately on hidden prey. Its oversized ears act like sensitive radar dishes, detecting rodents, birds, reptiles, frogs, insects, and even fish hidden from view. Unlike cheetahs or lions that rely on speed or teamwork, the serval hunts alone. Primarily active during cooler temperatures when prey is more active.

Every serval has a unique pattern of golden-yellow fur covered with bold black spots and stripes, much like a human fingerprint. These markings provide excellent camouflage, allowing them to disappear into the grass with astonishing ease. In many parts of Africa, local populations are declining due to habitat loss, the expansion of agriculture and human settlement, road accidents, illegal trapping and hunting for their beautiful coats, and declining prey populations in degraded ecosystems. So seeing one move so freely is always a special moment.

As we approached the end of the week, Noltulali and the experienced lioness Memusi, stretched out along the road, soaking up the afternoon sun. The older lionesses lay comfortably on the dusty track while the cubs rested close beside them, occasionally rolling over, playfully nudging one another, or curiously watching our vehicle from a safe distance.

Lions often spend up to 20 hours a day resting, conserving as much energy as possible for the demanding hours ahead. As the temperature drops after sunset, they become far more active, using the cover of darkness to patrol their territory and hunt.

Not far from the pride, Male 263 rested quietly in a nearby bush. Although hidden from plain sight, he remained close enough to keep watch over the Pride.

There could not have been a better way to close another memorable week than beneath the African sunset. As evening approached, the sky transformed, and the silhouettes of the acacia trees framed the horizon.— Arnold Omondi