We docked in Southampton, on April 6th, after a horrendous voyage. I’d been recommended for leave after a bout of fever which had nearly done me in. I didn’t want to go but the Governor insisted, Come on old man, he said, It’s the only hope, you’ll come back right as rain. He meant, after all, that I might not make it otherwise.
I was to spend six months recuperating in England, then I would return to the colony where I was Commissioner for the Ndola region, an area roughly the size of Wales. Colonel Mackenzie had taken over my duties. A thoroughly good chap, very tough.
Owing to the heavy seas, I failed to rest adequately, and my condition worsened. By the time we reached England, I was too ill to stand so they carried me off the ship on a stretcher. Through eyes dimmed by illness and drizzle, I saw my brother and his wife. They hadn’t aged a bit. Good to see you Charles, I mumbled, Hello Marjorie. Charles tipped the porters, looming over me, He’s ours now Marjorie. Come on Jack, we’ll have you up on your feet in no time, nothing good Dorset air can’t cure. They loaded me into the Bentley.
I had been away from England for ten years. Ten years in a land either parched or a quagmire of mud. A location so remote there were only six other Europeans in six hundred square miles. Sometimes, I wondered what on earth we were doing there. Ten years quelling tribal feuds, shooting the occasional rabid dog, playing golf, drinking heavily. If you didn’t want to catch malaria or sleeping sickness, they said, Drink plenty of gin and tonic. Ten years pampering Chief Lolumgulu and his wives with gifts of umbrellas and silk dresses, and the occasional bottle of single malt scotch whisky. Blended whisky wouldn’t do any more. Lolumgulu, without whose approval all the mines would shut down, Lolumgulu without whose welcome we would be dead. I already missed the old rogue.
I’d been pressing the Crown to ban the hunting of Bushmen in South West, it really wasn’t on. You had to stay that long to understand. And why, after all the years of success, something went wrong in the mission, and the convent girls ate the Mother Superior. I was the one who found the remains, and shortly after the fevers began. The drums every night till dawn, the occasional roar of lions lounging near the water hole. No doubt that was why I couldn’t sleep on the boat. No drums, no lions. I stared through the car window at the emerald countryside speeding past like a film, the beauty like an hallucination. Charles saw that I was awake, You all right back there Jack? Yes, I replied, It’s good to be home.
Apparently, I slept for days. I remember being woken every ten minutes by my brother’s wife and the maid bringing me soup and water, but later I found out they did this twice a day. Now and then I would see Charles standing in the room. Sometimes I slept so deeply they thought I was dead. I was able to sleep because of the drums. They started every evening at dusk and continued till dawn, a monotonous thudding like a carpet carrying my spirit into the other world, lulling me towards a cure. It was awfully good of Charles to see to it that there were drums, and I wondered who he was employing.
Jolly thoughtful of you to see to it that there are drums, I said one evening when Charles came into the room. Drums? he inquired. Yes, I continued, The drums, without which I wouldn’t have a wink of sleep. The main reason I couldn’t sleep on the boat. Ten years hearing them in the night, rather need them after all, got rather too used to it, it takes time you know. Which men are you employing? Charles stared at me. Is there something wrong? I added. Nnno, no, not at all, he stammered, Nothing at all, rest Jack, you need to sleep.
So you’ve been hearing drums? said Dr. Phelan, the Harley Street specialist. Yes, I replied, Can’t sleep without them, thought my brother Charles had Africans on the farm. He stared at me for a long time, And I’m told you witnessed something ghastly, quite recently? The Mother Superior, I explained, I found her. Quite, Dr. Phelan interrupted, Quite, I don’t need the details, we had a description in the papers several months back. Well, I’m sorry to tell you this, I’m sure you have an idea by now, you’re experiencing a complete nervous breakdown, the fevers were totally psychosomatic. If you want your sanity back you’ll have to rest. I’m prescribing prolonged rest in hospital, and heavy sedation.
I was not the first member of the family to be done in by Africa. Just over a century before, great great uncle Horatio owned ships running slaves from the West Coast to the Caribbean. Inspired by the codes of the day, he stole vast amounts of treasure from the King of Benin. Told that he would be dead within six months if he didn’t return the treasure, Horatio pulled out a couple of pistols and shot the King. Horatio returned to Bristol with his treasure, and several large parrots. Almost immediately, he began to sicken. Soon he was confined to his bed, nursed by his seven sisters. The doctors were at a loss. He lay in the vast gray room, gradually worsening, mourned over by the women, teaching the parrots obscenities while his life ebbed away. He died at noon, on April 6th, 1825, exactly six months after he had stolen the treasures. Several weeks later, a letter arrived from the West Coast. An old friend and business associate, the writer was worried because the Africans were celebrating Horatio’s death with a huge feast. The day of the feast was April 6th, 1825, and the celebrations had started at noon.
As I lay in the sunlit ward, doped to the eyeballs with whatever it was they were giving me, I began to panic. The drums receded over the days and weeks, until I was able to sleep naturally, and now I didn’t hear drums at all. Instead, I was hearing lions. Soaked in terror, I told no-one, but the doctors could see that something was wrong because when the lions started roaring around ten o’clock in the morning, and again about four in the afternoon, I shook with fear. Every day I prayed that I would not hear lions, yet every day around the same time, the lions roared. My condition began to worsen. Charles and Marjorie began to visit more frequently, they even rented a flat in Mayfair to be on the spot should anything happen.
He must have got me, I mumbled to Charles one day, I must have done something to anger him, like Uncle Horatio. Horrified, I remembered that I had arrived in England on the same day as my uncle died all those years before. Surely it was more than coincidence. Who? quizzed Charles. Lolumgulu, I explained, It must be Lolumgulu. What on earth are you talking about? Charles shouted. The drums have gone, but it’s lions, I murmured, Lions. I’m hearing lions now, lions roaring, always in the morning and again in the afternoon, always the same time. Charles jumped up and started to dance. He ran out of the room. This is it, I thought, It’s over for me.
The doctors arrived. Tell him, said Charles. So you’re hearing lions, old chap? asked one of the doctors, And at precise times, I’m told? Yes, I replied, Around ten a.m. and four in the afternoon every day, for some time now. I don’t know how long I can go on like this. And no drums? continued the other doctor. No, not for a long time now. Wonderful, said doctor number one, You’re cured. Cured? I inquired. Cured, he laughed, Totally, utterly, completely cured. You’re hearing lions because that’s the time they feed the creatures, we’re right next to Regent’s Zoo you know.
I dressed and left the hospital within the hour. My first duty was to the lions. I gave a check for one hundred guineas to a stunned keeper, with express instructions to buy the finest meat for his lions in token of my gratitude. Then, after cabling the Governor that I was cured and ready for duty, I booked a cabin on the next mail boat to Cape Town. So it’s back to Africa, said Charles as we sat in a pub celebrating. Absolutely, old chap, I replied, Absolutely, back to drums and lions.
