Maberly also did not write about lions in trees, a skill set limited to those in this region. Still my mother clasped her book. There was a picture of a lion on the back cover, and under the heading The Carnivora (Large), lions were the first entry. Descriptive Notes. — the segment began —General appearance well-known. My mother skipped ahead. Although seemingly phlegmatic, Lions are very nervous and highly-strung, and their mood can change with astonishing rapidity. “No getting out of the car for photos, brother Fordham!” My mother said, pointed. The guide readily agreed.

We were driving to Ishasha Plains and the guide seemed confident that if we only stopped stopping, we would see tree lions, emphasis on tree. We had never seen a lion outside of a zoo, and while the trees were an interesting accoutrement, our emphasis was most firmly on lion. The guide told my father to turn off the road and my father did. We lurched even more than we had on the crumbling tarmac, and we felt that we might see something and even that hope did not prepare us for actually seeing that something. Lions!

A few in the branches, most lounging in the grass. They were like peaches: tawny soft and lazy. Their liquid eyes twitched and blinked against the flies. They gazed at us with wary resignation. You, again! We sat and watched, and they sank into acceptance. With the engine turned off, we imagined we could hear them purr.

Kaarina, Sonja, and Sari
sitting on an elephant skull
at Queen Elizabeth National Park, 1977
© Gary Fordham

It was a revelation that first day, everything new and hopeful. My mother began to believe she could live in Uganda, and my father, pleased that she was pleased, felt any ambivalence slip away. Surely, God had brought us to this country. Idi Amin might rumble and shout, but it was God who set up rulers and debased them. Besides, Paul exhorts us to pray for those in authority, my father wrote to his mother. His optimism would not persist. He would soon hear stories of the disappeared and the Bureau of State Research. He would be invited to a public execution and he would decline, only to hear later how men were tied to poles and shot at with machine guns, the guns pointed first at their feet and slowly moving up. We would not come back to Rwenzori National Park. We would lose our naivety.

But for now, my parents were still innocent about how bad things had gotten, and like the ignorant often are, they were rewarded with dumb luck. We were the only tourists at the game lodge, and for once in our time in Africa, we could afford to stay in one. In pictures, the three girls, as my father called us, sat on an elephant’s skull, the lodge’s mascot of sorts. How long it had been there, we did not know, but it still would be there twenty years later. We took turns on the seat, a macabre prop, and we were not aghast. In one photo, I am sitting alone, feet swinging, a smile nearly swallowing my face.

The last day, we drove to the Kazinga Channel to see a wealth of hippos. My mother had learned from Maberly that hippopotamus is Greek for “River Horse.” My father was quick to point out that he taught Greek and could have told her as much and he expanded on Maberly to break down the word: Potamus, river, hippos, horse. It later seemed a strange word — River Horse — a misnomer. Hippos looked more like pigs or warthogs or even Cape buffaloes. They were not elegant like horses, not svelte. Yet they stood as tall as horses, and they were said to gallop thirty miles an hour. If a horse lived in a river, why not in this voluptuous body?

We were on the river during the watery moments between day and night, the magic hour. We stood, together, and watched.

Hippos became my favorite safari animal, a decision into which I poured considerable thought. Sonja and I divided up the world between us: she liked red, I liked orange; she liked spaghetti, I liked baked potatoes; she liked leopards, I liked hippos. She selected first, and there could be no sharing. Those were the rules of ownership.

At the channel, hippopotamuses slid through the water, and from the side, we could see a half hippo — an eye, an ear, a nostril, a pinkish-grey jowl. On the shore, more lounged companionably, one upon another. While hippos are cranky animals, given to flashes of anger and while they carry with them the scars of their quarrels, they looked as if they were smiling. It was a closed mouth smile, and it gave them a beauteous glow.

It is a rare thing to see a hippo standing. While they have no natural predators, it is just too hot to graze under the sun, carrying all that bulk. They leave the water at dusk and make up for a day of lounging. A hippo can eat nearly ninety pounds of grass in a night.

We were on the river during the watery moments between day and night, the magic hour. We stood, together, and watched. My father hoisted my sister onto his shoulders, so she could better see and he could better take photos. She balanced herself by holding onto his hair and tucking her feet behind his back. “Ouch, ouch,” my father shouted, even hopping in his jest, and on his shoulders, Sonja giggled and clung tighter, causing my father to hop more and shout more, one hand now gripping her feet. “You two,” my mother said. She held me against her hip, an arm free for pointing.