The brindle gnu is a strange beast—pretty in an ugly way. It walks with a loping gait, its long black horse-like face crowned with horns that reach out from gnarly bosses to dip and hook back acutely.
Beautiful charcoal stripes accentuate its ash grey flanks—although it comes in many shades—and it talks as though it has a ’gazoo’ stuck up its nose: “Gnu, gnu, gnu!” The brindle gnu is also known as the blue wildebeest and even ‘The Poor Man’s Buffalo’. Why? Because, despite its gangling appearance, duff the shot and it’s going to leave you with one hell of a memory.
“Now is a good time to hunt Africa,” PH Sean reflected. “Since COVID there are abundant animals in top nick and less hunting pressure.”
I played ‘tail-end-Charlie’ as the line snaked through the dense vegetation of the East Cape mountains. Ahead, my German clients Freddy von Gimbourn and his mate Nils Poss were eyes agog as the reality of that first African Safari dawned on them. Freddy had missed the opportunity to take a bruiser of a warthog that morning— German precision got in the way of expeditious shooting—and was now looking for a kudu to salve the wound. However, The Dark Continent dances to its own rhythm.
Over many safaris I have learned that Africa dictates the terms and the smart hunters accept a gift when its offered; it may not be on the wish list but the best animals come this way.
Sean suddenly froze in the balmy African evening. A slight tilt of his head shifted our gaze to the left and down. Frugality of movement is a prerequisite skill when hunting game that is constantly alert for predators—us included.
Within spitting distance was a clearing under the trees. In that clearing was an old blue wildebeest. He was curled, asleep. Sean’s eyes popped and mine popped also. The Germans looked bored but slightly amused at our reaction. The PH signed that this was a good bull, spread the shooting sticks and nodded to Freddy. Diana, the goddess of hunting, looked on. Freddy shrugged and shook his head. His German mind was locked on kudu. Sean shrugged, masking his disappointment. Diana winked at me.
The gift was not in the horns, which were large and etched in bovine braille of past battles, but in what was not so obvious. The bull was a loner, old, past his prime and cast out from the herd. There must be a reason for this but it was not immediately apparent.
I caught Sean’s eye and motioned pulling the trigger. Words were superfluous as we both read from the same page.
I stepped up, took the rifle, chambered a round and settled the crosshairs on the base of the neck. The old bull died in its sleep.
It happened that simply. And it was the perfect end.
It transpired that the old campaigner had been ousted by a younger contender, gored in the loin and left with a festering wound—death was distant and in concert with suffering. I had circumvented that and the trophy was in the story.
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