The Mapogos.

by Wayne Naidoo

Part 1.

Kenya is basically a place where all Earth’s animals are made.  It’s filled with carnivores, herbivores and all other vores too.  Then when the time is right they get sent to Madagascar and from there they get shipped to various countries of their choice depending on the type of meal they fancy eating.  French, Italian, Mexican, Cape Coloured, etc.

The Nairobi National park is only 7km’s from the city centre and was also home to our guide, Nalutuesha, which means “Born when raining”.  He was from the Maasai tribe, 15^th generation and everyone called him Storm.  He looked like he was from Wakanda and had an impressive lion’s tooth necklace dangling from his marbled neck.  Storm knew everything about what was cooking in the ecosystem, from the plum-coloured may beetle to the lilac-breasted roller, right through to the ridged grass frog.  He even knew how to make banana bread from elephant dung shrapnel and morning mist.  This guy was the business.  He was like Mowgli and Tarzan in one, except he didn’t swing from tree to tree. He was more than a guide.  He was the real King of the Jungle and knew how to speak ANIMAL in all its dialects.

After a full day game drive and after only sighting a pigeon and some ants, Sneds, Mohan, the Robb’ster and I, headed inland to base camp with Storm.  Our day’s disappointment was quickly replaced when we saw our digs for the night.  It was a five-star tented camp, no fencing, with all the hedonistic delights in place.  All done through an African filter.  Dr Livingstone had nothing on us.

Now this was Africa.  Real Africa.  The smell of fresh savannah along with Gin and Tonic came together perfectly like a purple rinsed perm.  It was nightfall and we were well settled in.  We all huddled closer and attentively around the boma as Storm whispered softly about the tales of the mighty and brutal Mapogo male lions who reigned supreme.  They were from Mali Mali in South Africa, but they hadn’t been seen in ages and there was rife speculation that they had been posted to Madagascar in August and were now reassigned back here in Kenya because their gastronomic preference was in fact, East Indian. We were told it could well be that Dreadlocks, Makulu, Pretty Boy, Rasta, Mr. T and Kinky Tail were somewhere in the vicinity.  Yeah Right. Whatever. lofl. 2M2H.

It was nearly midnight and we were all now being hypnotised by the crackling sparks of the fire.  All were deeply contemplating the meaning of life and questioned whether it really made sense to wear underwear anymore.  The deafening silence of this blissful night was then pierced by a high-pitched sound that rung out like a fart that got caught in a balloon and was now slowly escaping under duress at 114 decibels.  Storm quickly reassured us that this was merely the call of the wild and that it occurred when one adult bit another adult’s nuts by accident.  We all blinked and nodded in unison.  Obvz.

It was getting late and I figured that I best go and relieve myself before the clock struck 12 am because Ma Tilly always warned that if you were in the loo at the strike of the clock on that hour, then you would end up being a piece of shit for life.  I quietly removed myself and with my iPhone light on, I non-soberly meandered through the high bush to the tented lavatory that was situated about 150 meters away from the boma.

I was so grateful for this bucket list experience, as this was going to be a first for me, as I have never done my business in the wild before.  I excitedly stepped into the loo, ziplocked the 1x1m tent, dropped my safari khaki pants and before I could breathe-and-release, I heard a huge commotion outside, which sounded like when you get into an argie-bargie with your Missus and she front lobe slaps you with a wet Snoek.  Damn these idiot colleagues pranked me good.  After a slight heart attack, I quickly recovered and once again happily got into the tag-and-release position. I needed to hurry as I only had 3 minutes left before Twelve.

I had reset and placed my left foot securely in the corner at a forty five degree angle, firmly clutched my right hand to the bottom of the toilet seat perpendicular to my rib cage and before I could yodel “born-free”, I felt a rather large mass of something rubbing up against the side of the tent which was now beginning to buckle in, towards me.

I was all still giggles, until I heard the deep cold blooded PURR from outside, which numbed me like I had been injected with Ebola.  They say that you usually see your life flash before your eyes before you die – a quick, best of the best showreel, highlighting the amazing life journey one had been through.  But I really didn’t see anything like that at all.  I just saw death. 

This was it.  I could hear my obituary being read out:

Here lies our dearly beloved Wayne. He was a family man. A businessman. A community man, who lived his life with dignity, pride, integrity and honour.  We mourn his untimely death caused by a Lion in a shithouse in Nairobi.  He was discovered with his trousers and underpants around his ankles. What a sick way to go. May his soul rest in peace.

The mere thought of this gave me Chuck Norris courage to pull myself towards myself and to do the unthinkable.  I did a quick E=MC2 analysis of where this curry-munching Kinky Tail was and like in Flying Dragon Leaping Tiger, I pulled up my pants, unzipped the tent and ran like a starved dog chasing after the ass of a  low flying duck.  It was pitch dark and all that I followed was the flickering light coming from the fire.  I had no idea where this damn Mapogo was, but one thing was for sure though – there was no way that I was going to pleasure him with my delightful Beef Vindaloo bottom that night.

My crew and Storm came running to my aid, so did most of the Maasai clan with eyes wider than the full moon above.  No-one could believe that I had wrestled a lion and survived.  And not just any lion. A Mapogo lion. It was unheard of.  The crowd started calling out admiringly to me, “Zeus”, “Hercules”, “Kong”.  Storm then hushed the crowd like Caesar, slow walked out in front of me, and with a look of Godly admiration, took his lion tooth necklace off and warmly placed it around my neck and bowed down. The crowd went absolutely berserk, and in synch, all the birds and frogs started singing and croaking to Bob Marley and The Wailers – Iron Lion Zion. I was now hailed, the new King of the Jungle. *Fist pump.

This all sadly came to an abrupt end shortly afterwards, when Storm overheard me telling Sneds, Mohan and the Robb’ster, about the finer detail of what actually went down.

It all then happened so fast – the now super typhoon Storm, angrily yanked the mighty tooth from my neck and with a quick yabba dabba doo liturgical dance, I was dethroned like Juan Pablo Di Pace from Dancing with the Stars.  I was now right back at the bottom of the food chain, which also came along with a new jungle name, Marumutu – “Shits while running”.

Life lesson #6 – He who fights and runs away, may live to fight another day.

Part 2.

It was nearly a 5-month long affair.  I had just left my corporate job and was transitioning to start my own gig when I was introduced to “Russell the Love Muscle”.  He was the African Don Draper of advertising.  Slicker than a Black mamba, sharper than a surgical obsidian blade and he dished out faint charms like a flower girl spraying rose-petal confetti at a bohemian wedding.  Everything about him looked perfectly proportioned as if he were carved out by Michelangelo himself.  His striking Batman pose along with his slim-fit Brioni suit, pointy Salvatore Feregamo shoes, silk handkerchief with his initials engraved onto it with melee diamonds, and his Private school accent, made me want to curtsy and call him Uncle, or Sir, or, “Your Lord”, or something with a very big fancy title attached to it.    

He also struck me as someone who got what he wanted and knew just how to go about doing it.  He had proper moves and he impressed me just like that time when Streeny, my slightly older cousin, did the moonwalk, backflip, never to be repeated again high-jump-leg-splits, on the Galaxy nightclub dancefloor, all to the tunes of, “I like to move it, move it” – draped in a faded 60’s Jumpsuit with Jesus sandals and pink legwarmers, a yellow head band, whilst nonchalantly, sexily sipping on his double Bells and Soda, whilst making warm eyes with every Sheila on the floor. Man-crush.

He wanted me to join his future fit African advertising empire as one of his key right-hand lieutenants, that he was hurriedly assembling.  His dream was to make it bigger and better than even the Internet it seemed, and I was bedazzled by his higher-grade organograms and the dazzling pie chart diagrams that filled every Excel and PowerPoint sheet that Bill Gates had ever created. This really tempting offer, threw a Babe Ruth curve ball in my own empire building plans, and my dream of still becoming my own David Ogilvy was fast disappearing.

This dating game was further sweetened with one liner mystical texts and mails, and the occasional two-minute call.  All very high-level engagements which made me want to know even more. I was being reeled in like a moth to a flame and I was spell bound.  I was trapped. Swipe right.

Then the job-offer appeared like Eve presenting the apple to Adam.  It was shiny, seemingly delicious and filled with the promise of an even greater future ahead.  I had 48 hours to make a decision on whether to accept it or not.  That night over dinner with my family, I presented the two options to them.  Take on another CEO role of a huge Advertising Group with money security, and oodles of perks including my own office bar, or, start my own Agency from scratch, with no security, no privileges, no PA, no big money, no coffee machine and a high possibility that it could all come falling down in the first couple of months, resulting in us potentially losing everything.  Without any hesitation, all the kids and my wife, looked at each other, frowned confusedly and bellowed out in synch, like they were Agnetha, Bjorn, Benny and Anni-Frid from ABBA – Start your own agency. Duh.

This belief in me from those I loved the most, set my inner mechanisms firmly in motion, to confidently attack the unknown world of entrepreneurship.  The seducing noises had silenced itself in my head, and the flattering had vanished too.  I was no longer trapped.  I also never ran away like before.  This time I faced this new Mapogo. This time I looked Uncle, firmly in the eye, and unhesitatingly, I declined his offer and walked away.  Swipe left.

This time, I really did wrestle the Mapogo by standing my ground and knowing that my destiny belonged to me, on my terms.  I felt a great sense of clarity and purpose almost immediately.  I touched my chest, smiled inwardly as I could imagine the mighty tooth now dangling from my neck.  Deep down inside, I knew that Nalutuesha would have loved to have placed it back there now.

Looking ahead, I realised that I would now be in a much bigger jungle with many other, even more savagery Mapogos.  The challenge would be to stay alive, and to figure out how to outsmart all of them – to one day, become the new King of this man-made Jungle. Roar.

Risk is something that we are all trained to avoid.  With the unconditional support that I received from the ones that meant the most – I embraced it and ran into the craziness of the unknown like a fat kid at a doughnut fair, and finally opened up my very own agency – DUKE.

“And the day came, when the risk to remain tight in a bud was more painful than the risk it took to bloom”.  Anas Nin.

This is the element of freedom.

Time will tell whether my decision was the right one or not.

No regrets so far.

Life lesson #6.1 – Don’t be afraid to break out of your comfort zone.  Don’t be afraid of failure.  Back yourself, face your demons, overcome your fears and you will find the true leader in you.