I killed my first lions when I was 13 years old. I did it to protect the family farm I had been charged to look after, and I was alone. Every year my parents took time away from the cattle ranch to go on holiday together, down in South Africa or even further afield. Usually my father would leave his foreman, Peter, in charge but this was the first year the responsibility had been given to me.
Everyday I saddled my pony and rode circuits around my father's fields, along the banks of the Kafue River and up into the forested hills at the height of the ranch. Down by the river, where the puku and lechwe grazed, the world could seem vast and unknowable while, in the dense trees of the north, I would see occasional impala, always spooking at my appearance and vanishing into the shadows. Sometimes lions passed through the ranch, on the hunt for wild game, and it was for signs of these predators that I vigilantly made my circuits. Only rarely did I see them; more often I came across the spoor they left behind, or the signs of a kill.
I entered the fields where my father's prized Brown Swiss cattle grazed. These were the animals on which the ranch's livelihood depended, hardy yet docile animals first bred in the Swiss Alps and capable of surviving in harsh environments as different as the snowbound mountains and the withering heat of inland Africa.
Some monster's teeth
As I came among them, I already knew that something was wrong. Most of the herd had scattered, disappearing off to other grazing grounds.
Lying in the grass in front of me was a cow, her chest cavity open and glistening with gore, her neck ruptured where some monster's teeth had torn it apart. I looked around. In the grasses I could see two or three other carcasses, all of them similarly maimed.
Whispering to my pony to settle her, as the scent of blood was making her jittery, I dismounted and approached the first dead body. I touched it with my boot. It was a fresh kill; the blood had not yet congealed.
I heard a low growl.I turned my head slowly. In the long grass to my right, a pair of large, golden eyes stared at me over the mangled flesh of an ox.
I had been close to lions before, and flashes of that night, five years earlier, came back to me. This time there were no tent flaps to hide behind. My father would not stride defiantly from the dark and face them down. Instinctively I reached for the rifle slung over my shoulder. It was my father's rifle, and the same one that had felled the man-eaters that night.
I was lifting it carefully, positioning my aim, when the lion charged. He was a demon, his mane matted with the blood from his kills. In the corner of my eye, I could see two others in the field, both lionesses, their attention drawn by the snarling alpha male.
Fear did not come into it. It was my father who had taught me to shoot, after all.
I took the shot.
No sooner was it dead than one of the lionesses leapt at me. I wheeled around, shot again, and she fell at my feet.
I did not wait for the other lioness to charge. She was watching me and pawing, creeping forward ready to strike: so I shot her as well. Only afterwards, as I was looking at their bodies, did I breathe out, and the adrenaline started to make me shake.
But I had no regrets. It was me or them.
As if I was from Mars
Two weeks later, my parents returned from holiday, and I was sitting on the veranda when my father approached. I told him what I had done. He looked at me in disbelief. He insisted I tell him the whole story. Afterwards he nodded, as if he was trying to convince himself it was OK. I had been foolish, he said, to confront the lions. What had I been thinking? What if something had gone wrong? He stared at me for a while as if I was from Mars, someone he didn't recognise.Later that day, he came over to me with a package which he was carrying with both hands. "It's a gift," he said, "you may be a fool at times and you're going to get yourself killed if you're not more careful, but you've earned some respect." I took off the wrapping. There, in my arms, was a brand-new rifle, its metalwork gleaming, its woodwork shiny with fresh varnish. It was the first rifle I'd owned that was not an heirloom, that belonged entirely to me.
I could have cried with joy, not only because I now had my own rifle but because my father's approval was a rare and precious thing.
It was one of the defining moments of my life, and one I'll never forget.Smith on sex, fatherhood and fame
Keeping it safe
“We [students at Rhodes University in the 1950s] didn’t have to contend with HIV and AIDS like today, but there was the age-old worry of getting a girl pregnant. We were very nervous about our contraceptives.
The girl would say: ‘It’s OK, I’ve just had my period’, or something along those lines, and peace of mind would be restored. Sometimes we would take the condoms and wash them to save money. We’d put talcum powder on them to dry them out.
Some of them we used three or four times, some half a dozen times. We’d blow them up and put them to our ears to check they weren’t leaking. This is not a means of using contraceptives I’m recommending in any way! Even recalling our exploits as I’m doing now brings the colour to my cheeks at how reckless and disrespectful we were, but back then, needs must.”Nappy ending
“When my first child was born, my father took me aside.He had some important information to impart, the sort of advice you didn’t get from matron. ‘My boy,’ he told me. ‘They’re going to bring that baby back from the hospital any day now. When they do, wait for it to soil its nappy. Then confidently announce to your wife: Stand back!
This is my child as well! Then, undo the baby’s nappy and stick the safety pin into the baby’s bottom. The baby will squeal and your wife will never let you near a dirty nappy again!’ He was being totally serious.
In the end, I didn’t take Dad’s advice, but I had some sympathy with his view of a man’s role in society. My father never bathed me, he never fed me, and he never changed my nappy.”
Pure fiction
“On a flight from New York to London, after a fishing trip in Alaska, I had a proof copy of my latest book and was going through it correcting typos, when the chap sitting next to me leaned over.
‘I see you’re reading Wilbur Smith,’ he said. I nodded. ‘Tell me honestly, what do you think of him as a writer?’ I feigned deep thought for a moment and then said, ‘Well, I think he’s a fine writer. I’d place him alongside Hemingway and John Steinbeck.’ My neighbour warmed visibly and leaned in closer. ‘I know him,’ he beamed. ‘I know Wilbur Smith… he’s a close friend of mine.’‘No, really!’ I said, never having met this gentleman before. ‘Yes,’ he went on. ‘And I’ll tell you something else. You know the character of Sean Courtney, the hero of When the Lion Feeds?’ I played along. ‘Do I know him? Of course, he’s one of my favourites.’ ‘Well,’ said my newfound friend, ‘Wilbur based him on my life!’
‘No!’ I said, with just the right amount of incredulity. ‘Yes,’ said the man. ‘I’ll tell you what, if you give me your card, I’ll go to Wilbur and get him to send you a signed photograph of himself. We’re so close, there’s nothing he wouldn’t do for me.’ So I gave him my business card, which he pocketed without a glance. I haven’t heard from him since.” — Excerpts from On Leopard Rock: Adventures From My Life by Wilbur Smith..