Mobita had views on protective colouring. Who is Mobita? Oh, an elephant
hunter, a black man; a very good fellow--as black men go. Mobita used to
say that elephants, and big and small game generally, could not see
black and white. Black they could and white they could, but not a
judicious combination of the two. His usual hunting kit was a black hat
with a white feather in it, a black waistcoat over a white shirt, a
black and white striped loin cloth. His thin arms and legs were dull
ebony. There you have Mobita.
Mobita's theory worked very well for a time, but as he had missed an
essential he paid the penalty in the end. A zebra is black and
white--more or less--and in the bush is practically invisible so long as
it stands still. That, then, is the essential adjunct to protective
colouring--you must keep still.
This is what happened to Mobita.
Just before the war I was hunting on the edge of the Great Swamp. Early
one afternoon, when the day was at its hottest, I heard a shot fired.
Later, I met a freshly-wounded tusker and dropped him. I went up to have
a look at him, and found dry blood on his ground tusk and a hole behind
his near shoulder; someone had just missed his heart. My shot took him
in the ear.
I left some of my men to cut out his tusks, and, out of curiosity, went
back along his spoor. I had not far to go. Sitting round a pile of green
branches I found a dozen of Mobita's people, looking very glum.
They told me their yarn, which I did not believe until I had had a look
round for myself. The spoor told me their story was true enough.
It appears that Mobita had followed the bull since early morning. He got
in a moderate shot; the bull saw him and gave chase. The ground was
unbroken, with no large ant-hills or big trees to dodge behind. Here and
there they went, this way and that, but the tusker kept his eye on
Mobita--on his protective colouring, I should think. Then somehow Mobita
tripped and fell, and the game was up. The elephant stamped on him,
knelt on him, put his tusk through him. Then--and here is the strange
part of it all--went from tree to tree picking green branches and piling
them up on what was left of Mobita.
Then he moved off and shortly met me.
Did I bury Mobita? Why, no. People came around presently--as natives
will when meat is about--and I made them pile stones on him; quite a
hill they made. I paid them for their trouble with elephant meat, and
handed the tusks to Mobita's men, as the custom is.
Protective colouring is all right, no doubt--if you keep still.