THE GREAT BLACK MAMBA AND LALO JATTA'S ACE

A golf match in West Africa takes an interesting turn when a deadly snake enters the picture.

THE GREAT BLACK MAMBA AND LALO JATTA'S ACE

 Copyright 1993 by Terrence Whitson

 

I'd never seen the great black mamba before that Saturday.  I'd heard the caddies talk about him though, and I'd seen his track once�"thick and sinuous, undulating across the oiled sand of the sixth green like the signature of a tycoon.  It was a subtle reminder that he was somewhere out there in the bush and you'd best keep your ball in play.

Fortunately, keeping the ball in play wasn't all that difficult on the sixth.  The Fajara Club course had several holes that were much more demanding.  The first and second, for instance, were as narrow as the mind of a true believer and bordered by seventy-foot palm and casuarina trees.  Out on the back nine was the dreaded 440-yard thirteenth, its green an island stuck out in the salt water and mud of the bolong.  After you'd had your fill of that, you had the fourteenth, with the palm wine drinkard's lair just right of the fairway.  A few of the local lads were always there, punishing the saangara and holding forth in full voice.  They were keen spectators, but they could play hob with your concentration on that 240-yard tee shot.

The sixth was a simple 170-yard par three, off the top of a sandy hill and down toward the Paradise Beach Bar.  The fairway was wide enough and you had to either hook or slice your shot badly to reach the bush around it.  Thus, the great black mamba that lived near the sixth played pretty low on the bill of obstacles at the Fajara. 

Until the Saturday that Lalo Jatta got his ace.

Lalo was from the Bakau branch of the family and the Jattas were proud of him.  He'd been named for Lalo Kebba Drammeh, the legendary kora player, and from birth great things had been expected of him.  He'd gone through school at the top of his class and won a scholarship to King's College in Cambridge.  After earning his degree, he’d returned to The Gambia to join the staff at Standard and Chartered Bank.  He’d put in several years of hard work there, rising quickly to the rank of branch manager.  It was during those early years that he developed the two traits that were to serve him so well in his chosen field: a talent for intense concentration and a profound respect for the value of money.

Most golfers’ prominent traits are reflected in their game and Lalo was no different.  Although of medium height and slender build, he translated his intensity into impressive distance and accuracy.  He'd caddied a bit as a boy, and by the end of his college days he'd built a formidable game with a five handicap.

This was just as well, because had Lalo's intense concentration not made him accurate, his other prominent trait would have driven him from the game.  He didn’t mind paying his membership dues and his clubs were the best, but Lalo truly hated to lose a golf ball.

Now, anyone can become annoyed when an errant shot hides in the bush, but most of us understand the inevitability of such an occurrence.  Not so Lalo.  For him, an unfound golf ball was a loss of tangible assets.  You were wise to bring along a timepiece when you played with him, as he was the kind of golfer for which the five-minute rule was invented.

His caddie was the redoubtable Mansour Jallow, famous for his keen eye and hunter's instincts.  It was Mansour you pinned your hopes on the few occasions when one of Lalo's shots went astray.  He'd duck into the mangrove and quite often locate the ball before Lalo had a chance to begin serious fretting.  Mansour was valuable in other ways as well.  He could wake up in the morning, sniff the air, and tell you how fast the greens would be.  He was also quite a showman and very popular with tourists.  He had lots of little tricks, such as plucking the ball out of the cup with his toes, that coaxed handsome tips from visitors.

Many were mystified as to how Lalo could get anyone to caddie for him, much less the excellent Mansour.  It was common knowledge that when it came to tipping, Lalo's beneficence was comparable to old Angus Stewart, who was tighter than a stout woman's stockings.

I asked my caddie Malik about it once and he explained Mansour's loyalty this way: "That boy, he know his player.  He don't lose too many bets."

This settled it for me, for I knew it was common practice for caddies to bet on their players during competitions.  They’d bet on overall scores, one-on-one matchups, and quite often on the outcome of a single hole.  A caddie who knew his player well and who could accurately judge that player's capability on a given day stood to garner sizable winnings.

I don't know if Mansour bet on Lalo the Saturday he got his ace.  If so, he took a beating, because I've never seen Lalo in worse form.  The event was the U.S. Embassy Fourth of July Competition, a stableford affair that was always well attended.  Due to the packed field, we were grouped in foursomes, with a shotgun start.  The draw had put me in with Lalo, Ade Uboni, and Reggie Faversham.  Ade was a Nigerian, Country Rep for UNICEF, and Reggie was a Brit, working as an adviser at the Gambian Customs Office.

It was early December and we'd been getting some unseasonable rain.  It had come down hard the night before, turning some of the chancier greens into rock-strewn wastelands.  The clouds were still about at tee time�"low, dark, and ominous.  The usual sea breeze was absent and the atmosphere was oppressive.

We started our round on the seventh, which can be enough to ruin anyone's day.  It was a short par four, running up the hill from the beach, and smack in the middle of it was a bunker like a tank trap.  This bunker was backed by a five-foot wooden stockade and had tall casuarina trees on either side.   A decent drive would clear it, especially with an on-shore breeze behind you, but there was no breeze that day and a decent drive is the Chimera of the Royal and Ancient Sport.  I took my seven iron to the tee box, experience outweighing bravado. 

No such timidity for Lalo, though.  As the low handicap he had honors and he stepped up there with the lumber.  He was wearing a yellow polo shirt and a pair of orange and green plaid pants that Reggie reckoned could be seen from Cape St. Mary.  Lalo laughed good naturedly at Reggie's jibe, then went into that coiled swing of his.  He hit a cracker, a screaming shot that flew like a frozen rope�"until it caught the outstretched bough of a casuarina and dropped like a stone into the bunker.

Lalo stared at it for a moment; his face screwed up in pain. Then, he stepped off the tee box, shook his head and said, "I tell you..." to no one in particular.

Well, that set the tenor for the day.  I lost three balls, myself.  Ade nearly brained his caddie when that unfortunate brought him a two iron instead of a putter on the seventeenth green.  Reggie was all over the course and started in on his hip flask far earlier than was his custom.  And Lalo… Well, Lalo was setting new records in the use of the five-minute rule.

We were a sorry group as we dragged ourselves up to the final tee.  We'd had to let two other groups play through and there was no doubt we'd be last in the clubhouse.  Reggie's flask was dry and his good humor had dried up with it.  Ade was heaving deep sighs and glaring at his caddie.  Lalo and I brought up the rear; each sunk in his own morose thoughts.  We hadn't been able to find Lalo's ball on the last hole and I believe he was going into shock.  He'd only brought three balls with him and had now lost two.  All belonged to a sleeve he'd won in the September Monthly Mug�"a hideous orange color they were (I'm somewhat of a traditionalist about these things).

We reached the tee box and looked down toward the sixth green.  You could barely make out the red flag that marked the hole.  The clouds had sunk lower and what light there'd been was fading fast.   Ade teed up first (he'd only bogeyed the 5th) and sent a long slice into the bush to the right of the fairway.  Reggie was next and he missed the ball completely with his first swipe.  He cleared his throat with a "Bloody hell!" and then managed a reasonable stroke that landed ten yards short of the green.  I followed with a five iron, pulled slightly left, and then Lalo stepped up.

He'd been arguing with Mansour about club selection and was still dubious about the final decision.  He took a vicious practice swing, exhaled with a shuddering sigh, and started his backswing.

He struck the ball well and there was no doubt it would be close.  It was a beautiful six iron, drawing slightly and moving dead at the pin.  We all surged to the edge of the hill, straining to see where it would hit the green.

The gloom was too deep.  I lost sight of the ball in mid-flight and couldn't make out the spurt of sand that would have marked its landing point.  There was a single moment of intense quiet, matched by the concentration on the faces around me.  Then, from down the hill, we heard the green sweeper shouting.  He was jumping and waving his arms.  Over by the women's tee, the caddies took up the cry:  "Hole-in-one!  Hole-in-one!"

Reggie broke the hushed silence of our group.  "I'll be blowed, Lalo!" he bellowed.  "You've an ace!"  We moved as one then, down the sandy hillside, charging like cavalry into battle.  The caddies were ahead of us, moving away in spite of the bags they carried.  They reached the bottom of the hill and started toward the green, but then slowed to a faltering stop.

The green sweeper was running toward them, away from the green, pointing and hollering.  We came up behind just as he reached them and I could hear what he was shouting.

"Mambangi fi!  Mambangi fi!"

I pushed through the knot of caddies and squinted into the lowering darkness.  It was there all right, big and sable as Satan's tail, gliding across the green�"the great black mamba.  Behind me, the caddies had set up an infernal din, running to and fro, shouting and gesticulating.  This failed to impress the snake, which stopped, lifted its head to test the air, then curled up next to the flagstick. 

"Quiet!  Quiet you donkeys!"  It was Ade, commanding the caddies to be still.  He brandished his iron at them and they fell into a skittish silence.  He turned to us.  "We'll have to get the police to shoot it."

"No need," Reggie said.  "The President's playing today.  There's a whole gaggle of gendarmes up by the first tee." 

"Right," said Ade.  "I'll go talk to the officer in charge.  My ball's in the bush, so I'd have to pick up anyway."

As he started off, Reggie looked toward the green.  "What I'd like to know is: was it a bleedin' hole-in-one or wasn't it?"

"Malik, " I said. "Ask the green sweeper what happened to Mr. Jatta's shot."

Malik let loose a stream of Wolof at the boy, who had been sidling up the hill away from the snake.  He responded with a chorus of head nodding and pointing that told the whole story.

Reggie laughed and shook his head.  "It's the first I've ever seen in person.  It won't be long now, Lalo. We'll have yon bugger shot and skinned and you can claim your ace."

Now you might wonder what had become of Lalo during all the rushing about and deciding on courses of action.  Well, he'd just stood there, a little hunched up, staring at that flagstick.  He hadn't needed to ask the green sweeper.  He'd known from the instant it left his club that he had the ace.  Now he stood there frozen, like a bride before the boudoir door�"half-afraid of what he’d find on the other side.  He heard what Reggie'd said, but could only muster a vague nod in reply.

"It'll be drinks all 'round," Reggie said to me.  "I believe I'll have a double cognac.  After a day like this, strong medicine is called for.  By the way, Lalo, you paid into the assurance pool didn't you?"

Lalo began another nod and then started, like a man coming to.  "What assurance pool?"

"Why the hole-in-one pool," Reggie replied.  "You know, to pay for all the drinks."

"Drinks?"  Lalo tore his gaze from the green to gawk at Reggie.  "What drinks?"

"Why the round for the hole-in-one!  Don't tell me you didn't buy insurance?  My lad, you're for it now.  You've the whole field to buy drinks for, from the President on down!"

Lalo digested this for a moment, then looked from Reggie, to me, and finally to his caddie Mansour.  When we all nodded that it was true, he turned back toward the green, his mouth working and his eyes bugging slightly.

A shout from the top of the hill pulled the rest of us around.  Several members of the Presidential Guard were coming, escorted by a throng of golfers and caddies.  There followed a general tumult, as our group met their group at the bottom of the hill.  The air was rent with shouts of advice, lewd jokes, and cries of encouragement.  We pushed the gendarmes to the fore, and decamped for the green.

A green that now stood empty, for the mamba was gone. 

All that remained was the flagstick, lying forlorn on the sand near the cup.  Cries of consternation filled the near darkness as the gendarmes advanced cautiously, AK-47s at the ready.  The spoor of the snake was plain on the sand, and the green sweeper indicated which was the entrance and which the exit.  The gendarmes moved toward the bush, following the exit track, while the rest of us kept pace several yards behind.

The track ended at the bush, as did the hunt.  The gendarmes backed away and made it clear that none of them was going in after a mamba in the dark.  This brought on a squall of discussion and caused a few of the caddies to chuck rocks, hoping to flush the snake again.  It was soon clear though, that neither the mamba nor the gendarmes were going to cooperate.  This realization led to the next order of business, which Ade Uboni enunciated.

"What," he asked, "about the hole-in-one?"

All eyes went to the green, where Lalo, Reggie, and Mansour stood about the cup.

"It's not here," Reggie said.  He gazed about in bewilderment.  "The effing ball ain't here."

The green sweeper was pulled from the crowd, pummeled and badgered.  The boy was in tears, but remained adamant.  The ball had gone into the hole.  He was certain.  We fanned out, scanning the fairway around the brown.  My ball was located, and Reggie's, but not a trace of Lalo's. 

"Crikey," breathed Reggie.  "You don't think the snake ate it, do you?"

"Well," I said, "the flag was knocked out of the cup.  The snake must have done that.  Who's to say?  The ball isn't there, that's clear enough.  Who was first to check the hole?"

"I was," Reggie said.  "Lalo asked me to verify the hole-in-one for him.  I went over to the hole, and Mansour was there, holding the flag.  It was so dark I felt around in the hole, thinking I just didn't see it.  It wasn't there, though."

We all looked to Lalo.  In the darkness, you couldn't read his face, but we could guess how he was feeling.  Graham Tunbridge, who was Golf Captain that year, went over to him and patted his shoulder.

"I'm sorry, Lalo.  We can't verify your hole-in-one.  The boy said he saw it go in, but without the ball, we have no proof.  Would you like to play another ball, or pick up?"

"I haven't got another one," Lalo replied, in a voice that sounded near to breaking.  "Besides, it's too dark now."

So, Reggie and I played out, there in the darkness.  We both chipped poorly, but he sank a longish putt that gave our recently arrived gallery something to cheer about.  I finished up and we all trooped back to the clubhouse.

Lalo's ace and the great black mamba were the talk of the bar.  Lalo was toasted all around and even received commiseration from the President.  All agreed it was tough luck, but Lalo seemed to take it well�"I heard he even gave Mansour a handsome tip, to salve his caddie's disappointment.  At one point Reggie summed up everyone's feelings.  He put his arm around Lalo and in a voice hoarse with emotion, he said, "Buck up, old son.  As my old Da' used to say, 'It's a grand life�"if you don't weaken.'"

It was well past dinnertime when I came out, a bit groggy from the day's round and the bonhomie of the bar.  I was parked near the gate, and as I went to unlock the car, I heard a "Sssst!" from just outside.  I walked over and saw it was the green sweeper who’d been at the sixth.

"What's this?" I asked. "You got paid all right, didn't you?"

He nodded vigorously.  Yes, he'd been paid.

"What is it, then?"

He held out his hand.  "You want buy ball?"

"No."  I waved him off.  "I've got all I need."  I turned to go, but then stopped, as I noticed what he was holding.

"Where'd you get that?"  I asked, taking it from him.

He shrugged.  "Mansour.  He say Mister Lalo don't want it.  You buy?"

"I don't think so," I replied, handing it back.  "I've never been partial to orange golf balls."

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