The Cupcake That Belonged To The Monkey

I have spent thirty-seven years teaching children, and I can tell you with complete confidence that children are not the most difficult creatures to manage.

Monkeys are.

Children, at least, can be threatened with a letter to their parents.

Monkeys have no parents you can write to, no headmaster to summon, and absolutely no respect for retirement.

My name is Margaret Whitmore. I was sixty-seven when I visited Kenya for the first time, and I had spent the months before my trip reading guidebooks, buying a new camera and practising the sort of phrases I imagined sophisticated travellers used.

I was going to be calm, observant and dignified.

I was going to photograph elephants against Mount Kilimanjaro, enjoy peaceful mornings in the African wilderness and return to England with enough beautiful memories to bore my bridge club for the next ten years.

I had not planned on declaring war on a monkey.

It began on a perfectly glorious morning in Amboseli.

I was staying at a beautiful safari lodge, where the breakfast terrace offered a wonderful view of the surrounding landscape. The morning air was cool, the sky was turning gold, and somewhere in the distance I could hear birds calling.

I ordered tea, fresh fruit, toast, eggs and a little cupcake that had caught my eye in the breakfast display.

The cupcake was chocolate, with a delicate swirl of icing and a tiny sugar flower on top.

I saved it for last.

I have always believed that the best part of breakfast should be enjoyed when one has properly appreciated everything that came before it.

I was also taking photographs.

First, I photographed the tea beside the cupcake. Then I moved the cup slightly to improve the light. I turned the plate a little to the left, then back to the right. I took one photograph with the mountains in the background and another with the morning sunlight falling across the table.

A young couple sitting nearby watched me rearrange my breakfast for what must have been twenty minutes.

Finally, the gentleman smiled and asked, “Are you photographing the food or preparing it for a royal wedding?”

I ignored him.

One does not travel thousands of miles to Africa and then allow amateurs to interfere with one’s artistic process.

I was just adjusting the angle for what I considered my masterpiece when I heard a small clatter behind me.

I turned.

A monkey was sitting on the railing.

It was a vervet monkey, small and grey, with a black face and an expression of extraordinary self-confidence. It looked at me, looked at the table, then looked at me again.

I knew immediately that it was planning something.

“Shoo!” I said.

The monkey remained where it was.

“Go on. Off you go.”

It tilted its head.

I reached for my camera.

That was my first mistake.

The second mistake was leaving the cupcake unattended.

In the time it took me to raise my camera, the monkey launched itself onto the table, grabbed the cupcake and disappeared over the railing.

I stared at the empty plate.

For several seconds, I could not speak.

The young couple burst into laughter.

“Did you see that?” I cried. “It has stolen my cake!”

The gentleman was laughing so hard that he had to put down his coffee.

“It was very quick,” he managed.

“Quick? It was a criminal!”

I hurried to the railing and looked over. The monkey was perched on a nearby wall, holding my cupcake in both hands. It examined the icing, took a bite, and then looked directly at me.

I swear it smirked.

Then it ate the sugar flower.

That was when I lost my composure.

I marched straight to the lodge reception and demanded to speak to someone responsible for the monkeys.

The receptionist looked at me with the careful expression of a person who had heard many strange complaints from tourists but was determined not to encourage another one.

“Madam, is everything all right?”

“No, everything is not all right. One of your monkeys has stolen my breakfast.”

He blinked.

“My cupcake,” I clarified. “The chocolate one. With the flower.”

He pressed his lips together.

I could see the effort it took him not to laugh.

“I am very sorry, madam.”

“Sorry? What are you going to do about it?”

He promised to call Daniel, my safari guide, who was waiting nearby to take me on the morning game drive.

Daniel arrived a few minutes later, looking concerned.

“Margaret, what has happened?”

I explained everything, including the twenty minutes I had spent composing the perfect photograph and the appalling speed with which the monkey had executed its crime.

Daniel listened with admirable seriousness.

When I finished, he nodded thoughtfully.

“So, madam, the monkey took the cupcake?”

“Yes!”

“And you would like justice?”

“Precisely.”

He looked towards the terrace, where the monkey had now settled itself comfortably in a tree.

“Madam, I will do my best. But I must warn you that these monkeys are very experienced.”

“Experienced at stealing?”

“Very experienced, madam.”

I was not amused.

Daniel suggested that the lodge staff might replace the cupcake, but I explained that the issue was no longer about the cake. It was about principles.

If we allowed monkeys to steal cupcakes without consequences, what would happen next? Would they start taking handbags? Shoes? Cameras?

Daniel nodded again.

“You have a point, madam.”

I felt encouraged.

Then he added, “But I think we should leave the investigation until after the game drive.”

I agreed, although reluctantly.

The drive was wonderful. We saw elephants moving across the plains, their enormous bodies silhouetted against the morning light. We stopped to watch a herd for several minutes, and Daniel explained how the animals communicated and moved together.

I took dozens of photographs.

For a while, I forgot about the cupcake.

Then we returned to the lodge.

As we approached the terrace, I spotted the same monkey sitting on a post. It was holding something pale in its hands.

I stopped walking.

Daniel followed my gaze.

“Oh dear,” he said.

The monkey was eating another guest’s toast.

I marched towards it.

“You! You little thief!”

The monkey looked up, dropped the toast and vanished into the trees.

Daniel burst out laughing.

Never, ever trust a monkey with your breakfast.

I turned to him in disbelief.

“Daniel! This is not funny.”

“No, madam,” he said, wiping his eyes. “It is very serious.”

“You are laughing!”

“I am laughing at the monkey, madam. Not at you.”

This was plainly untrue.

Later that morning, the lodge staff brought me a replacement cupcake. It was chocolate, with icing and a sugar flower. I placed it carefully on a fresh plate, positioned my tea beside it and prepared to take a photograph.

Daniel stood beside the table, watching the trees.

“Madam,” he said quietly, “perhaps we should take the photograph quickly.”

I raised my camera.

Click.

I checked the picture.

Perfect.

Then I picked up the cupcake and ate it in three bites.

Daniel stared at me.

“What?” I asked.

“Nothing, madam.”

“I have learnt my lesson.”

“Yes, madam.”

“No more photographing food before eating it.”

“Very wise, madam.”

I took a sip of tea and glanced towards the trees.

A monkey was watching me from a branch.

It had the same little black face, the same bright eyes and the same expression of criminal confidence.

I pointed at it.

“I know what you are thinking.”

It scratched its ear.

“You are not getting another cupcake.”

The monkey yawned.

I returned to England with hundreds of beautiful photographs of Kenya, including elephants, birds and the magnificent landscapes of Amboseli.

But the photograph that caused the greatest commotion at my bridge club was not of an elephant or a mountain.

It was a slightly blurry picture of a monkey sitting on a wall with chocolate icing around its mouth.

I titled it The Thief of Amboseli.

And whenever anyone asks me about my first safari, I tell them the same thing.

“Kenya is absolutely wonderful. The wildlife is extraordinary. The scenery is breathtaking.”

Then I lean forward.

“But never, ever trust a monkey with your breakfast.”