I know the title of this blog sounds reminiscent of a favourite children’s book, but I should perhaps confess early-doors that it is actually something more akin to a horror story.

I was staying at Etosha Village, a safari lodge, close to Okaukuejo, to the south of the Etosha National Park in Namibia.  I had spent a marvellous day game-watching, not least admiring the big herds of elegant Burchell’s Zebra.

It all felt rather an unreal experience.  Like having unwittingly been transposed into a David Attenborough documentary; riding along in one of the open-sided safari vehicles rather like having suddenly upgraded my TV set to a massive 3D wraparound sound-and-vision version.

And, in this wondrous natural world, the zebras were beautiful.  Close-up; sharp focus; delightful.

Yet, these facts still didn’t stop me eating one of them just a few hours later.  Not a whole one, I hasten to add – I’m not a monster.  Just a slither of one, cooked braai-style, but it did occasion a pang of conscience, nevertheless.  As did the slither of Impala, and the slither of Eland.

But, if I am also being honest, my slither of Zebra was very tasty.  And, if I am attempting to justify my action – two wrongs somehow making a right – I am not averse to eating venison in the UK.  This was just the Namibian equivalent.

In the end, I decided, it’s all just horses for courses.

© E. C. Glendenny

E. C. Glendenny does still feel a bit guilty though.