When a rescued orphan chimp leapt into Betty Angucia’s arms two decades ago, it sparked a bond that would change her life, and redefine what it means to care. For six months, Ikuru lived with Angucia and her children. She ate and played with them.
The year is 1960. In the green slopes of Gombe National Park, Tanzania, a young British primatologist named Jane Goodall makes a discovery that would alter science and perhaps redefine what it means to be human. Goodall observed a chimpanzee bending a twig, stripping it of its leaves, and using it to extract termites from a mound. She had just proven that tool-making was not the preserve of humans.
‘We must now redefine man, redefine tool, or accept chimpanzees as humans,’ her mentor Louis Leakey, famously remarked. That moment would change Goodall’s life forever, cementing her as the world’s leading voice in primate research and conservation until she died this year.
Similarly, but decades later, in a rather quieter manner another chimpanzee would transform a woman’s life in ways no one could have imagined. Her name was Ikuru, meaning ‘the happy one’ in the Lugbara (one of the languages spoken in the West Nile region). And just as Goodall’s chimpanzees changed the course of scientific understanding, Ikuru altered the destiny of a Ugandan woman named Betty Angucia, a mother and caregiver who is now one of the best chimpanzee caretakers in the country.
A child of war
Ikuru’s story begins in the late 1990s, in the thick, haunted jungles of eastern Congo, a landscape scarred by war. During the height of conflict, rangers found her clinging to the lifeless body of her mother.
Around her, the forest was silent except for the distant echo of gunfire and the crackle of burning underbrush. She was just about four years old, her tiny fingers wrapped around her mother’s bloodied fur.
‘She had burn marks on her body when she arrived,’ recalls Angucia. ‘She must have been caught in the aftermath of a forest fire caused by fighting.’
Ikuru’s story could easily have ended there, another casualty of human cruelty had she not been brought across the border to Arua District and later to the Uganda Wildlife Education Centre (UWEC), then still known as Entebbe Zoo.
At the time, Angucia was a young woman living at the zoo with her husband, who worked as a security guard.
‘I was just a housewife then,’ Angucia says. ‘I used to help Debbie Cox, an Australian primatologist, with small chores during the day, cleaning, washing, and sometimes running her errands, then return to my family in the evening.’
The day Ikuru arrived
News spread around the centre that a rescued chimpanzee was being brought in from the border. Staff gathered around the holding area as a pickup truck pulled in carrying a small transportation cage. Inside was a frail, trembling figure, a young chimp with patches of burnt fur and fear in her eyes.
‘When they opened the cage, she looked around and then suddenly leapt at me,’ Angucia recalls. ‘She clung tightly to my body and refused to let go. I froze. It was my first time being that close to a chimpanzee. Everyone was surprised, even the vet.’
That moment, unplanned and unexplainable, became the beginning of a bond that would last more than two decades.
‘The vet wanted to examine her, but she would not let anyone touch her except me,’ Angucia says. ‘So Debbie Cox told me, ‘Let her stay with you. She feels safe.”
The chimp would spend nights with Cox and days with Angucia.
In the days that followed, as the chimp began to recover, Angucia was asked to give her a name.
‘She was rescued near my home in Arua, so I thought it was right that her name be from there,’ she says.
‘Despite the wounds on her side and the fear in her eyes, she was playful. She wanted to hold things, to smile, and move around. I thought to myself, this one wants to be happy again. So I named her Ikuru, which means the happy one in Lugbara.’
For six months, Ikuru lived with Angucia and her children. She ate with them and played with them.
‘My youngest son, Jovan, was four at the time,’ she recalls. ‘They became inseparable. Sometimes, I carried her on my back like a baby. She was my child.’
Even after Ikuru was transferred to Ngamba Island Chimpanzee Sanctuary for proper care, that connection never broke.
‘Every time I visited, she recognised me immediately,’ says Angucia. ‘She would pant-hoot and come running to the fence. Even after 20 years, she never forgot me.’
When Ikuru died last month, Angucia says she felt as though she had lost one of her own. ‘Every good thing I have in life, I owe to her,’ she says. ‘I didn’t go to school, but through her I found my purpose.’
The calm one
At Ngamba Island, where more than 53 orphaned and rescued chimpanzees now live, Ikuru became known for her gentle, almost diplomatic nature.
‘Chimpanzees can be quite aggressive,’ says Innocent Ampeire, the assistant sanctuary manager, who has cared for chimps at Ngamba for 15 years.
‘But Ikuru was the exception. She was always calm, peaceful, never looking for fights.’
He describes her as ‘the diplomat’ in the troop. ‘Even when challenged by dominant males, she never reacted violently. She would simply move away or groom another chimp to ease the tension.’
Visitors loved her, too.
‘She was one of those chimps who connected easily with people,’ Ampeire adds. ‘If you came near the enclosure, she would clap her hands to get your attention, especially when food was being prepared.’
A sudden silence
In October this year, caregivers noticed something unusual. Ikuru failed to appear during feeding time. ‘Sometimes, chimps prefer to spend a night in the forest,’ says Ampeire.
‘But two nights in a row was unlike her.’
A search was launched. Caregivers combed through the dense forest on the 95-acre island until they found her, lifeless beneath a canopy of trees.
‘It was a hard moment,’ says Dr Aaron Bataamye, the sanctuary’s resident veterinarian.
‘She had two deep cuts on her leg. From the evidence, she might have been attacked by another chimp or injured while fleeing from conflict.’
The post-mortem revealed she had suffered severe blood loss, likely leading to anaphylactic shock.
‘Fights among chimps are not uncommon,’ Dr Bataamye explains, ‘but fatal injuries are rare. For Ikuru, it was just unfortunate timing.’
Her death left a void not only among the staff but also among the chimps she had bonded with for years.
A life remembered
Born around 1995 in the forests of eastern Congo, Ikuru’s life mirrors that of many orphaned chimps rescued from war, logging, and the illegal pet trade. When she first arrived at Ngamba in 1999, she was fragile and traumatised, her stomach bloated, her baby teeth missing, her fur falling out. Over the years, she healed, physically and emotionally.
‘She was among our first residents,’ says Dr Joshua Rukundo, the executive director of Chimpanzee Trust. ‘Her journey from a war-torn jungle to a life of peace symbolises what Ngamba stands for.’
Ikuru’s personality made her stand out. She was a meticulous cleaner, often searching the feeding area for leftover food. She used tools cleverly, poking sticks through gaps in the electric fence to reach fruit and was known to clap her hands to summon caregivers for help.
‘She was funny, intelligent, and deeply observant,’ Dr Rukundo says. ‘She reminded us that chimpanzees are not just animals, they are individuals, each with emotions, memories, and a sense of belonging.’
Even in her later years, Ikuru preferred calm over chaos.
‘She was not dominant, but she was respected,’ Ampeire says. ‘When younger chimps fought, she would often be seen grooming one of them afterwards, as if offering comfort.’