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The light in tent number two turned on, as a shadow paced hastily up and down in the unremitting African heat. This did not go unnoticed by the young Botswani who job it was to make sure the campo fire was kept alight. It was an important but lowly job, with blood-sucking insects being the only diversion. Should the fire douse, predators from the plains would usurp the hunters of their title. The Botswani knew this and kept the fire well-stoked. With the unusual tawny light of the tent silhouetting their guest’s faces, the Botswani smiled to on another knowingly.

            “Damn it, I don’t know what’s wrong, Maya…maybe it’s the heat or something…I don’t know!” Came Mitch Dorian’s voice disparagingly. “Maybe it’s me; maybe it’s you for all I know!” He cursed.

            “Some Great-White Hunter…can’t even get it up!” Maya derided him with great pleasure.

            “Shut up! You want everyone to hear you?” He growled. “And how can I get it going with what you just told me?? How far along are you?”

            “A few weeks.” She repeated and sighed. “Do men never listen?”

            “How long have you known?”

            “About the same.” She said, already bored with the topic.

            “When did you plan on telling me your little secret?”

            “Soon. I was going to tell you soon. I didn’t want to spoil the safari.”

            “When have you ever been considerate about my feelings?”

            “Oh, get off of it, Mitch. I’m tired, I’m cranky now and I want to go to sleep.”

            “You wanna try again?”

            “Why? You can’t even get it up!”

            “Would you lower your voice?” He roared.

            “I really wouldn’t worry about anyone hearing us…no one is within miles of this godforsaken place and you’re worried about your male ego??”

            “I said lower your voice.” He commanded. “I’m talking about those guys out there…and whatdya’ll think Marcus will think if he hears you?? It’s just a temporary thing, you know that!”

            “What? Your erection or this baby?”

            “What do you mean?”

            “Well, if you get it up can you keep it up?”-

            “No, about the other thing, you wouldn’t keep the baby?”

            “I haven’t decided yet.”

            “You have to keep it.”

            “No I don’t. You carry it for nine months if you want it. Besides, things are going well at the investment firm and I don’t want to mess things up.”

            “You’re one in a million, Maya.” He shook his head. “So, you wanna try again or not? I can make it work.”

            “That’s what you said last time and the time before that. Why beat a dead horse?” She got up and started to brush her long brown hair.

            “Lower your voice, you cur!” He snarled and pulled in his stomach. “I don’t want those guys outside to hear this! They look up to me.”

            “Ha!” She laughed. “Why shouldn’t they hear it? They don’t look up to you, Mitch. You’re an American, why would they look up to you? You’re paying them. They’re a good bunch. They seem like nice people to me. Besides, they’re probably bored out of their skulls…they probably need a little entertainment now and then…providing they can even understand what we’re saying.”

            “Oh, they understand, all right.” He howled, waving his arms, pacing back and forth in the tent, creating the outline of a caged tiger. “Why, you ask? Why? You just don’t get it, do you? You just don’t know how to act anywhere except in your tight little circle back in Bay Head. You think you’re so much better than me sometimes, Maya, don’t you? I’ll tell you this, Maya, you can take the girl out of the country club atmosphere…and…and…she’s lost…”

            “You’re a moron sometimes, really!” She said. Her husband was a brilliant plastic surgeon but as often comes with brilliance, mental incapacity elsewhere. “What on earth are you trying to say?”

            “Nothing…” He met her sigh. “…if you knew anything you’d know you have to watch the way you talk in front of the guides…they sense division and hostility…”

             “So, what’s your point, Mitch? I’m really tired and after that little fiasco…I would like to get some sleep.”

            “That’s exactly what I’m talking about.” He gritted his teeth and pointed.

            “What?” Maya asked innocently.

            “Because we’re Americans.”

            “So?”

            “We have to set an example. We can’t go at each other’s throats all throughout the South Africa Plain. I know you like to have a dig at me now and then. You understand that and I see that…but they don’t understand that! They see your bitching as what American couples do…I mean, if the wife did that over here, they’d give her the old necklace.”

            “Necklaces are nice.” She smiled without knowing.

            “Uh-uh, not these kinds of necklaces…the kind I’m talking about are rubber. They throw a tire dipped in gasoline, put it around a person’s neck and light it up.”

            “Oh, that’s awful.” She shook her head. “Then, I wouldn’t want one.”

            “I’d like to give ya one.” He said low under his breath.

            “What was that, Mitch?” She asked, cocking an ear. “I couldn’t hear you through all of this sexual frustration.”

            “…keep it up…keep it up…”

            “I wish you could.” She said pointedly.

            “Now that is exactly what I mean. You can’t keep on slamming me like that. It will demean me in front of the guys.”

            “So what?” She huffed.

            Mitch groaned. “They look up to me, Maya, I’ve told you already.”

            “You must have had too much of that beer those Botswanaians were drinking. What was the name of it again?”

            “Pombe.” He said. “But I’m serious, Maya, it might sound crazy, but they do, they look up to me, the guys outside.” He lowered his voice. “They look up to me, I’m serious. They call me their great bwana, I think that means boss…leader.”

            “You’re delirious.”

            “I’m not kidding. Maybe they think of me as their own, you know, some sort of tribal leader or something.”

            “Oh, please. Now I know you’re drunk.” She rolled her eyes. “You really are delirious. Drunk with power or something.”

            “I hope you can curb your tongue long enough in front of them for the rest of the trip. Maya…look at me.” He said as she looked at him. “It demeans my authority.”

            “Yes, oh, Great Potentate, Alpha Male, sir.” She chuckled derisively.

            “Would you please do this one thing for me?” He whined.

            “Oh, all right, Mitch.” She huffed.

            “C’mon, get into bed. You know the guys are drooling over you standing there naked. These shadows don’t leave anything to the imagination, y’know. They’re probably all going nuts right now staring at the boobs I bought you.”

            Maya glared at him for a second. “Maybe they’re too busy staring at you.”

            “At me?”

            “Yeah, saying to themselves that that poor white guy in the tent got only half a twig, not the whole tree branch like them!”

            “You’re hilarious, Maya, real hilarious.” He groused. “No wonder I can’t get it up.”

            “Oh, I’m only joking. Let’s get some sleep. I’m just bitchy cos I’m tired. We can try again in the morning, okay?”

            “That’s fine with me. I was just about ready to turn in anyway.” He shrugged. “I’m bushed…we have that early call tomorrow for the safari near Tshane, right under the Tropic of Capricorn. God, I’m excited! It’s a good thing you’re tired…I don’t think I could get much sleep tonight, so that’s why I figured, you know…” He looked at her amorously and smiled. “He grabbed his gun and started to polish it. It was the gun his father gave him and his father’s father had given him.

            “What’re you doing? Come to bed before you shoot that thing off. C’mon, come to bed, big boy. Save your strength for the big hunt tomorrow.” She said derisively.

            Laughter came from the Botswani outside.

            “Do they have to be so close??” She asked nervously.

            “Of course they do.” He reassured her.

            “I don’t know…I don’t like the fact that they have guns, too.”

            “This is Africa, Maya…everybody has guns.”

            “I just don’t approve of it, that’s all.”

            “They have to have guns…fire alone is not enough to keep out a hungry lion or cheetah…sometimes those things come real close to the tents…I’ve seen it before. It’s eerie…you just see the campfire in their refracted white eyes…yeah, they have white eyes at night, that’s what makes them the great hunters they are…and that’s why man got out of the jungle…don’t believe the whole civilization story about we progressed and made cities. We made cities to protect us from what lurks out there in the night. We’re not nocturnal hunters like the rest of these creatures…the tapetum in their eyes is totally different than ours…they can see at night…whereas, we can’t. That’s why they have white fur under their eyes.” He said in a scholarly way, reminding Maya that he knew more about some things than most people, but not much more.

            “It just unnerves me that they have guns and they drink like that.” She said as guffawing could be heard. “If they drink, they’re not paying attention to what’s out there.”

            “They’re just kids, that’s all. They’re blowing off steam.” Mitch reasoned.

            “Yeah, I know, that’s what bothers me. I hope I can sleep tonight.” She said ruefully. “It’s so fucking hot.”

            “It was 115 today. It’s cooled off now. It’s only about 98 degrees. You can sleep. I can’t!! I’m like a kid at Christmas time, y’know? You’ll love it, Maya. There’s a huge rush to it! A huge rush??” He questioned himself. “…the greatest rush!” He bellowed. “The Cape Buffalo!” He said with a wide smile. “Can’t you just feel the adrenaline?

            “I’m sorry, Mitch. I just see no use in it.”

            “Use in it? Use in it?” He repeated. “You just don’t like seeing me happy.”

            “No, Mitch, why would you even say that?” She looked at him with disdain. “Don’t even go there, okay? That’s a stupid thing to say. I like seeing you happy, but this whole thing…this is just you and a few guys getting your testosterone rush from pumping a few high-caliber bullets into a poor, defenseless animal from a rifle with a scope so that you can shoot from a safe distance and then watch the poor tortured creature die. No, forgive me if I can’t become excited by it. It’s barbaric.”

            “You say it like there’s no sport in it.”

            “There is none.” She climbed into bed and rolled over.

            “But the Cape Buffalo, Maya!” He said and tried to contain his enthusiasm. “The Cape Buffalo!” He said as if repeating it would mean anything to her. “There’s nothing like it! The rush that hits you, there’s a method to it, a whole science you’re not seeing. You get among them and you become one with them and you begin to sense what they sense and see what they see, so much so that you become brethren and then you search out the one you want and you make sure it’s not old or sickly cos you don’t want a weak one hanging on your wall and you lower your scope, aim and your finger’s on the trigger and then POW!” He jerked his arm in the air and chuckled. “I’ll tell you, there’s nothing like it, Maya! Phew! Nothing like it in the whole world! I gotta get you on the same page. I gotta get you out there with me so you see. Slamming that son-of-a-bitch and seeing it hit and then slamming it again and again ‘til you drop it. Nothing like it in the world.”

            “So, you kill your brethren, huh?” She asked. “Is that what you’re telling me? No thanks, I don’t want any part of it.”

            “But, Maya…you have to come…we just don’t leave you and the campsite here …we bring it with us…” He explained. “You see, you have to go...you don’t have to watch or anything but you are coming. You’ll see, you’ll like it. It’s the challenge of it all…the survival of the fittest and all of that.”

            “Yeah, okay…weekend-Hemingway…can we get some sleep now?”

            “Who?”

            “Nobody.”

            “Betcha whoever this Hemingway guy was he didn’t know dick ‘bout hunting.” He gloated and aimed again in the air.

            “Uh-huh.” She groaned.

            “But I tell ya, there’s nothing like the kill, it makes you feel human. It makes you feel alive…gets your blood going, y’know?”

            “Mmm-hmm.”

            “Hon?”

            “mmm..?”

            “You wanna try?” He meekly asked. “One more time, maybe? I think it will work this time.”

            “Please, Mitch.” She groaned. “I want to get some sleep. I’m very tired.” She turned at him. “…and I thought you said we had to get up early tomorrow for the safari?”

            “We do.” He shrugged. “But I thought this might help us both sleep.” He said to a groggy audience. He wallowed in pit back to his cot and turned off the lantern. As he lay there, he listened to the slight conversation of the gun-bearers outside. A laugh bellowed throughout the camp. “Shut up!” He yelled to no one. “Unafahamu!”

            The laughter and the voices on the other side of the canvas fell silent.

            “What did you say?” Maya asked in a tired tone.

            “Nothing…” He said. “I just asked if they understood.”

“Oh, okay. I just want you to upset them.”

“Goodnight, Maya.” He said and listened again to the men outside. They were speaking in hushed tones now and he could only hear about a fifth of what was being said. It had something to do with him; with all of them, but what it was he could not say. And something about the night being black death. He stared longingly at his rifle in the corner, gleaming from the firelight outside. He thought back on his first gun and remembered his twelfth birthday when his father gave him it. An old model Winchester with a 4x4 scope. He looked again at the rifle, the glint of light shining along the barrel. He was proud of this rifle, too even though it was an older piece. He looked at the Remington # 7400 Deluxe, a .308 semi-automatic 5 shot repeater in which he used Soft Points; a 30/06-170 grain rounds. Over the slight snoring of his wife, he listened to the hyenas barking in the distance and then fell soundly asleep.

“Asabuhi!” A man’s voice came in the morning. “Asabuhi!”

Out of the tent came mosquito netting thrown aside by Mitch. He walked broadly out of the tent into the comfortable morning air. Maya followed sleepily behind him as the rest of the camp slowly came alive. Mitch stretched in the teal-gray African morning. “Hujambo.” He said to the man who awoke him. The man wished him a good morning in return.

“What time is it?” Asked Maya, yawning. “Is it still night?”

“Sa’a ngapi?” Mitch asked the man gathered in a circle near the fire.

“Sa’a kitu.” One answered.  It was 6 a.m.

“Kahawa?” One asked Maya.

“What?” She asked, oblivious.

“Coffee, dear. He wants to know if you want coffee.”

“Yes, very much so.” She nodded and was handed a cup of steaming java.

“And you may double that.” A voice came from behind them. The voice belonged to Marcus, their host.

Marcus was Marcus Allan and was legendary in the Great Plain as one of the great sportsmen of his time, or so it read in the brochure. Actually, he had been born George Lloyd in the then small provincial city of King William’s Town in South Africa and the only killing he really ever did was in the tourist trade taking mostly rich Europeans and Americans out into the bush in search of The Big Game. The Botswanai did not like him as he was from near Cape Town in the South and acted every British inch of it. They did not like him and he did not like them, but he paid them well and they respected him for that.

Mitch turned. “Hey, Marcus! Ready for the Cape Buffalo??” he asked in an excited, childish manner.

“I should hope so or we’re damned out here for naught, wouldn’t you say?” Marcus quipped and winked at Mitch and took the cup.

Mitch took a mouthful of the tepid coffee. “Oh God, I hope not. I can’t wait. Is it really all it’s cracked up to be?”

“Oh yes, quite the rush as you Americans say.”

“Eeeyuch!” Maya spat. “What is this?”

Mitch’s eyes to his wife in disbelief. “Hon…” He said through gritted teeth. “Don’t upset our company. It’s their own special coffee. They’re very proud of it. It’s an old village recipe. Cleans out the body through the pores, it’s said. It’s cheaper than me sending you to Elizabeth Arden on Fifth Avenue every weekend.”

“Well, it tastes horrible.”

“Nihewe radi.” Mitch said, excusing himself as he pulled his wife aside by the arm, nearly spilling her coffee. “Are you nuts?”

“What?”

“You can’t insult these people like that.”

“What did I say?”

“I’ll tell you what you said. You told them you don’t think much of them or their village.”

“When did I say that?”

“When you spit out their coffee in your snobby way. I know this isn’t New York City but…deal with it.”

They walked back over to the group and saw everyone laughing. As Maya smiled apologies to one and all, Mitch piped up.

“Did I miss something?”

“Oh, nothing.” Marcus smiled. “I was just telling them that this is your wife’s first safari and that she’s never tasted anything other than the coffee you get in the States. And then I explained to them that the coffee you drink there is bean, not a concoction.”

“Oh.” Mitch smiled knowingly.

“Concoction?” Maya asked.

“Well, you see…” Mitch started. “…their coffee is made from a variety of plants…from their version of the coffee plant which is a very bitter herb., to the addition of tree root for flavor, a bit of grass, possibly a cooked beetle or two.”

“You mean this coffee is made out of bugs?” Her eyes went wide.

“Not entirely.” Marcus said. “But quite possibly, Mrs. Dorian. But not to worry, it’s very nutritious in their culture.”

“Well, not in mine.” She said and dumped the coffee.

“Breakfast?” Mitch asked.

“No, I think I’ve lost the stomach for it.” Maya huffed and traipsed back towards the tent. “I’m going to lie down.” She added.

“Well, not for long, Maya.” Her husband called out to her. It would soon be time to dismantle the campsite and go on safari.

Before she even knew it, Maya found herself on a bumpy road in some shock-challenged jeep. She sulked as dust from the jeep ahead washed over her. It was a rough ride out of the campsite as they drove along what seemed to be a footpath that somehow doubled as a road. But this road held many unpleasant secrets: Aching parched air drying out the back of the throat, gulps of missed water splashing onto sweaty khaki, insects of every size and color variety splattering against the cracked windshield, the sensation of one’s kidneys ditching the vehicle at the very next catastrophic crash back down to solid, dry earth, the sight of the Plains rushing by in a blur, Botswani literally riding shotgun in case of emergency. This was what the road to Tshane meant to Maya whenever she would think about it afterwards.

In Tshane, there is a common belief that what you kill, you must kill cleanly. This is to say, that once you have killed, you must make a small offering to help the soul pass on to the next world. This might take the form of fire or the ritual smearing of blood in order to become one with he who has been killed.

It was now seven-thirty in the morning. The sun was already beading the sweat from their skin and the day was going to be another torcher. They unloaded the jeeps and set up camp in a clearing along the savanna near the river, an offshoot of the greater Molopo River, Marcus informed them. They were now in what was formerly known as Bechuanaland, a British protectorate. Gaberones, the seat of power of Botswana, lay ahead of them to the south. The time had come to hunt.

The location Marcus picked out on the map was an excellent choice. From their chosen campsite, they could look through binoculars and search for lions lazing in the swaying tall tawny grasses; you couldn’t see them but you knew they were there. Groups of gazelles play afore them in the distance, scampering and jumping, families of mud-spattered hippo and warthog lolling in the cool slowly flowing river and zebras and their young drinking from its brown mucky banks. Kudus, ears alert to the sound of the jeeps approaching, scampered in all directions. Just beyond them, beneath large, white cumulus clouds set against an indigo sky, were blue mountains capped with ivory snow and just beneath those, on the nearly bald burgundy earth were massive clusters of black; the Cape Buffalo. The only thing missing in all of this serenity, one sensed, was the danger of any real predators, but then again, they were busy setting up the encampments.

“As soon as we’re finished here, Mitch, dear boy…we’ll get to your beloved Cape Buffalo.” Marcus nodded as he and Mitch scouted the outer boundaries of the campsite. “They’re right over there, just over the ridge, most likely. They’re on annual holiday, you might say.” Marcus smiled good-naturedly.

“Damn flies!” Maya called out and smacked at her arm, “Look! I’m bleeding…these damned things bite!”

“All right, dear God, I’ll never bring her along on safari again.” Mitch protested bitterly. “All she’s done is bitch, bitch, bitch.”

“My dear…” Marcus instructed her. “This is Africa. If the tsetse flies don’t get you during the day, the mosquitoes shall finish the job in the evening.” He smiled through patience wearing thin.

“I know a little about mosquitoes, I grew up in Jersey!” She huffed. “But the thing I know is that those malaria pills they gave us made me sick. They’re worse than the malaria.” She spat. “They said taking the pills would help, but they made me feel ragged, so I don’t take them.”

“Maya, my dear…” Marcus begged. “You must take them or you will become terribly ill.”

“I don’t care.” She snapped coldly.

“If you don’t take the pills, then I should think you’d be less concerned with the flies and rather more concerned with the others flying overhead.” He said and pointed up.

“Jeezus!” Mitch exclaimed as he gazed up and saw the vultures circling over them. “What are they doing here?”

“Well, per chance you haven’t noticed, they’ve been following us for the past fifteen miles.”

“I thought they went after dead animals?” Maya said, walking towards them.

“Who’s to say we are or we are not.” Marcus intoned drolly.

“Oh, thanks. You’re a million laughs.” She said and turned back. “I think I’ll go to the river for a bath.”

“I wouldn’t advise that, Mrs. Dorian.”

“And why not, Mr. Allan? I’m filthy from that horrid car-ride and I want to clean myself. I don’t want to waste any of our water, so I figure I’ll just splash some cool river water on me. I’ll be careful.” She said, looking over her shoulder.

“The reason I don’t advise it is because these rivers along this way are full of crocodiles.”

The color went from Maya’s dusty face. “Well, I have to do something, I can’t go around looking and smelling like this for the next week.” Mitch grumbled to himself as Maya trudged away.

Marcus winked at him. “Trouble, old boy?”

“Women…” He groused. “They don’t belong on these things. This is a guy thing.” He shook his head. “It’s why I do this. To hang with the boys, ya know? To be a man.”

Marcus nodded. “You’re a perceptive man, I like that. Quite right, the reason why I do this is so you don’t have to put up with women. They’re a nuisance, no offense.”

“None taken.” Mitch shook his head.

“Hunting is for men together, with men of common interests, there for the other man.”

“Women only get in the way.”

“Mitch, old boy, you’re a man after my own heart.” He squired the conversation towards his own interest. He draped an arm around Mitch. “Men being men and enjoying the company of men.”

“Men being men without women around to mess it up.” He chimed.

This did not go unnoticed by Maya. “Are you two going to get a tent?” She called out.

“That’s enough, Maya.” Mitch moved away from Marcus, suddenly realizing how awkward the last few moments appeared.

“Really, I think you two are queer for each other.” She continued.

Mitch shot a mortified look at his guide who was now beet red with fury and turned his anger on his wife. “I must apologize for her Marcus; she’s a very nervous woman away from the mall.” He excoriated her.

“Are you two eating?” Maya stood, hand on hip.

“I ate before.” Mitch said tersely.

“It’s good for you to eat before a hunt, old man.” Marcus instructed him. “It builds up the strength you’ll need later. You’re a big, beefy bull and we wouldn’t want to see you lose that.” He smacked him on the back.

Mitch walked over to Maya and took her aside. “Don’t embarrass me in front of this guy, huh? He’s an expert and I don’t want him to go away with the impression I’m married to a neurotic bitch, okay?”

“Oh, believe me, he was all over you with his arm around you. You’d better watch your back, sweetie.” She chided him.

“Oh come on, he’s a hunter. He’s not like that. I mean, did you see his face get all read when you said that? I think you pissed him off.”

“Oh my God, Mitch!” She said, almost beside herself. “He was busted hitting on you. He was blushing!”

The comment left Mitch standing there alone in his confusion until he decided to join the others for breakfast. After breakfast, with the exception of two gun-bearers who stayed behind to guard the camp, everyone else alighted into jeeps to search for the Cape Buffalo. Maya had contemplated staying behind with the men, but thought better of it when she caught one of them leering at her.

They drove onto the dusty Plain, sending zebra and elephants scattering for safety. They parked on a dirt path and got out.

“Coming Maya?” Mitch peered over his left shoulder.

“I think I’ll just stay in the jeep and watch.” She smiled and looked at the driver who smiled back with a grill of gold teeth.

Mitch shrugged in the bright morning sunshine and walked from the jeep. He could hear the driver asking Maya “Unasema KiBotswanai?” and he knew that the man was asking her if she were fluent in the Botswana language. As Mitch walked farther and farther away, he let out a laugh. He knew his wife to be fluent in a number of languages, most of them dead. As he walked away, he could faintly hear her telling the driver that she didn’t understand what the man was saying. The man answered with “We mrembo.”, which meant he found her charming. Mitch let out another laugh. After a very short intermission in conversation, he heard her hurrying behind him, saying: “Honey! Wait up!”

Under gathering clouds, they traversed over rough terrain and quite a way through the barren and mostly treeless landscape. A few small thickets tugged at their clothing, nothing more. Mitch and Maya met up with the rest of the group by an acacia tree, a dying one from outward appearances, thought Mitch. Maya stared at the white and yellow flowers of the thorn bush and thought they were pretty. The men were discussing the hunt and the best tact to go about it. The matter was decided when a few Botswana men crouched and edged out onto the Plain, saying:

“Polepole.” Slowly. Slowly.

They gathered in a small cluster and waved the rest of the group onward. Mitch could hear them saying: “Nati, nati.” He knew them to be talking about what he was here for. He craned his neck and spotted his first Cape Buffalo.

A shiver ran up the length of his body.  There were a few dozen of them; They were mostly in groups of five or six, grazing. God, they were beautiful hideous creatures, Mitch said to himself. He grabbed binoculars from Marcus and looked. They were even more beautiful up close. A dignity he sensed with no other living creature, with the exception of the marlin, he thought. Marlin possessed a purity of the finest and a nobility of spirit in what it was to know death. All creatures either ran, swam or thrashed around when it knew, not the marlin. It would dive and put up a good fight but in the end, it was as if it knew. The same with the Cape Buffalo, he had heard and how he hoped it was true.

The Cape Buffalo were illegal to kill, he had read somewhere. Poachers did it all the time, he had also read. If it was good enough for the poachers, he always said it was good enough for him. If there was one thing that Mitch did not appreciate, it was anything that required dogma. That was why he preferred to hunt. Hunting freed him of principal. It was ironic that his profession of plastic surgery practiced managed beauty and adhered to the canon of what was considered beauty and yet here he was; ready to blow some poor animal to kingdom come.

“Huko.” One of the guides pointed.

“I see…I see.” He waved him off.

“You want to choose your target wisely, Mitch.” Marcus cautioned him. “One miss and the whole lot of them stampede.

“Gotcha.” Mitch nodded broadly.

“Take your time, old man, take your time.” Marcus offered. “They’re not going anywhere.”

“Uh-huh.” Mitch agreed and walked up towards the Botswanai, who were now huddled and looking at him over their shoulder.

He lowered his scope and caught a large docile buffalo in the crosses. Immediately, he became very excited. His heart pounded loudly in his ears and a rush of blood surged into his head, giving him a tense headache. He began to feel slightly disorientated and dizzy. He licked at his parched lips and tried to swallow. Beads of sweat formed and ran down his forehead and down the bridge of his nose. The back of his khaki shirt was sopped. He took of his hat and wiped at the sweat. He clutched the rifle tight against his cheek. He held the .357 firmly so that no one could see him tremble. His stomach tightened as waves of nausea started to sink him. He wondered why this was happening to him, why now.

Come on, he told himself, pull yourself together. You’ve done this a hundred times before, don’t blow it. Just aim and shoot. Don’t worry about them behind you, he told himself. Worry about them in front of you. But don’t worry. Shoot. Just shoot, damn it.Damn it, shoot.

“Okay, Mitch? Marcus called out lowly.

“Yeah.” His voice croaked.

Shoot, damn it, shoot. SHOOT!

He could not.

“I’ve seen the best of ‘em ice, Mitch…you’d be quite surprised. It happens quite frequently…they turn gun-shy. Don’t worry, old boy, that’s not going to happen to us today, is it? Take your shot, but most of all take your time.” Marcus advised. “Pot him when you feel.”

Mitch watched helplessly as the Cape Buffalo at which he had been aiming, wander out of target behind a tree.

“Great White Hunter, huh?” Maya prodded him. “Come on, Mitch…be a man…kill it!” She goaded him sarcastically.

His immediate reaction was to center on another target, the one that talked trash about him, but thought wiser of it. He then picked one of the others, an even larger Cape Buffalo and set his sights on it.

“Not that one, Mitch. She’s about to give birth.” Marcus pointed out to him.

Mitch waved off Marcus and peered through the scope. She was grazing slowly and he could see that she was indeed very pregnant. Gorgeous black coat that ran from head to flank. He could see her eyes. Black, red-rimmed. She frothed when she exhaled and to him it was a wonderful sight. Her horns were magnificent, he noticed. White and gleaming, almost malevolent in appearance. He could see those back in his office, hanging over his desk. It would look great, he mused. He had to have her.

Mitch, no old boy, not that one. Any other will do just as nice.” Marcus reassured him nervously. “That one’s about to wheel the pram, as it were.”

“Please, Mitch, listen to Marcus.” Maya added tenuously. “She’s about to become a mother.”

“Yes, Mitch, please listen to Maya. We kind of like to keep the mothers in the game so they can replenish the herd. And I don’t think I need to tell you that the gaming boys don’t take too kindly to potting producers of offspring.” Marcus finally confessed. “Settle for an elder. The game wardens turn a blind eye when it comes to natural selection.”

“Is that what you say to your guests, Allan?”

“Positively not.” Marcus protested. “I don’t…”

“Because if it is, I can always report you for illegal activities.”

“As I can you!” Marcus retorted. “You Americans…always ready for a lawsuit…” Marcus shook his head with a smile. “All I can stress Mitch, old boy is that we are both in this together. We are both skirting a legal issue and I feel I must remind you that my brother-in-law is a solicitor…oh, this is getting rather silly. My point is that if we get caught with a dead mother on our hands we both could be in for it. It’s a mess I’d like to avoid as much as you are, I’m sure. If you pot the mother, you might have to take all responsibility. That’s all I’m saying.”

“You don’t scare me.”

“Yes, Duke Wayne and all of that.” He said wearily. “I’m not trying to. I would rather you take your sights off of your immediate target and shoot elsewhere.”

“Tough shit, Marcus.” He answered gruffly. “You take me all the way out here, take all of my money, we’re here in the middle of nowhere, get my blood going with this Cape Buffalo business and then only after I spend my money and scope out what I want to hang up over my desk, you tell me I can’t? No one tells Mitch Dorian, he can’t, got that? Your brochure said nothing about selective hunting. I could get you for fraud and the hotel too for recommending you. I can’t accept you telling me no, Marcus. You’ve been a good friend up to now. I think you British guys worry too much. The sooner I shoot this beast, the sooner we can be out of here. I’m taking this buffalo with me.”

“Mitch, I wish you wouldn’t be so brusque with me. I really am looking out for your best interest. You’re cutting me to the quick here, you really are. He smiled in a disarming way. “I’ll give you that you have every right to be curt with me, but if the Wildlife people find out about this, it’s both our arses…I could lose my license and you could be heavily fined. I just want you to know that.” He said with his hand under his chin and pointed. “Shoot if you must.”

And with that, Mitch let go of all of the anger that had welled up inside of him throughout the entire safari. With one blast, he sent a soft point slug into the neck of the mother. The rest of the herd scattered. He watched for her to go down with his scope. Disappointedly, she seemed slightly dazed, but no worse than if she were darted by a tranquilizer. He lined her up again.

The second round hit her square in the ribs and made her legs buckle. She now moved slower in the periphery of the scope. The fact that she was moving at all awed him. But he knew she was only moving in a vain, struggling attempt to get away.

She wandered blindly, bellowing in pain, whining and screaming as she paced. It bothered him that she did not die gracefully; with dignity. Her torturous cry echoed through the flatlands. It suddenly occurred to him that it was a lie that the animal or any animal for that matter, could die gracefully. The survival instinct was too great.

“Do something about it, Mitch!” Maya cried and covered her ears. “Do something!”

“Finish the job.” Marcus called out in an authoritative manner.

It irked Mitch that he was being ordered by everyone to kill the animal, as it had annoyed him that the animal was not already dead. He sent home another high-velocity shot slamming through her abdomen.

She fell dead.

Oblivious to all else, Mitch raced towards the body. Flies had already begun to swarm over the still warm carcass. He jabbed at the body with a knife. No doubt about it, he told himself in a macho boast. She was dead.

With footsteps stamping behind him on the dirt, he turned triumphantly and saw the group rushing towards him. He stood next to the body, victorious and conquering, as if some Roman soldier. He anxiously waited for the adulation.

“Splendid, Mitch! Good shooting, old boy!” Marcus called out as he walked toward him. When Marcus reached him, he patted him again and again in the back. “Really Top Gun! Where’d you learn to shoot like that?”

“Aw, I don’t know.” He put an arm around Marcus and gazed at the shots and began to relive the shots in his moment of glory. “I’ve been around guns all my life.”

“You look like ex-military to me, Mitch.” Marcus said in an exalted tone. “I said that to myself the first moment I saw you.”

Mitch beamed proudly. “Well, yeah.”

“Iraq? Bosnia?” Marcus pressed.

“I was already married by then. They didn’t call up my reserve.” He replied sheepishly. “But hey! That was a great kill, wasn’t it?” He Monday morning quarter backed the conversation.

“A good, clean kill.” Marcus acknowledged.

“They call the Cape…The Black Death, right?” Mitch inquired.

“Now where did you hear that?” Marcus smirked at the comment. “That’ an old Botswanai expression.”

“Hongera!” One of the Botswanai ran over and congratulated Mitch.

“Kizuri sana!” Said another, telling him it was very good.

“That’s right, boy.” Mitch said derisively.

Still, another patted his shoulder in a friendly gesture, saying just: “Kuzuri, kizuri.” Another called him “The New Great White Hunter” in very broken English.

To this, Mitch nodded and shook hands in a show of agreed machismo and slapped again and again at the hide.

Again, he pointed out where the first shot hit, then the second and then the third. He boasted in pointing out the various entry wounds to his audience. Half did not understand him and the other half were divided along the lines of idolatry and revulsion, seeing the pregnant mother and offspring now dead.

As Mitch crouched to relive the wounding again and again, he held onto the buffalo’s horn. With one hand he fingered the point where each slug struck and retold with great unbridled and disturbing ecstasy what he was thinking and how he felt while the other hand ran up and down the horn and beamed at Marcus as he recounted kill ad nauseum.

After the macabre show was over, the ritual of the smearing of blood was begun. The Botswanai expertly drained the great beast pf blood and collected the sticky, quickly coagulating fluid in red clay jars brought especially for the occasion. Initially, they offered ceremonial incantations to help pass the souls of the being and its offspring to the next sacred plain. Then, in ecstatic revelry, they smeared themselves with the blood of the fallen animal and passed the jars to Marcus, Mitch and Maya.

‘Better slather some of this on you, both of you…Mrs. Dorian.” Marcus prodded them as he slathered his clothing and skin with the mixture. “They’ll become very cross if you don’t.” He said and dipped his hand again into the jar before he passed it along.

“I will not. It’s barbaric.” She protested.

“It’s part of their custom, Mrs. Dorian.” He countered. “I’ve heard of entire hunting parties being slaughtered because they didn’t partake in the ritual.”

“You’re lying.”

“I wish I were, Mrs. Dorian.” Marcus informed her. “But they will take great umbrage if you don’t participate. It is great disrespect to kill the animal and not move it to the next world. There are stories of these plains being haunted with the souls of animals that have not moved on.”

“Please.” Maya folded her arms.

“I implore you to listen to me.” Marcus urged her. “Look at them, listen to them; they are growing agitated as to why you haven’t smeared any blood on you.”

Maya looked at the group of young men. They were all glaring at her and murmuring amongst themselves. It terrified her that they all were armed to the teeth. If they chose to mutiny, no one else knew they were out here, she said to herself.

“We’d better do it, hon.” Mitch said out of the corner of his mouth. “I don’t like the way the guys are looking at us.” He said as he dabbed at his skin with the lukewarm maroon paste. It was not as unpleasant as he thought it would be. He spread more of it onto his skin and clothes. He handed the jar to Maya.

Initially, she hoped she would be able to politely decline. The bloody content of the clay jar bore a faintly metallic odor, somewhat like copper and it was a haven for swarming flies.  It was only upon increasing insistence from Mitch and Marcus that she ran her fingers along the rim of the jar, scraping enough of the blood just between her two fingers to touch at her neck, as if dabbing on some sort of ghastly perfume. The act sickened her.

She wiped the residual blood from her fingertips along the sides of her designer khaki shirt and above the expensive leather belt. Still so upset was she hours later at this ceremony, she turned down a late afternoon rum and coffee session and with Mitch, retired back to the tent, number two.

Immediately, she changed clothes and proceeded to lie down. Her rest was short-lived, as Mitch called her.

“Get out here!” He called to her. She was bewildered. “And bring your specs!” He must be drinking, she thought. She wondered how long she had been out.

As she shielded her eyes from the dying African sun, Mitch and the rest of the camp were looking through binoculars towards the river. A herd of gazelles were sacked out near a grassy bank.

“Oh, they’re beautiful.” Maya smiled in awe, with a hand covering her eyes from the golden sun. With her other hand, she held up her opera glasses and peered.

For a few infinite minutes they stood admiring the poised animals lazing by the riverside. The sun glinted off Maya’s lorgnette.

Something spooked the gazelles.

Immediately, they ran into the river. This sent the crocodiles from the adjacent side slipping into the water. What followed next was a frenzy of leaping gazelles and thrashing crocodiles. Blood quickly filled the brown river water as the struggle for life played itself out. Maya, even though horrified by what she was witnessing, could not take her eyes from the carnage. The men started to cheer as if at some sporting event.

All watched until one last gazelle leapt in vain to join the pittance that successfully breached the bloody gauntlet.

As the gazelle jumped out of the water for dry land just feet in front of it, an angry crocodile flailed after the defenseless creature, snatching it with razor sharp jaws; thrashing its head about as it gnashed into the midsection of the animal. It was a poor move. The animal kicked and jerked to gain freedom. A cry went up as the crocodile strove to keep a grip on its prey. He ripped into the chest cavity instantly compressing air into the dying animal’s abdomen. Its stomach bloated into a horrendous visage as the victor sent its barbed teeth piercing into the gravid abdomen, bursting it instantly, sending a sickly gray and red halo of blood and stomach matter. The vanquished fell quickly and silently below the red churning waves.

Maya could not believe the butchery she had just observed. “I need a drink.” She said, shaking.

“I think we all might.” Marcus concluded.

“This place is full of death.” She intoned darkly. “Let’s get away from here, please Mitch.” She begged her husband.

He looked at her blankly. “That’s life on these Plains. Either kill or be killed.”

In the evening, when she thought she would go mad from the memory of having participated in the morning’s slaughter and having witnessed the massacre at the water’s edge, Maya slowly sipped at her brandy with trembling hands and took an anti-anxiety pill and rested on her side on her cot. She did not want to see the others. Mitch finally joined her in the tent, resigned to the fact that the safari was now just another passing memory and he would have to work out the details of getting his prized buffalo somehow shipped back through the States and though Customs. He pondered his next move and lay down next to Maya.

And that night, while they slept in tent number two beneath a blanket of stars, an enraged male Cape, smelling the blood of the murdered female, charged the campsite and killed a guardian and both Mitch and Maya as they slept, before it too was shot to death by one of the gun-bearers.