~ Lost In Africa ~

by

Stuart Ford

After a leisurely lunch, we headed back downstream. The afternoon paddle was dream-like. It was hot, and most of the animals were resting in the shade. We paddled slowly but were making ground. We saw many hippos; the heat didn’t bother them much in the river. We saw a huge Nile crocodile basking on the banks. The boys reckoned from the bulge in its stomach that it had eaten that day; either that or it was pregnant. The only way to tell for sure was to get close, and nobody voted to do that. We stopped well before sundown. We camped far enough away from the river to avoid any grazing hippos. A weeping tree, with open land before us to the river, protected us. The sun was setting over the Zambian mountains. It was a special place. It fitted Emma’s dream of an Out of Africa setting. The twilight seemed to last forever, and the bruised purpled light gave everything a kind, soft shadow. The boys lit a campfire and cooked traditionally over the flames. I pulled a little surprise out of my backpack. It was a bottle of red wine. A little thing but it touched Emma. Sammie also joined in the love-fest, basking in our happiness. The boys made themselves scarce cleaning up, leaving us the privacy to chat among ourselves. Later, there was a minor commotion when two old buffalo bulls settled in for the night at the edge of the light cast by the fire. The boys explained that these old guys were as scared of lions as we were. They used the campfire as protection. If we didn’t bother them, they wouldn’t bother us. The boys set up the radio to call in a status check. It didn’t seem to be working. Typical Africa: give them the gear, and the paperwork is satisfied. It doesn’t matter if it works. We heard the bark of a leopard out in the distance. It was a special night. Emma snuggled in on one side of me, and Sammie on the other. I couldn’t have been happier. Emma voiced her daydreams.

"I love it here. I would live here in a heartbeat. A nice house with the bush backing on to it. We could raise chickens or something, maybe have a veggie patch. Perhaps I could teach in a local school. You can be an architect anywhere."

"If only," was all I said

Sammie was a little troubled.

"What about Dad?"

"It’s just a dream, Sammie. It’s what we would do if we could. We can’t. We know that. But if you can’t dream, what’s the point?" Emma positioned the conversation. "Wouldn’t you like to live here if you could?"

Sammie pondered.

"Yeah. I could have horses and dogs. Come out in the bush whenever I wanted. It would be so cool."

"You girls aren’t just saying this to please me, are you?"

Emma kissed me.

"No way. If I didn’t like it, I would soon let you know. I love it. It is a dream come true. It just feels so... real here. I’ve lived here before, I think, in a previous life maybe."

"Don’t go all new age crystal on me."

"Shut up. You know what I mean. I just feel at home here, somehow. It just feels right. Africa. A place in time. It is special. Thank you for pushing me to come."

I leaned down and kissed her pretty, turned-up nose.

"You are so welcome. Karibu Sana as Vincent would say. I knew you would love it."

"Thanks, SD."

Sammie didn’t kiss me, that was getting a little awkward for her now, but she squeezed me. It meant much the same thing. We dreamt idly for a while, throwing out what our imaginary new life would be like in this conjured-up future. Sammie had us living like the Delameres of old in her version. There were no budgets in a dream. We retired early. It was dark, therefore time to sleep. The stars were crystal clear under the huge, open African sky. We heard the roar of a lion far away in the hills. I went to sleep with the thought echoing in my head, perfect, everything is bloody perfect.

I didn’t know it at this point in time, but someone had dropped a rock somewhere and the ripples were coming, except they weren’t ripples; it had been a very big rock, and a tidal wave was coming to wash us away.

I slept soundly, but the morning was off to a fractious start. Sammie had to pee in the night and wouldn’t go out without Emma. Sammie woke Emma up; she was as crabby as a disturbed black mamba. To make matters worse, elephants had been grazing nearby, and this had freaked the girls out. You feel safe in the tent, but seeing what is out there brings reality racing back. Then they had left the tent open, so the mosquitoes had a field day. Emma was bitten, sore, and cranky. Sammie was testy and ready to argue. After such a wonderful evening, it felt like such a contrast, sublime happiness to family trench warfare.

Chris also seemed edgy. There was no coffee or breakfast ready this morning. It was dawn, and the sun was rising. Chris seemed to be hustling us, to get us moving. I pulled him over to one side out of the girls’ earshot.

"What is it? What’s wrong?"

He was uncomfortable, shifting, and squirming. He pointed down. There were tracks of a band of men that had crossed the river from Zambia. They weren’t there last night. I counted at least five or six in the group, a good-sized hunting party.

"Poachers?"

He nodded.

"Probably. If they crossed here, they will be coming back this way. The patrol is further upstream guarding that crossing; this is the best one for miles."

"Let’s get gone, and I mean now."

It was too late. I heard a baboon bark a warning from the bush. A flock of egrets winged away. Something was coming. I looked towards Emma and Sammie still squabbling. I said it under my breath.

"Oh, shit. We are so screwed."

Chris tried to hurry the girls towards the canoes, abandoning the kit. It was a brave effort. I ran over looking back at the tree line. I called out to Chris to try to talk to the poachers. I would take care of the women, perhaps he could slow them long enough to let us get away. I was willing to sacrifice him to save my family. I had no qualms about that. The poachers were out of the trees before I even reached the girls. They were a ragged bunch; cut off frayed trousers, vests, filthy and sweaty. They carried automatic weapons. A rabble, not an army. They were calling out in a language I didn’t understand. Chris ran towards them; trying to calm them. It was in vain. One of the group let off a short, ragged burst of fire, and I saw Chris go down from a leg wound. They were running towards us now, any attempt at concealment abandoned. I ran towards the girls and the canoes. Another burst of automatic fire shot over my head stopped me. The girls were in shock. Sammie was screaming, and Emma had this frozen look of horror on her face. I called them over to me; they responded like robots. The poachers had reached us now. One, obviously the leader, walked over to Chris. He looked down at him with contempt. Chris was bellowing in pain. The leader cocked his rifle and shot Chris in the head, once, a single shot of cold-blooded execution. The back of Chris’s head erupted showering gore and blood. He then spat on Chris as a final judgment. Trust tried to make a run for it, but they cut him down in a hail of bullets before he even made a few yards headway. To the poachers, the guide’s uniform meant trouble. Soldier, police, or guide--a black man in a uniform was their enemy. The group were laughing and congratulating each other, as if they had fought a war rather than just executed innocents. They took Chris’s revolver and faced us.