Serengeti Karma

By Karen Court

I have the best job in the world. I’m a game warden in Africa’s magnificent Serengeti. This wilderness grabs you by the heart and enchants you forever with its shrouded mystique and vast majesty.

My project is big game preservation—in particular, black rhinos and African buffalo which share the same range.

I drove my four-wheel-drive to a rocky outcrop on a distant part of the reserve to conduct a herd headcount.

I was fully kitted up with my rifle and binoculars on hand, and my radio was strapped across one shoulder. I tried to avoid baboon droppings as I climbed up the rocks. The troop congregated here each night and lookouts kept watch for leopards and lions from the same vantage point I liked to use.

Standing on the top rock formation, I scanned the savanna through my binoculars. Too focused on searching for the herds, I slipped on some baboon scat and skidded off the edge of the escarpment. I took a bruising fall down the rock face, losing my rifle and binoculars.

I landed hard. A sharp, biting pain lanced up from my ankle. I looked down to see it wedged between two jagged rocks. Something was broken.

I hauled myself upright as best as I could with a trapped leg. Ignoring the numerous gashes and bruises, I tried to pull my leg out from between the rocks. It was stuck hard.

I spotted my rifle about thirty feet away. A thrill of fear flashed over me. I was helpless. I fired up my radio.

“Yeh, come in HQ.” The radio crackled. Small mercies, I had reception.

“Go ahead, Martin,” said Ambokile, back at the ranger’s station.

I gave my location and described my situation as calmly as I could. “I need a medivac, asap!”

“Yeh, got that, bro. I’m mobilizing the station helicopter. Should be about forty-five minutes.”

Forty-five minutes? A lot could happen in that time. My worst fear was the return of the baboons to their roost. They would arrive before dark but hopefully I would be long gone before then. I’d seen baboons kill a leopard; they’re not afraid of anything. The big males are very, very aggressive. If they found me in their territory, I would be a threat and brutally dispatched.

Less than an hour, Martin, I told myself.

In the relentless sun I was thirsty, and the heat was becoming intolerable. My ankle was shooting jagged shards of pain up my leg. It was turning red and swelling up, wedging it more tightly. Added to that, countless flies were buzzing around my bleeding gashes.

Then I heard the cough. And another. The blood froze in my veins and icy fingers clutched my entrails as I watched two adult male lions approach the base of the escarpment. They stopped in their tracks and fastened their amber eyes on me, no doubt surprised at this unexpected sight.

And there they were!

It must have been an opportunity too good to pass up because they wasted no time in approaching me. They tensed, dropping lower as they inched menacingly closer.

Helplessly, I flicked a glance across at my rifle.

I heard heavy movement in the scrub beyond the lions. Squinting against the glare of the sun, I tried to see what was coming my way, a thin sliver of hope kindled for one fleeting moment. But no. A herd of African buffalo emerged from the bush.

This day couldn’t get any worse! Buffalo account for the most human deaths and injuries of any African land animal, including predators. And buffalo and lions are age-old enemies. This herd must have been spooked by the scent of my two stalkers. They were agitated and becoming increasingly aggressive. Rather than enjoying divine deliverance I realized that if the lions ran off, I would be a sitting target for the herd’s fury instead.

The lions switched their attention from me to the approaching belligerent herd, no doubt assessing the risk versus the benefit of an easy meal. Suddenly, a huge bull buffalo charged out of the herd and bore down on the lions. The lions bolted away, with the snorting herd thundering after them.

All except the big bull. He was looking at me, snorting and bobbing his head. Seven hundred kilos of muscle, horns, and lethal hooves moved frighteningly closer.

Then I recognized that notched left ear. I scanned his left front leg and saw the familiar scars where his injury had healed. Bilbo!

Three years ago, I rescued a buffalo calf with a broken leg from a poacher’s trap. I nursed him back to health, feeding him from a bottle until he was old enough to be weaned. We released him back into the herd. I had tried not to habituate him to humans but there had still been a bond.

Bilbo approached and I held out a hand. He sniffed me with his wet nose and licked me. I started talking to him, chatting about anything I could think of, like the meaning of life and my favorite sports. Bilbo still seemed to enjoy the sound of my voice, just like he had when he was a calf. He stayed with me, keeping me safe until the arrival of the chopper scared him away.

Once I was freed and the chopper took off, I looked down. Bilbo was rejoining his herd—running free, as he should, out on the mighty Serengeti.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Karen Court has been a storyteller from a very young age. She has learned to channel her imagination into writing compelling stories for the enjoyment of others. Spinning an emotive tale that delivers challenges to overcome, triumphs and humor has always fascinated her. She is currently rising to the challenge of crafting very short stories and flash fiction, which demands neat, tight writing that delivers impact.