In summer, the sun rose early over the Kenyan savannah. The plains and plateaux stretched as far as the eye could see. At this hour, scavengers were out searching for whatever might remain of a lion’s kill from the previous night; they flew down from their branches and flew screeching over the savannah. On the banks of the river that ran through the plateau, crocodiles were deep in slumber. They lazed like the hippos, waiting for the first rays of sunlight to warm their backs, only dangerous when the notion took them to devour an antelope in the middle of their siesta. In summer, heat was plentiful here. The animals lived and migrated with the seasons. The most impressive migration was that of the wildebeest, stampeding in search of green pastures. Predators eyed them closely, picking off the oldest and weakest who trailed on the edges of the herd. The savannah was no safe place to get old.
In the camp, Margaret rose from her bed. Margaret liked the muggy dawn in Kenya. English mornings were cold and wet, and the flowers in her garden could never match the splendour of the savannah, no matter how well-pruned they might be. Margaret had green fingers, so much so that even her gardener was impressed. She was brave enough to prune the rosebushes without wearing gloves. The risk of being pricked secretly thrilled her. Life in England was not rife with surprises, which was why she always enjoyed being able to join her husband from time to time on his trips to the colonies, where they could live among wild animals. They were so spectacular, and Margaret loved them dearly, more so even than her own dogs and horses. Fox hunting no longer excited her, and she often left her cousins to go without her. And yet she was a skilled huntress, and her horse obeyed her every beck and call. She drank her coffee peacefully; there was no better coffee than Kenyan, with its subtle, roasted aroma and almost chocolatey notes. It awakened her senses, not like the tea her maid served her back in Yorkshire. Today, she knew she was in for a great adventure; her darling Henry had promised her so. Today, they were going to hunt in the savannah. The single rule laid down by the Empire was that only older animals may be hunted. Ever since the park rangers had told Henry that it was time for one of the game reserve’s elephants to be put down, Margaret had been preparing herself for this great event. The mere thought of one of those enormous pachyderms crumpling to the dust sent shivers down her spine. Henry knew how to treat his wife. He’d always been a caring husband. He’d organised everything with the rangers to the letter, and they were leaving in exactly two hours.
Margaret and Henry climbed into the jeep. Three other vehicles followed behind them, and they crept slowly through the savannah. Margaret was on the lookout; she admired the giraffes, the wildebeest, the antelopes and zebras that ran alongside their vehicles. She was giddy with excitement. But where was their elephant? She was trembling with anticipation at the thought of killing such a huge animal on her own. If it didn’t fall after the first bullet, she’d have the chance to fire more shots until it came down. She imagined recharging her rifle under the watchful eyes of the rangers. They would see what she was made of, this English Margaret who was usually so well-to-do. The little lady from Yorkshire. It would be an incredible feeling, even if it did only last an instant. To kill an enormous beast in the wild, like the cavemen of old — what could be more exhilarating? Would the beast have grand ivory tusks? She could already imagine its head in her lounge, hung above the chimney. It would certainly be more exotic and original than her porcelain ornaments. The jeeps slowed to a halt. Margaret was overcome with panic. Her husband told her to load her rifle. She loaded it with two shells. She looked at the elephant one last time; beautiful, majestic and imposing. She put her eye to the sight and fired once. The elephant let out a cry that sent the antelopes and wildebeest flying. He bellowed again, louder this time. Something had hit him. His time had come. He was at Margaret’s mercy. Margaret fired a third time, but still he did not fall. He may have been a giant in nature, but he was powerless against the weapons of man. Then, Margaret saw a tear run down the animal’s cheek; the elephant was crying. She had no choice; she would bring it to an end.
Alan Alfredo Geday