Elephant
a short story
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Now onto the story . . .
Bondeko Kandula tracked his favorite bull elephant into the tall grasses on the northwest corner of Garamba National Park. The other rangers had abandoned him at the woodlands’ edge. Now he walked alone.
Every ranger knew the warlord Joseph Kony hid his mangy Lord’s Resistance Army in that unpatrolled section of the park, making money poaching elephants, rhinos, and, when they got in the way, park rangers. But Bondeko pushed the danger out of his mind—Ngómbá wasn’t any elephant.
Ten years earlier, Bondeko had watched Ngómbá drop from his mother and a month later, rescued him from her decimated body. Killed for her ivory tusks. And after this, Bondeko vowed to protect the elephant with his life, if it came to that.
As an orphan, the calf had reminded Bondeko of the green hills behind his village, imposing in their tranquility, and for that he chose the name Ngómbá . . . Mountain.
As the elephant grew, so did the truth in his name. For Ngómbá carried a strength unlike the others in the herd. He displayed not the adolescent ferocity of lesser bulls, but a quiet wisdom, as Bondeko came to calling it, which humbled the ranger deeper than shows of raw power ever had.
Heat seared the savanna now. Sweat worked down from Bondeko’s olive hat through the dust on his onyx cheeks, leaving trails like the elephants’ plowing through the grass. Trails like Ngómbá’s leading him nearer toward harm.
Over the sharp tips of grass before him, Bondeko saw the branches of a lone acacia. He craved a moment in the shade to wipe the salt from his eyes.
Until a spot of bright red pierced the earth tones. Bondeko froze. The ranger slowly moved aside the shield of grass before him with the muzzle of his rifle.
The young poacher slept beneath the acacia tree, his ragged red tank top loose around his meager torso, his hands folded over an AK-47. The boy swatted at a fly and Bondeko’s nostrils flared, filling his nose with the scent of blood.
Ngómbá’s deep footprints passed through the clearing around the tree, disappearing into the grasses upwind.
Bondeko’s muscles tightened. Swallowing the taste of iron off the back of his tongue, the ranger steadied his rifle and pushed forward, hardly feeling the tears tracking down his cheeks.
“Fiction is the lie that tells the truth.” Neil Gaiman said that. Sometimes I write short stories (instead of essays). It’s nice to forget the facts once in a while, you know?
But the fact is poaching remains a problem. To learn about what you can do to stop it, start here: BIG LIFE FOUNDATION
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