成人快手

by Isabel, aged 11

She waits. Carefully camouflaged behind the moistureless bulrushes, staring hard into the musty beige air, gazing intently at the waterhole, she waits. Scattered across the stillness of the savannah, the gemsbok slumber beneath the acacias, shading from the scorching African sun. All is settled until a crafty young jackal trots down for his mid-afternoon drink. As if mesmerized by the trickster’s appealing face and fox-like ears, the waking herd follows in an unorderly procession to the freshly-pumped water. Little did they know that they were being watched.

Seconds maybe minutes pass and still she waits patiently, eyeing her prey and watching its every move. But she is not the only one watching, not the only one waiting. They stop - the armed intruders, uniformed in desert boots, wide-brimmed hats, and pockets of beige and khaki. Rotund outsiders with ruddy faces, replete from a breakfast of steak and wors, so unlike the indigenous San tribe, they wait impatiently. Inadvertently they agitate the nearby waxbills but the birds quickly settle back to their thorny bare branches. The waiting continues.

Out from behind the airless grass she rises. Edging stealthily towards the shimmering waterhole she pads her velvety paws forwards. With her neck held high and her golden body rippling she picks up pace and crosses the plain with confident strides. As she nears, a few sand grouse flutter, and the shy lone kudu startles. Next to notice is the little trickster who just scampers away, giving his followers no warning. The herd munches on, oblivious to the danger. Scanning the horizon, she glimpses an echo of colour, the conspicuous stripe she’s been waiting for.

On the periphery, the predator hunters stand ready and armed. Hardly daring to breathe, they focus their sights with fumbling fingertips. With hearts pounding and sweat drenching their foreheads, they take their marks as the kill gets closer and closer.

Circling the springbok, she targets the weakest, a baby, wandering away from the herd. Like a racehorse at the starting gates she accelerates. Now at almost full pelt she begins to pursue her chosen one away from the water. Past aloes and kokerboom trees the desert shark continues the chase. As she nears, the young bok instinctively turns and traces its mother’s steps in desperation to survive the kalahari hunter.

Chase over, she stops. They point, they shoot. Defeated, she slumps back to the waterhole for a final sip. Haltingly, she moves again, gingerly crossing the sand-laid road, placing each paw with care, to return to the long grass and her king. Majestic he rises and shakes red earth from his magnificent mane. He yawns, a mighty cavernous yawn.

With steely determination, they steady their aim on their primary target. Time for one shot only - now! He sinks down beside his princess. They breathe again, and gasp, speaking for the first time since the spot, "Lekker!", "Great shots, we got them both!". Their ultimate prize, their trophy, the reason for their trip, the photographs, photographs of the Kalahari lions.