Under the Marula

“He’ll come”, she thought as she sat down under the marula tree, resting her head on its strong trunk.

The sun’s yellow rays pierced through the branches of the marula, the heat stinging her body. She shifted a little so the sun wasn’t in her eyes. The agamas were out; their soft scratching noises on the bark of the marula created a hypnotic, buzzing harmony.

“Oh how the sun wears one out,” she mused as her head drooped in a sleepy daze.

She woke up. The sky was drenched in the orange blood of the setting sun. Above her, the marula fruit hung deliciously, its intoxicating scent wafting through the air. The heat lingered on without the slightest breeze to usher it away. She felt cool and damp, her skin soaked thanks to the blazing sun all-day. Her mouth was dry and her tongue felt like sandpaper as it clung desperately to the roof of her mouth.

It wouldn’t be too long now.

She opened her eyes with a start. Dusk was cloaking the savanna. The last of the sunbeams danced from branch to branch, trying to escape their inevitable fate. A crisp breeze floated in bringing a welcome chill with it. Out in the distance, hunters were stretching out of their slumber; the hunted were retreating into the safety of their warm huddles and the scavengers circled the air, spectators to the bloodbath of the night.

A few vultures hung nearby – an animal was about to breathe its last somewhere close. She felt sorry for the waning creature, as it lay there alone, waiting for Death to come and claim it. No loved ones, no farewells, just the bottom feeders waiting; watching with cold eyes. And a cold heart.

She wept quietly under the marula for the lonely innocent, the tears streaking her face. Darkness closed in.

The next morning, newspapers lamented the rise of poaching in the area, when yet another elephant, was found stabbed to death, her long tusks pulled out from her face.

Forest rangers found her under a marula tree, her head resting against its strong trunk.