an outcast, shunned and bullied at school, but Martine, her grandmother, Tendai, and Grace had changed his life. They’d not only welcomed him into their world and accepted him for who he was, with no reservations, they’d helped him to follow his dream of working in nature and with wildlife. Now they needed his help and he was frustrated that he’d so far been unable to think of any way he might provide it.
Martine pushed her food around her plate, feeling blue. It was difficult to enjoy even a meal such as this—fresh bream caught by Sampson in the game reserve lake, accompanied by roasted cherry tomatoes, sweet potato mash, and African spinach, with a lemon meringue pie to follow. Every meal at Sawubona now had a “Last Supper” tone to it.
The phone call had left her deeply concerned about her grandmother. She was accustomed to Gwyn Thomas’s feisty confidence, the kind that had allowed her to face down the bulldozer operator without blinking. It distressed her to hear her grandmother sounding so vulnerable and afraid.
Grace watched her without saying anything, but after the meal she took Martine aside and presented her with a small parcel wrapped in brown paper.
“What’s this for?” Martine asked in surprise.
Grace smiled. “I been thinkin’ that ya mus’ be runnin’ low on Grace’s special muti. Last night, after ya went away on your giraffe, I went to find some special herbs and some plants for you.”
Martine hardly knew how to respond. The thoughtfulness of the sangoma touched her to the core.
Added to which, Grace was right. The traditional remedies Martine kept in her survival kit were almost finished. She’d used the last drop of the medicine Grace laughingly called “Love Potion No. 9,” after a song she’d heard, on the buffalo. Martine wasn’t sure (and didn’t care to know) what the tiny brown bottles of muti contained, but Grace always wrote a detailed list of symptoms they were meant to treat on their labels. And, boy, were they effective.
She went to open the brown paper parcel, but Grace stopped her. “Not now,” she said. “There’ll be time enough for that tomorra. Put it away in your survival kit.”
After the events of the day, sleep was not an option for Martine, particularly since the caracals were sleeping on her bed. Tendai had decided they’d be more effective than any human at guarding the house, and Martine and Ben agreed.
Unfortunately, it was a sweltering night and the caracals made Martine even hotter. She tossed and turned, her heart aching at the thought of life without Jemmy, who, she was sure, would not understand that she’d been forced to leave him to the mercy of Reuben James and the tourist hordes who would descend on the new White Giraffe Safari Park. He’d feel abandoned and betrayed.
At 2:30 a.m. she could stand it no longer. She got up, took a quiet shower so as not to wake Ben and Grace, dressed, and went down to her grandmother’s study, followed by the caracals. Tendai had tried to tidy up some of the papers, but the room still looked like a tornado had blown through it. Martine picked through the mess until she found what she was looking for: the logbook for Sawubona’s wildlife. Her grandmother and grandfather had always kept meticulous records of the history of each animal.
She found Angel easily enough, though the elephant hadn’t had a name back then. Her grandfather had written her entry in bold blue handwriting.
Female desert elephant, approx 10 yrs old, 22 months pregnant, donated by Reuben James, who rescued her from a zoo in Namibia, extreme case of neglect, v. thin, covered in rope burns and untreated sores, grave concerns for health of her unborn calf.
It was a tragic story, and one that brought tears to Martine’s eyes. She wondered if she’d misjudged Reuben James. Perhaps his takeover of Sawubona was just that—business. Fair compensation for the non-payment of a debt. Perhaps he genuinely did care for animals and
Martine pushed her food around her plate, feeling blue. It was difficult to enjoy even a meal such as this—fresh bream caught by Sampson in the game reserve lake, accompanied by roasted cherry tomatoes, sweet potato mash, and African spinach, with a lemon meringue pie to follow. Every meal at Sawubona now had a “Last Supper” tone to it.
The phone call had left her deeply concerned about her grandmother. She was accustomed to Gwyn Thomas’s feisty confidence, the kind that had allowed her to face down the bulldozer operator without blinking. It distressed her to hear her grandmother sounding so vulnerable and afraid.
Grace watched her without saying anything, but after the meal she took Martine aside and presented her with a small parcel wrapped in brown paper.
“What’s this for?” Martine asked in surprise.
Grace smiled. “I been thinkin’ that ya mus’ be runnin’ low on Grace’s special muti. Last night, after ya went away on your giraffe, I went to find some special herbs and some plants for you.”
Martine hardly knew how to respond. The thoughtfulness of the sangoma touched her to the core.
Added to which, Grace was right. The traditional remedies Martine kept in her survival kit were almost finished. She’d used the last drop of the medicine Grace laughingly called “Love Potion No. 9,” after a song she’d heard, on the buffalo. Martine wasn’t sure (and didn’t care to know) what the tiny brown bottles of muti contained, but Grace always wrote a detailed list of symptoms they were meant to treat on their labels. And, boy, were they effective.
She went to open the brown paper parcel, but Grace stopped her. “Not now,” she said. “There’ll be time enough for that tomorra. Put it away in your survival kit.”
After the events of the day, sleep was not an option for Martine, particularly since the caracals were sleeping on her bed. Tendai had decided they’d be more effective than any human at guarding the house, and Martine and Ben agreed.
Unfortunately, it was a sweltering night and the caracals made Martine even hotter. She tossed and turned, her heart aching at the thought of life without Jemmy, who, she was sure, would not understand that she’d been forced to leave him to the mercy of Reuben James and the tourist hordes who would descend on the new White Giraffe Safari Park. He’d feel abandoned and betrayed.
At 2:30 a.m. she could stand it no longer. She got up, took a quiet shower so as not to wake Ben and Grace, dressed, and went down to her grandmother’s study, followed by the caracals. Tendai had tried to tidy up some of the papers, but the room still looked like a tornado had blown through it. Martine picked through the mess until she found what she was looking for: the logbook for Sawubona’s wildlife. Her grandmother and grandfather had always kept meticulous records of the history of each animal.
She found Angel easily enough, though the elephant hadn’t had a name back then. Her grandfather had written her entry in bold blue handwriting.
Female desert elephant, approx 10 yrs old, 22 months pregnant, donated by Reuben James, who rescued her from a zoo in Namibia, extreme case of neglect, v. thin, covered in rope burns and untreated sores, grave concerns for health of her unborn calf.
It was a tragic story, and one that brought tears to Martine’s eyes. She wondered if she’d misjudged Reuben James. Perhaps his takeover of Sawubona was just that—business. Fair compensation for the non-payment of a debt. Perhaps he genuinely did care for animals and
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