Surviving the serengeti

Sharp as that tear of charged light across the night sky, I awake. The purring of my four grown cubs, the shuffling breeze twisting through the blades of grass, and the heave of my chest greet my hearing. Once again, I am made aware of my surroundings. Nature's bell rings. Hunager! I am made fully aware of myself. The air is still cool at early dawn. The scent holds a promise of dry day and rainy evening, heavy rains. I watch my cubs roll in the dry dust, rub necks and wrestle in play. The eldest is the strongest, and she easily overcomes the other three individual males in the litter. She reminds me of myself at her age. The vitality. Ferociousness. She holds the promise of a strong mother someday. And to think when she was born, I thought she wouldn't survive. Nature has its peculiar way of twisting views.

I birthed six cubs; four males, two females; all strong at birth except for the second eldest, the eldest now. She was weak, and I thought her first to be stolen or killed in any event of misfortune, as they were naturally blind and feeble at birth. Yet ironically, it was the strong eldest, my first boy, who was killed. During my return from a tiring hunt, I saw the corpse sprawled lifeless on the grass beneath the shade where I had left them. His other siblings; scattered, and I only recovered four. It seemed to be the work of a hyena as the bite marks indicated its starving raggedness.

On that very day, before I went on the hunt, I had left them beneath that shade of roots and leaves, which was the best protection I could give them. In a hurry, I left, hunger ravaging through my belly. At the time, I hadn't eaten in three days, and my weakness was obviously of no use to the week-old blind litter of six in my care. It took me a few hours, but in the end, I caught an unlucky rabbit. It was fat enough to provide me with a hungerless day. If only I fed just myself, it would have gone for more. I would have gotten more. It was on returning to the nest that I discovered my discordant litter.

Since then, I have had challenges, but nothing so devastating. It is my first birth. If only I had a companion then, not necessarily male. Or a pack. Someone who would have cared for them while I was out hunting. I guess it is the curse upon the females of my kind. Left to wander truly companionless, except during the growth period of litters we birth, litters who still either die or exit at the end; a hopeless cycle that ends only in barrenness. One can only question nature in these circumstances as hoping for a change, or an answer is as wishing the day was filled with just the cool orange glow of beautiful dusk.

But I didn't ask any of these questions for familiarity with this circumstance was within already. I, also from a litter of six, was one of the two sole survivors. Both females. We were the third litter groomed by our mother, so I should call myself lucky in terms of luck. But I shouldn't also be quick to assess with a first. The eastern sun is still low and soft to the eyes. As a hulk, fixated and stooping to clasp prey in its claws, once again, the hunger tears through me. I give a barking signal, rousing my four cubs from play. I mobilize them; it's time for a hunt. It's been a day since we troubled the herd of impalas grazing on the land north of our location.

Excitedly, they spring up, and we begin creeping through the thin, tall yellow wind dancing grasses. Some scrape my skin, but I pay them no mind. Finally, we arrive at the position of the grazing herd. We spot a brown ewe at the far right of the herd with a white-furred belly. It stands guard, occasionally eating as a calf, possibly hers, chews grass weakly. Once again, I signal my cubs, motioning them towards the sickly looking impala and its mother, and we slowly surround them.

All this while we move in stealth and are unnoticed by the herd. Creeping closer, surrounding. As my eyes lock in on our prey in the exact second, the impalas take to their heels, including the ones we had spotted. It seems the herd's watcher finally sensed us, or one of my cubs had caused a noticeable disturbance that gave us away. We follow in pursuit, luckily still able to identify the pair we had earlier marked. The calf seems barely two weeks old but sizeable enough for a morning meal. It's either it or its mother. Though healthy, the mother doesn't run too fast to protect him, hence remaining within the fences of our reach. We turn and manoeuvre in the plains as the herd spread out.

The calf trips, landing forcefully on its neck. Then, quickly, my eldest claims him between her clenched teeth. My other three grown cubs and I keep the pursuit of the mother. Now she has slowed. Heaving, unrelenting, hind repeatedly touching fore, we ambush and pounce atop the breathless mother. Unlike her offspring, she struggles, choking cries escape her throat, and at a point, she tries and almost breaks from our grip. We take care to avoid her long black horns piercing through our spotted hides. It was barely a minute before she was subdued by our combined weight and thence suffocated.

My daughter jogs towards us, kill limp and bloodied between her fangs. I can't be prouder. Certainly, at fifteen months, they all seem charged for leaving the confines of my nest. There are no predators around to challenge us for the kill. Not yet, at least.

So now, we feast.

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