Breathe deep, relax, read the damn book. There is nothing to fear but fear itself. I repeat, there is nothing to fear but fear itself. I will sleep in this tent tonight. I will sleep in this tent tonight. I will sleep in this goddamn tent tonight.
Maybe it’s mating season; that would explain why the lions are so lively and loud. If only I had a weapon, a weapon would make me more secure. If I had a weapon, I could sleep in this tent, no problem. But the only weapon the Drill Sergeant gave me was a headlamp. What am I suppose to do with that? Shine it in my attacker’s eye?
RAAAAAAARRRRR. Oh, God! It sounds like the huntress is just outside of my tent. There is nothing to fear but fear itself. There is nothing to fear but fear itself…RAAAAAAARRRRRRR. GASP! There is nothing to fear but fear itself. There is nothing to fear but fear itself. Speaking the mantra louder and faster doesn’t help to ease my nerves.
Get a hold of yourself! Somewhere deep within, an unknown voice speaks. You’re being crazy; this is absurd. Nothing is going to get you. You do this every time you’re in this tent. Those lions are not going to jump the fence, why would they? Nothing like that has ever happened before.
Oh yes it has.
Has it?
Yes, don’t you remember?
No.
I heard someone, somewhere, not too long ago, talking about tourists being eaten alive by lions on a game reserve.
Really?
Yes. Come to think of it, maybe it happened here.
Wouldn’t they have told me if it had?
Of course they wouldn’t tell you. No one would come here if they told people.
I think you’re right, I think I did hear something like that. How could I have forgotten something like that?
So why are you still in this tent…?
There’s a long, excruciating pause as Fear and Logic square off in a duel of wits and will to see who will outsmart the other.
Finally, logic shoots: Stop it!!!!!! That never happened, not here, you fool. The lions are not going to get out. Just read your book or go to sleep, and stop obsessing. You always do this.
I try one last time to read, but it’s hopeless. Maybe if I close my eyes, I’ll fall asleep. I wrap the blankets over my ears to try and block out the growls of the lions. I try this, but after only a few seconds, I decide it’s wiser to leave all my senses out in the open, so I can be forewarned of any dangers.
It’s just then, as I force myself to close my eyes and try to sleep, that the wind, Fear’s ally, slaps the wall so hard it nearly knocks me off my bed. With that, Fear seizes the opportunity and shoots back at Logic. I’m terrified to the core, and Fear claims victory in this duel. Logic retreats, defeated. Perhaps it’s better to vacate this tent, after all.
Relieved that Logic is on board, I jump out of bed and prepare for the sprint to the common area. I poke my head out and scan my surroundings for the reflection of eyeballs that cannot hide from my light. There are none. The sprint lands me inside the common area in seconds.
I make my bed of tattered cushions and mummify myself in my blanket, trying to fall asleep quickly, while ignoring Logic’s bruised ego. Screw the tent. There is no greater place than here, on the concrete floor of the common area.
17
Bribery in the Bush
“My cushions!” Magda screams as she yanks one out from underneath of me. “Why are my cushions on the floor?”
Dammit, I’ve become too comfortable in my slumbering transgression to the point of sloppiness. If only it had been someone else who found me in here, anyone, well, anyone other than the Drill Sergeant. Why did it have to be her, the camp mole and gossip queen? The African newsmonger herself has busted me.
She isn’t even looking at me. Instead, she’s madly inspecting the cushions for damage. She is furious that these tattered, ripped, poor excuses for cushions I used as a bed are on the floor. How does this woman make me feel like a six year old being scorned?
“I’m sorry Magda, I… I…” I don’t know what to say. Do I admit that I’m a grown woman afraid to sleep in her tent? Magda is not afraid of anything, in fact, everyone’s afraid of her. She’ll scoff at the excuse of fear. What can I say to satisfy and, hopefully, by the grace of God, silence Magda so she doesn’t spill my secret?
“I couldn’t sleep in my tent, it was leaking. I was cold… and wet… it was uncomfortable.”
It’s hard to tell her a fib when her eyes cut through me, easily exposing the truth. The tents are of safari quality, able to withstand the most extreme and unforgiving heat, sun, and rain. Magda is no dummy, she knows this just as well as I do.
There is a long pause. Will Magda show me an ounce of compassion and keep my secret safe?
Magda or, Mama Magda as she is known around here, comes across as a sweet woman. She has a big, gracious smile, and her robust figure is always clad in the same frayed red apron, perfectly pressed and cared for in lieu of its flaws. She appears humble, a mere domestic presence who comes in a few times a week to cook and clean. But I see past all that, and can’t be wooed by her mouthwatering meals of baboti, beef stew, and sweetbread topped with apples, like the rosy apples of her smiling cheeks. No, underneath that scarf-covered head is a mastermind whose dark, deep eyes hold many secrets… secrets of others, that is.
Mama Magda has several grandchildren, all who live with her in one of the tiny dwellings in town. The rangers are an extension of her already-huge family, and she treats them as such. It’s not uncommon to see her running after a ranger swinging a rolling pin, and it’s rumored she even whipped one of them once with a whisk.
She is the grand matriarch around here. With her self-awarded title, she demands not only respect, but knowledge of everyone else’s secrets to empower her status as reigning queen.
She begins to laugh, a deep bellied roaring laughter that heaves and throws the many waves of blubber under her red apron like giant swells. I can’t let her tell anyone, I’ll never live it down. I’ll be a laughing stock, and worse, the Drill Sergeant will know that every morning when I came out of my tent walking like a proud peacock, it was all an act, and that I was nothing more than a coward, a fake, a phony.
No longer concerned about her crappy cushions, she is bent over in hysterics, hugging her rolls trying to calm them. She knows my secret, and it’s only a matter of time until she exposes me. But if there’s one thing I know about finks and blackmailers, it’s that they can be bribed, and this Mother Malefactor is no different. And so it shall be, I will engage in the old-age tradition of bribery.
I know exactly what will buy her silence. When I first arrived at the camp, Mama Magda had admired my British travel teapot. She revered it like it was the royal jewels themselves. So, in a desperate move, I pick up my treasured teapot and present it to her.
She looks at me with surprise in her deep brown eyes, and I return her stare with eyes that beg for her silence. My treasured teapot has become a bargaining chip in exchange for muteness. She tries to refuse it, but I insist, forcing it into her fat little fingers.
We don’t exchange any words but an agreement has been reached. Mama Magda accepts my pot, ensuring my secret is forever kept under the lid.