Will they ever have a family? A herd to run with? Will anyone ever love them unconditionally? Will they have a home they can always go back to, where they will be welcomed with open arms? Or is this it? Will they always be alone? Are they afraid?
Bonty stares back at me as though we are both pondering the same big questions, and I can’t help but wonder who is observing whom.
The afternoon winter sun is beginning to set. Now acquainted with our neighbors and aware of their grave proximity, our camp is even scarier than the night before. I zip my tent zippers tight and check my sleeping bag, suitcase, and every square inch for deadly snakes and flesh-eating spiders. The dim camp light will stay on for the night. Once in bed, the shadows the light cast on the walls defeat its purpose as a savior and, instead, only feeds my imagination with visions of spider webs and silhouettes of hungry lionesses.
“Good night, Melissa. Will you take another swim in the mud pit tomorrow?” Melanie begins to laugh hysterically.
I pull the sleeping bag up tight just under my ears, leaving them open to hear anything that lurks outside.
“Good night, Melanie, and don’t let the lions bite,” I whisper through the tent wall.
With that, Melanie goes quiet, and it’s another sleepless night in Africa as my demons awaken and drag me kicking and screaming to that ugly, dark place I keep running away from.
“Mum?” My voice is soft, I hope she is asleep. Her hospital room is dark except for the faint glow of Christmas tree lights I had hung around the window. Christmas cards fill the windowsill.
“Yes,” she answers, wide awake.
“Why are you still awake?”
“We were waiting for you.”
“Who?”
“Me and your father.”
My father had died the year before. The awkwardness is immediately broken when she speaks again, this time pleading, “When can I go home?”
“Soon. I brought you some of that chicken you like from that place around the corner.”
Her whisper is faint. “Will I be home before Christmas?”
“Of course you will.” I’m careful not to look at her, fearing she will see the doubt on my face. I begin to rearrange the Christmas cards.
“Don’t throw away any of my Christmas cards. Let’s take them home with us, I want to keep every one of them,” she says proudly.
“I won’t throw them out.”
I roll up her bedside table and begin unpacking the take-away boxes and plastic cutlery.
“I’m scared, Melissa.” Her eyes pierce my own with an unbridled intensity.
“Don’t be scared, Mum. Let’s eat the chicken while it’s hot. Come on, I’ll help you.” I can’t look at her. I know if I do, I will lose what little control I have left.
“Can you just lay with me, instead?”
“Of course.” I push aside the bedside tray. Relieved to be out of her line of vision, I lay down beside her.
“Where are you?” she asks. Her brain has shut down all feeling on her left side.
“I’m right here beside you. Try to sleep.”
Within moments she is in a deep sleep. I lay wide-awake, as I do every night, and regard the ceramic Christmas ornaments beside the cards on the windowsill. The little mice carrying sacks of presents with smiling faces and twinkling eyes are reminders of Christmases past, only the mice don’t fit in this depressing hospital room with the nauseating antiseptic stench. There is no joy or excitement in this room, no matter how much I try to bring Christmas into it with the decorations, cards, and lights. I can’t bring the past back, and nothing can mask the ugliness and horror that is growing with each day that passes. Reality overshadows everything.
I would do anything for the aliveness of Christmases past. The Christmases that, admittedly, I didn’t always look forward to—the stress, the bickering, the family feuds—but it was all bliss compared to this. I never imagined I would spend Christmas alone watching my mother’s life slip away in a hospital bed. Bargaining and begging, I offered God my limbs, my eternal service, and even my life if He would just change the present circumstances. How ignorant I was to not appreciate family before it was too late.
Outside, pristine snow falls on the North Shore Mountains surrounding the city, the air is clean and crisp, it is a perfect winter night. But inside, nothing is perfect.
“I can’t live without you, Mum. Please don’t die. Please don’t leave me.” I whisper the words into her ear and clench her hand tightly.
5
Committed
I am still awake when the wretched screech of the Hadeeda echoes through our camp at sunrise, just like it did the day before. Their presence is a welcome relief, as it signifies that night has passed.
I emerge from my tent to what is perhaps one of the most inspiring sights thus far in Africa. The sunrays reach up high from behind the towering mountain range, stretching their long golden arms towards the sky. It looks like the brilliant reflection of gold from a gigantic pot just out of sight. As the rays creep up, the colors begin to dance across the sky. Shades of yellow and gold gently waltz along the horizon, kissing the top of the soldiers’ fur caps. They’re joined by a vibrant, jazzy salsa of every shade of fiery red and orange, as mandarin, tangerine, and even scarlet make appearances, followed by the crescendo of pink, lavender, and purple. I have never witnessed a sunrise as stunning as this. I am grateful to capture this memory and imprint it for an eternity in my mind. It will be my sanctuary for the future dark days when Melanie is gone.
I make a run for the volunteer house to grab a quick tea, and there I find Melanie already showered, dressed, and looking very ready to leave. I can see the relief in her eyes, knowing her last night in the tent camp has passed without incident. Her bus doesn’t leave until noon, but I can tell she’s been ready for hours.
“Melanie, did you sleep in here last night?” I laugh.
“Yes, I did,” she says, obviously exhausted. “It’s not safe here, I have a terrible feeling, and I think you should come to Cape Town with me.”
“I can’t go to Cape Town, I came here to volunteer.”
“But you have already volunteered on the elephant reserve in the townships. You have done enough. This place is dangerous.”
“I’m not ready to go yet.”
“And Gerrit—he is a tyrant, how will you stand being with him day after day? He is an awful, awful man.”
“You’re right, that will be difficult. It’ll be like working for a Drill Sergeant.” I begin to laugh, and snap my fingers. “That’s what we’ll call him from now on, the Drill Sergeant.”
“Melissa, I’m not joking. Please come to Cape Town. You can go to the games and press parties, and stay at my hotel. You’ll love it. What will you do here? Work, and then what? Sit in your tent alone for twelve hours a day, until an elephant or rhinoceros tramples you to death?”
“What’s going on? Are you ready to start working, or what?” It’s the Drill Sergeant, formerly known as Ranger Gerrit, standing in the doorway of the common area.
“She is coming to Cape Town with me,” Melanie states.
“That’s a great idea.” It is the first time the Drill Sergeant shows any genuine emotion other than anger.
“Yes it is.”
He looks over at me and asks with a mocking undertone, “Is it really true? You’re leaving us this morning?”
Time stands still as I weigh the options before me. A luxury hotel, unlimited access to the World Cup, and media parties sound very alluring… and safe. Maybe Melanie has a point, and maybe I have seen enough of this place already. The Drill Sergeant certainly doesn’t want me here—neither does that filthy, horrible elephant, Kittibon. But running to Cape Town wouldn’t fulfill the reason why I came to Africa.