Our employees were mainly local and exceptionally loyal. I had talked often with the izinduna – headmen – of the surrounding rural Zulu tribes and they were adamant that their people were not involved. I couldn’t work out who they were or where they were coming from. They had been targeting us for almost a year now. Poachers had been the scourge of our lives since my fiancée Françoise and I bought Thula Thula, a magnificent game reserve in central Zululand. I would have felt better knowing him and his team were on their way but only static greeted David’s attempts to contact him. Ndonga was the head of my Ovambo guards and a good man to have on your side in a gunfight, having served in the military. With all the excitement buzzing he was not going to be left behind.Īs I twisted the ignition key and floored the accelerator, David grabbed the two-way radio. Max, my brindle Staffordshire bull terrier, scrambled onto the seat between us. I grabbed a shotgun and followed, leaping into the driver’s seat. Flocks of squawking birds scrambled, silhouetted in the crimson sunset.ĭavid, my ranger, was already sprinting for the trusty old Land Rover. It was a sound wired into a game ranger’s psyche. In the distance, the percussive shot of a rifle sounded like a giant stick of firewood cracking.
0 Comments
Leave a Reply. |