08/08/2025
(No title yet but I felt like a virgin in Mashatu Game Reserve)
Chapter 13: The Models of Mashatu
We drove deeper.
And as we did, Mashatu narrowed.
Not the path itself — the feeling.
It pulled in around us like velvet drawn across a window. It was no longer the wide, open playground near the airstrip. This was the real Mashatu now. The ancient part. The part that remembers.
I sat on the edge of the Land Cruiser seat — not reclining, not daydreaming — scanning.
Years and years of safari had sharpened my senses.
I matched his gaze as best I could.
He had those eyes.
The kind of eyes that could see inside a folded leaf if you gave him five seconds and a bit of light.
A wilderness reader.
A tracker of breath, not just prints.
And then I felt it.
Before I saw them.
The shift.
Not in the landscape. In him.
His body leaned ever so slightly forward.
His eyes focused, stilled.
I followed the shift like a child watching an older sibling read clouds.
And there they were—
The girls.
The beauty models of the wilderness.
Giraffes.
⸻
My first taste of their mystery came years ago — in Chobe, somewhere deep in the hushed outskirts of Kasane.
I remember it clearly.
We were rounding a bend, and they appeared like a scene straight out of Jurassic World. I gasped. I truly believed — for a hot second — that the movie had been filmed right there. The scale. The grace. The eerie, prehistorical elegance.
Giraffes always gave me that mixed reaction.
Awe.
Wonder.
A strange, metallic tension.
Not fear. No. I’ve never feared giraffes.
But they stirred something primal. Something old.
I used to joke they were the “noble machines of nature.”
All hinges and height and slow-motion grace.
But this time?
This time was different.
I had seen giraffes a million times since Kasane.
But now… I was seeing them again — for the first time.
Because he was next to me.
And suddenly, everything changed.
⸻
The elation was familiar.
It was that same sudden rush I felt the night Mpule Kwelagobe was crowned Miss Universe.
That proud, soaring beauty mood.
That electric, heart-stretching awe when a woman stands tall, stunning, and crowned by a force beyond men.
That’s what giraffes are.
You see enough safaris and you realise—everything in the wild has a modern doppelgänger.
Lions? Your favourite rugged uncle.
Warthogs? That one auntie who talks too loud but cooks the best food.
But giraffes?
They’re models.
Tall, unbothered, always late and always forgiven.
Moving like their bones are made of jazz.
And in this moment, next to him, they weren’t Jurassic anymore.
They weren’t strange.
They were opulence.
He spoke softly — I can’t even remember what he said — something about ossicones or spot patterns or how their necks don’t hold blood the way ours do. I barely caught it. I was too wrapped in the poetry of the moment.
Because he was beside me.
And they were in front of us.
And I? I felt safe.
I felt the beauty.
Not as a visitor.
Not as an observer.
But as a woman welcomed by the wild.
Chapter 14: Where the World Ends
“I’m taking you to where the world ends…”
he said it softly, like a promise or a warning.
I turned to him slowly, blinked, and almost ejected from my seat.
“Huh?!”
My imagination betrayed me — flipping through every dramatic film I’d ever seen. Where the world ends? Had he just invited me to the afterlife? I blinked again.
He grinned.
“Where Botswana ends… ko dikgathong… between three countries.”
I exhaled.
“Oh! The Tripoint?”
“Yes,” he said. “Where Botswana, Zimbabwe, and South Africa touch.”
“Take me anywhere you want…” I whispered before I could stop myself.
Then we both burst out laughing.
The kind of laugh that rolls down your throat and trips over your heartbeat.
I kept talking—fast—trying to distract myself from the scandal that had almost slipped from my mouth. Why am I like this? Why am I a demon with romantic tendencies?
And just as I was busy battling my own brain…
It happened.
The confusion erupted.
Out of the bush.
Out of nowhere.
A chaos of movement.
A thundering of hooves.
Dust clouds and snorts and wild, wide eyes.
Wildebeests.
Hundreds of them.
Charging across the golden plain like a war party running late for battle.
And God, they were glorious.
Their bodies were all angles and muscle — front-heavy, horned, and frantic. Their beards flapping. Their tails flagging behind them like tattered banners of rebellion.
They weren’t graceful like giraffes.
They weren’t pretty like impalas.
But they were majestic in a way that made you sit up straight and forget your own name.
I whooped—genuinely whooped—and fumbled for my phone, heart thumping, camera rolling.
“This is insane!” I said.
He reached over to steady my hand, to help me film —
And in doing so, his fingers brushed mine.
Light. Barely a touch.
But it was enough.
A current surged through my fingertips.
I swear I closed my eyes.
Just for a second.
Because what do you do when the wild outside and the wild inside collide?
You breathe.
You record.
You pretend your heart isn’t galloping like the creatures in front of you.
⸻
The wildebeests scattered into the bush like shadows returning to the trees.
And then—
A new softness.
Antelopes.
A herd of them, stepping out as if summoned by the gods to soften the scene.
“Oh my word!” I squealed.
Their legs were long and delicate like poetry on stilts. Their eyes alert. Their coats gleaming. They moved with such elegance it was almost offensive.
Mashatu wasn’t showing off.
It was simply being itself.
And I?
I was beginning to think I’d waited my whole life for this day.
Chapter 15: The Part of Me I Gave Away
Then — elephants. Again.
I screamed.
Loud. Wild.
The kind of scream that comes when something inside you recognizes home.
And in that moment, I gave something away.
Not just my voice — my self.
I told him.
Just… told him.
I don’t know why. I never divulge that sort of thing. Not with strangers. Not with men I’ve only just met. But I looked at the elephants, and I looked at him, and the words just rolled out of my mouth like they’d been waiting their whole life to be spoken.
“Now that’s my totem! I am proud.”
And I meant it.
From the roots of my feet to the crown of my tangled thoughts, I meant it.
He shifted beside me. That slow, unbothered way men with power in their hands tend to move. His muscles turned with the Land Cruiser seat, and when he faced me, I caught it—
That glint in his eyes.
Not laughing at me.
Laughing with something deeper.
Like he understood the weight of what I’d just confessed.
Like he knew what it meant to speak your ancestry into the open.
“That’s interesting,” he said simply.
And it was.
I don’t remember what we talked about after that.
But I remember the feeling.
It was epic.
It was surreal.
It was so Mashatu.
The world in front of us kept blooming with magic — giraffes, impalas, dusty trails curled by sun. And I kept gasping. Kept laughing at myself. Kept taking in the kind of wild that rewrites your bones.
And then—
A moment I nearly forgot.
The kind of moment Mashatu hides in her folds just for you.
The Hamerkop.
Scopus umbretta.
⸻
There she was.
Right in the middle of a shallow river, standing on wet stone like a priestess.
She was drinking water.
Unbothered.
Graceful.
Like a queen at her fountain.
He slowed the Land Cruiser to a full stop.
Didn’t say a word.
Just… waited.
And so did I.
Me, in full-throttle thrills, phone in hand, capturing everything — video, photo, breath.
And somewhere between the snaps and the whispers, I scolded myself for forgetting my camera.
“Mashatu has birds,” I muttered, half to myself. “Real birds. A proper camera was needed.”
The Hamerkop didn’t rush.
She tilted her head gently, dipped her beak, sipped the water with dignity.
She moved like time didn’t own her.
And we?
We waited.
Because in Mashatu, there is time.
When she was done, she shook herself lightly, looked around once — not afraid, not curious — and continued on her journey, stepping through the water like she was born to part it.
And I?
I was in awe of her.
Of her bravery.
Of her complete disregard for our massive vehicle, our human presence, our ridiculous clicking and whispering.
That small brown bird became a whole moment.
A stillness.
A ceremony.
Chapter 16: The Queen’s Nest and the Soldier’s Flag
The Land Cruiser slowed to a whisper, then finally came to a complete stop. And for once, he didn’t just idle the engine. He killed it. Turned the key and leaned back in his seat like a man about to share something ancient and sacred.
“There,” he said softly, pointing to the muddy bank where a single, peculiar-looking bird had stood in shallow water, head cocked sideways like it was eavesdropping on us.
“A Hamerkop,” he said with reverence, “Scopus umbretta.”
“Umbretta?” I repeated, grinning, “Sounds like a shy Italian aunt.”
He chuckled but didn’t break his rhythm. He was in storytelling mode now. You could tell. His voice dipped low, earthy like the soil, and every word he dropped had the weight of Mashatu behind it.
“This bird builds the largest nest in Africa for its size. Imagine that. And not just one nest — it builds many nests throughout its life, sometimes just to practice.”
“Wait… it builds nests for sport?”
“Exactly,” he said, and I swear I saw a flash of pride in his eyes. “They’re so well built, even after the Hamerkop abandons it, other animals — like snakes, owls, even monitor lizards — take over. It gives back to the wild.”
I turned to stare at the muddy queen, dipping her beak daintily into the water like she was sipping from a royal teacup.
“She’s a whole real estate developer,” I murmured.
He laughed. “A hundred percent. Those nests can last years. Even long after she’s gone.”
“She? So it’s a girl now?”
“She’s a queen,” he said firmly.
And just like that, I wanted to marry him. Not even for the romance — but for the respect he had for a bird. I was done.
He went on, “She feeds mostly on frogs and insects, sometimes even tiny fish. That water is her pantry.”
“Where does she get her building material?”
“All around her. Sticks, mud, bones, even scraps of human trash if it’s there. The nest can weigh over 25 kilograms.”
Twenty-five?! “She’s a builder with a gym subscription,” I joked.
Then came the part that stunned me — the eggs.
“They lay three to seven white eggs,” he explained, “and it takes about a month for them to hatch. But the nest itself? That thing takes about two weeks to build. That’s engineering.”
I could hear his voice, but my mind started to wander. I imagined him building a nest. Big arms, focused brows, weaving twigs and protection with those safari-hardened hands. What if he built one for me? I almost snorted at the image of me perched inside a Hamerkop nest, him bringing insects as dinner.
I covered my mouth and turned to the window quickly before I laughed out loud.
“You okay?” he asked.
“Yep,” I lied, voice pitchy.
He smirked. I think he knew I was spiraling into ridiculous romance thoughts again.
But then, silence.
Because in that moment, the bird moved slowly, dignified, and started to walk away. No panic. No rush. She had finished drinking. She had a mission. Her legacy was waiting.
He didn’t start the engine just yet. We just watched her go, parting the reflection on the water like a queen leaving court.
I whispered, “Mashatu has time…”
And just like that, the Land Cruiser rumbled to life again, and we pressed forward. Not ten minutes later, I saw it — the soldier’s camp.
My heart fluttered.
There it was, the subtle stamp of civilization in the arms of wilderness — tents, flag, order. It made me feel proud. Safe. There were men here, protecting us, watching the borders, walking the invisible lines that separated countries but not sky.
I exhaled hard. Maybe it was the sight of the flag waving lazily in the breeze, or maybe it was him, driving beside me with that unshakable calm.
But right then, in the arms of Mashatu, in the shadow of the Hamerkop’s legacy, with soldiers holding our corners and giraffes modeling for God’s delight, I felt completely safe.
And completely undone.
“So what feeds on the Hammerskraal?”
It burst out of me like a hiccup after ten minutes of golden silence. The silence had been beautiful — not awkward, but textured, laced with birdsong and tire crunch and a rhythm that felt like music between two people who didn’t need to fill every space.
“Hammerskraal?” he turned slightly, chuckling at my made-up name. “Oh, the Hamerkop?”
I grinned, proud of myself for the joke — we were nearing the border with South Africa, after all, and my brain was having fun with geography.
“Well,” he said, slipping into guide-mode, “they’re not usually the hunted ones, but owls, snakes, monitor lizards… even some birds of prey can take their chicks or eggs. Life in the bush is never without drama.”
I imagined a huge snake slithering into that architectural masterpiece of a nest and stealing an egg and nearly shrieked — not out of fear, but indignation.
“Those little robbers,” I muttered. “Can’t they leave the queens alone?”
He glanced at me, grinning at my loyalty to a bird I’d only met today.
The Land Cruiser jolted slightly as he picked up speed, dust rising behind us like a soft golden ribbon.
“We’ll have to start heading back soon,” he said. “It gets dark fast here.”
And I thought, Yes. Please. Let it get dark. Let it stay dark for the next three days, just me and him in this Land Cruiser, eating biltong and talking about birds that build legacy homes…
I giggled silently at my own fantasy and shook my head to stay sane. I swear he noticed.
Then — just as I inhaled to say something totally inappropriate about real estate birds and candlelight dinners in tents — I gasped for real.
“There!” I breathed.
Before us lay the mighty Shashe River — vast and golden sand and wide like an ancestral shoulder stretched across the earth.
Then he asked, with a twinkle in his eye and a hint of a trap in his tone:
“Which river do you think is bigger — the Shashe or the Limpopo?”
I froze.
Huh?
Was this a riddle? A game? Was he testing me? This man clearly knew I was too childish for this kind of geography-pressure. My heart raced.
Now, any Motswana child with common sense would say Limpopo. It’s the river we were raised to revere. It’s got songs and poems and has done better PR for itself than most African politicians. Deep, storied, elegant — like a beautiful girl on TikTok who knows how to find her angles.
But Shashe? Shashe is like that forgotten cousin who quietly wins awards and never posts about it. Always dry. Big in size but shy in marketing.
So I played it safe.
“Uhm… depth or width?” I asked, eyes squinting innocently like a student buying time before answering the exam.
He didn’t say anything right away. Instead, he slowed the car slightly, and we turned a bend in the trail — and bam, it appeared.
The Shashe River stood there — massive, commanding, a valley of grandeur. My eyes widened. It was huge. Like… embarrassingly bigger than Limpopo huge.
“And that,” he said, stretching out his arm, “is the Shashe River.”
Then his finger shifted slightly to the right.
“And that—” he nodded, “—is the Limpopo.”
I nearly choked on my pride.
The Limpopo lay there quietly, rocky and shy, its trickling water glinting like a girl who wore her confidence inside. Beautiful, yes. But clearly outdone.
The Shashe, though? Wow. It was big. Bold. Stretched so wide it seemed to own the sky. My chest swelled with Botswana pride. I wanted to stand and clap for her.
But where was the water?
I turned toward him with my mouth still half-open in awe.
“Wait,” I asked, frowning dramatically, “where’s all the water then?”
His smirk returned — like a man who knew he had one more story to tell. And I, like the dramatic hopeless romantic I am, leaned in again, ready to fall even deeper.
