The river runs deep, thick and steady next the the small hut we occupy. I round up the pellet gun and head out, a small but great white hunter on the banks of the Thamalakane. The road is outside of the camp is pounded into a fine dust by many feet and the few Land Rovers and trucks that pass though. It feels like waking on a soft cloud. The dust quickly turns my shoes a dusty red.
I turn to follow a small tributary to the river. I can see the crocodiles basking on the far bank. Heading into the brush, I start looking for small game that I can take with the small gun. Various birds take flight and I take aim but don’t shoot as they are too fast.
My eyes catch movement on a branch of tree that is growing wide, almost horizontal to the ground. A fat squirrel scampers up the branch and halts to gnaw on a found meal. I excitedly take a knee and raise the pellet gun, the squirrel now just above the tip of the rifle and line up with the sight. I am close enough to see its small jaws grinding away. Letting out my breath slowly, I squeeze the trigger. The squirrel topples off the branch to the ground. My first kill!
With great excitement I cover the few yards to the tree and find the animal laying on the ground, still moving slightly, the last responses of flight muscles. I reach down and pick it up. It fur is so soft on my palms, its body still warm.
I begin to cry and put the squirrel back down. Finding a small stick, I dig a small circular grave and lay the squirrel into it. Still weeping softly, I push the pile of dirt over its body. I make a marker of stones and sticks then head back to camp.
My family is still away when I return so I sit in a chair next to fire and lean back feeling the breeze and listening to the sound of the river. Doves coo over my head and I reach again for the pellet gun. Taking careful aim, I pop a dove off its perch and it falls on the other side of the fire pit. When I pick it up I see that I have hit it square in its beak, splitting it into four pieces. It must have been looking at me when I shot it.
Immensely satisfied with my marksmanship, I cut off its head and feet and pluck its feathers. There is not much bird left when I finish but it was sufficient to roast in the coals and share with my family when they returned. The smoky, fatty taste lingers in my nostrils to this day.
