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Shares
The rhythm of the plains is a drum inside my chest. It is the beat of a thousand hooves, kicking up scorched brown dust against a hazy summer sky. A Maasai woman grips my hand tightly, her dark eyes twinkling with mischief. We jump together, singing and laughing, as we encourage the Maasai warriors to take flight, blood-red shuka’s lifting like wings into the sky. I leave the village with her colourful bangles jangling on my wrist. She leaves with a piece of my heart. This is Kenya. We move quietly through the swaying grass of the Maasai Mara National Reserve. A Swahili lullaby crackles through the safari radio, directing our driver, Meow, to the furthest corners of this sacred place. Our eyes widen as a herd of giraffe lumber across the savannah, and we beg him to stop the car for us to watch. We long to capture the image of their patchwork skin and fluttering lashes, but we know we can never do their perfection justice through our camera lenses. Meow scolds us, his scarred face frowning. ‘These are not even the animals,’ he tells us seriously. ‘Not worth stopping. We are looking for Simba.’ Onwards we go. Past majestic elephants shooting plumes of water high up into the sky, trumpeting a warning as we venture too close. Past the swarm of vultures that rip and tear and screech as blood soaks into the parched dry earth. Death is never far here, and bleached white bones remind us that this is a wild place, deserving our respect. We must never forget that we are guests only, honoured by this window into a world of beauty and brutality. A cheetah mother creeps ahead, ears bobbing up over golden stalks, hiding her from our view. Her cubs stick close to her. I am mesmerised as she springs into action, a documentary scene unfolding in front of my eyes. She is a blur against the horizon, appearing to miss her mark as she passes the panicked impala. I cannot tear my eyes from her prey, as she skilfully herds them back towards her cubs, her intention becoming clear too late. The metallic tang of blood fills our noses and throats, as we pull up alongside them. They ignore us, heads enveloped in the carcass, powerfully ripping at their meal. Other safari jeeps speed across the plains to share this elusive moment with us. The park guards arrive, shouting that we are too close to the cats, and we speed off into the sunset, avoiding their reprimand. Meow sighs in relief at our escape. The cost of being caught is his licence and his livelihood along with it. He turns back to grin at us with a cheeky thumbs-up, excited about the new story he has to share with the other drivers over dinner. As the sun sets, we set up camp. There are no fences to protect us from the harsh plains; only the thin canvas of our tents shielding us from claws and teeth. I think back to my new warrior friends with longing, their red shuka cloth a talisman against lions. Our guide recommends we stay inside until morning and we don’t argue. Our torchlight reveals the glinting eyes of a hyena behind our tent and we hurry to zip ourselves in for the night, followed to bed by his barking laughter. I dare not move, snug in my sleeping bag. We fall asleep to the call of the lion, and in my dreams, I soar with the Maasai warriors, singing back our answer.