Spectrum

How did I end up here? At the center of one of the seven wonders of the world, but staring at his statue? He did not look like the rugged explorer I imagined. He was a chubby old man, leaning onto a walking stick.

"David Livingstone," a tall, British man muttered behind me as he hoisted his camera to his left eye and clicked. "One of the world's greatest explorers if you ask me," he continued. The Zimbabwean sun had a way of making Europeans blush. The sweat dripping down his face formed a pink glaze on his flushed cheeks.

The towering tourist now stood directly in front of the harsh sun giving me some much needed shade. I formed a cover over my face with the palm of my hand to see him clearly, but my eyes were immediately summoned by a majestic beauty that gracefully stomped towards us.

A great elephant whose lines and wrinkles drew my thoughts back to its ancestors. Ancestors that drank from the river banks of the Victoria Falls long before Livingstone was born. Back when it was still called, Mosi-oa-Tunya - The Smoke That Thunders, a better name. An embittered sigh escaped my lips.

The wildlife both viscous and sightly could be seen from jeeps and vans, their home had become a national park. The beasts would stride across the savanna like royalty, glancing at the wheeled creatures that hummed onto the scene. The animals provoked oohs, ahhs and clicks from their eager guests.

The waterfall fell into gorges, leaving clouds of smoke in its wake. Tiny bodies tied to bright ropes would thrust their hands in the air and surrender to the falls, throwing their bodies into the abyss. White water rafters beat their paddles against the water. The frothy rushing waves would toss the rafts onto each rock until the rafters were completely baptized only to resurface and be tossed again. Directly above us, helicopters hovered with people leaning out so they could bask in the entirety of the praised waterfall.

I watched on as the spent travelers walked towards Livingstone’s statue charmed by the wonder of it all. Grateful for his discovery. "How did we end up here, " I asked Livingstone?

The fuming smoke rising from the gorges, the angry waves foaming in the river, cried for Mosi-oa-Tunya, a better name. She cried for her natives long gone at the emergence of David Livingstone. A land simply renamed not discovered. Mosi-oa-Tunya, the smoke that thunders still, calling for the recognition of her natives.