110 days in Africa

It is exactly how I imagined. The grass sways like lazy waves exhaling at the shoreline. Elephants wade through the thick grassland like mothers striding through shallow waters. Wildebeest search for water, their migrating stampede sounding of thunder. Giraffes necks splice the sky. A waterless ocean, a non-existent storm; the Maasai Mara extends to the horizon. It is beautiful.

The sun sucks all colour from the barren landscape, leaving only red shukas to clash with the yellowing plains. Eating lunch, the merciless sun, the motionless acacia trees, and the bare sky seem to be my only companions. There is a profound sense of space, yet it is not lonely: hyenas laugh in the distance and birds converse with the wind above. Sitting on the thirsty earth, a young boy walks toward me. His body is wrapped in red and purple fabric, his ankles and neck carry coloured ornaments, and shining earrings pierce his dark skin. Holding a spear in one hand he observes me from a distance, my white skin must seem unnatural, ghostly even. His words are broken and shy, but his voice melodic. He tells me his name is Koto and asks if I have a pen. His village does not own one. Rummaging through water bottles, abandoned food, and undeveloped film, I give him my biro. He thanks me and explains he wants to practice his writing.

That night, I sleep in the middle of the Game Reserve, protected only by the thin fabric of my tent. Maasai warriors linger by the warmth of the fire, guarding the surroundings, poisonous darts secured to bow and arrows. The night sky’s blanket provides no warmth. I think of Koto, and all the forgotten pens back home that lie swollen with ink, trapped in pencil cases, locked within school lockers.