The Jaded Tyger

TW: Trauma, language, violence, gore, threats.

Namibia, 2005, Kasim Akuchi Private Wildlife Preserve

Very rarely through history has a warrior caught a photo of a beast. Well, I wasn’t a warrior, nor was the orange-striped predator a beast. It’s all the interpretation of zealots. We’re much more than we seem; though, we can seem much more than we are to certain people. Often, it’s not for the better.

I let the steering wheel guide me, following the curves of the African countryside. Sparkling gold settled near the sun, letting warm light fall onto my dashboard. Mississippi never had the same charm. I settled into the leather, watching turquoise lick the savanna sky. It gave me time to think about why I was even there.

My expedition started when Thomas Felton asked me to produce a photo of a “wild predator” past the Namibian border, though he was initially vague about what he meant. Since he was the Tupelo Evening Post’s Graphics Coordinator, I knew it was a risky move not to give him what he wanted. It didn’t take long for me to accept, regardless of the sleep I was losing. Off I was through the Plains before Felton slapped down his Golden Book: a collection of photographs and sketches that mocked me with their simplicity.

What he never explained to me was that I would be leaving for a government-funded reserve. It meant nothing to me, but he wanted professional photographs of one of the reserve’s non-native species. Felton was a wannabe Geographic publisher, and we all knew it.

“Capture a Bengal tiger for the cover, and you’ll have your advance. Fuck, you may even have the front page. No guarantees, though,” he told me. Though I was across the world, I could still hear the echo of his hyena laugh. Hyena. Hah!

Before I knew it, I was on my way to the promise of fame. Each thought guided me down the dirt road toward the reserve, and after a while, I found it easy to navigate the terrain; after the initial roughage, it settled to a subtle roar - and the rocking ceased. I pulled off the dirt road to the lot directly before the gate.

“Good girl,” I mumbled, resting my palm on the wheel. “Keep that momentum. I’ll need it.”

I opted to leave everything in the van except my camera.

Standing next to the only other vehicle in the lot was who I presumed to be my guide. His flesh was charcoal, glossy as if washed with coconut milk. A brusque look at him, and he looked back. He flashed me what I would have assumed was a smile had he not glared at me to move, and the facade was gone. His smile was forced, giving me a “don’t fuck with me” type of vibe, though I was certain it was for show.

“The name is Chike,” he muttered, and I approached his Jeep. I entered hesitantly. Though my mind had qualms about the whole ordeal, he seemed nice enough.

I watched the gates glide open.

“Not the hospitable type?” I asked, following his boots as they stomped over the swaying grass.

“Not the type to entertain journalists,” he grumbled.

A game warden was stationed near the entrance, and I waved politely as we drove by; the only discernible movements were his eyes following me, cold as they were.

Every fibre of me wanted to hold weariness by the throat, but the only feeling I had even close to that was sadness. He reminded me too much of my father. Unlike Felton, my father did work for National Geographic. There was something about my dad that made what he did in life so much more impactful. Every photo he took was important. He shared every photo he took, even the unremarkable ones.

Like me, he loved every minute of his job; I believe that’s the thing that got him killed. He trusted nature too much. His final trip was spent taking photographs of timber wolves for their winter magazine edition back in ‘02. One trip and a slip down a snowy bank sent him right into their ravenous jaws.

I vowed never to put my life in danger again. It seemed like I didn’t learn too many lessons from my father then.

By the time the sun started to lower down over the savanna, the Jeep slid to a stop, hissing against the ground like a pissed-off rattlesnake. Felton had an infatuation with nighttime photography; perhaps that was why he always slept during his shifts.

A watermelon tinge painted the sky. It contrasted against the tan and orange grass, rolling in abundance over small crests and curves, like a goddess adorned in gold. The centre of the clearing spread and dipped down a slope before arching down into a lakepond. There was a small building tucked away against a grove of marula trees. It was outfitted with a satellite dish and distasteful neon stripes.

“Is this the….tiger sanctuary?” I asked, though it was glaringly blatant that it wasn’t.

“No. That’s farther down the savanna, but some escape during the night. They don’t go too far, though,” he huffed.

I got out, readying my Kodak for some scenery shots. Chike ignored me, prowling like a serval toward the research facility. He never looked back.

I took it as a “leave me be and do your job” expression, so I decided to let him be. He probably had better things to do anyway, even if he was supposed to give me a tour.

The golden grass rolled like a weaving windwinder, splaying remnants of God’s beauty over the African ground. A Barlow’s lark skittered its notes across the wind. A caracal crawled across the course grass, leaving wakes in the wind. I snapped a few photos, reviewing their raven gloss as they developed.

The first few turned out well; though, a blur started forming after I snapped pictures of a hamerkop. The bird’s ebony sheen snaked its way down to its tail feathers, evanescent as it flickered in the setting sun.

It was captivating, but the Polaroids we were forced to use irked me beyond my wildest scorns. Personally, I cared more about digital technology; I found it striking, because Felton was only in his thirties - the same as me - that he fantasised about obsolete tech. He made it seem like modern tech was a bane to the world of art. I couldn’t say I was against a lot of his ideas, but I wasn’t a fanatical anti-tech theorist like him.

I knew all the extra fauna wouldn’t please Felton; he knew what he wanted: a tiger; and I knew I had to provide. That was the thing, though. Where was I going to find one? Chike told me that they moved about at their own volition; they had their own agency.

It didn’t matter in the long run. Felton was an idiot without any sense of the natural world. It didn’t matter if the fucking cat had mange or if it were wrapped in velvet and gold. It was all about him, and I knew I wouldn’t get the shot.

Regardless, I had to get him something; in my arrogance, I assumed that higher-up original shots might please him instead of the thing he so desired, so I climbed one of the marula trees. I looked down and watched the earth get smaller; anxiety coiled my insides like a copperhead winding a maimed mouse.

Snap.

My veins tightened as I looked down to the golden ground.

The gold and black beast swayed through the weaving stalks, tall as Kunai grass.

The sags below its eyes gave the impression of age. With every footfall, I heard its breaths; with each breath, I heard it sigh. From ears to tail, time stripped away its bright tangerine coat. It danced with every step, being careful not to step on any rocks.

The only thing I could do was curse Felton’s name silently to myself. What a beautiful way to die.

I waited for the photo to dispense. The seconds quaked beneath me, the limb I rested on rustling with ease like a serpent in the sun. The branch had a bright underbelly as well, though this was festered with moss and vines.

“They say it takes time,” I whispered to myself, “but not the entire day.”

The Polaroid spat out the photo like a sleepy viper, sick from the day’s restlessness. I took the picture from its mouth, examining the front. It would take time to develop. The problem was that the only time I had was swallowed up by the cat prowling around below. Dad never trained me for this. The closest I’d come was when we both encountered a few leopards in Luangwa. He held me tight that time.

“I am proud of you. Even if you were one of them,” he said, pointing to the leopards, “and if your coat of colours lit the world, I would be proud of you just the same.”

I looped down, and the danger danced in my head like an ill-tempered tambourine dove, lighting the copper sky with wile and wonder.

The tiger scuffled over the ashen earth, its claws prying into the golden rock. It brought its snout into the air, circling in silent scents before returning to the ground. Trailing in rugged jerks, it brought its head from left to right—and then to the roots that protruded from the marula.

The only prayer I sent up to God was simple: don’t let it smell the salt of my tears. It was a vain request; the tiger would scent my skin, hear my breaths. It had to know I was there.

The wind caught in my throat, the flavour of coffee grounds pressed against the roof of my mouth. I swallowed, trying to ignore the aftertaste of fear.

Tints of orange covered the picture, and I could scarcely make out the tiger’s form as it meandered down the savanna. I tried to balance on the branch, but I sent violent waves through the leaves; the beast locked eyes with me.

There were ghosts of innocence in those eyes—a cool glow like the first leaves of autumn.

My eyes snapped to the din in the distance: Chike raised the muzzle of his rifle toward the cat; it dismissed him, turning its gaze back to me. Its maw opened, and I stared at its dagger-like fangs.

Its rapacious roar echoed down the savanna; a dovetail of hyenas scattered, buskskrikes shrieking in a shattering song.

The tiger lunged forward, and everything slowed. Its paw descended. Its paw raised. Its paw descended. Its paw raised. It thrashed at the air, drops of sweat mingling in its coarse fur.

The first strike came at the bark, its maw contorted, opening for its meal. I jerked my foot backwards, its claws catching on the bottom of my foot, ripping the damn thing off and throwing it to the earth below. It nearly slashed my side before a plume of feathers sprouted from its back. Its grasp loosened on the bark and branch; it slid slowly over the marula’s crest before falling to the ground, like the beat of a drum or a heart in love. My face covered against my chest; I knew Chike’s presence by footfalls alone as he approached the clearing.

“Ay! Thought you’d never see one of them, right?” he mused, the tinge of venom still evident in his tone.

I lifted my gaze from my chest, looking down at the incapacitated beast. It had several darts piercing its coat, running along his flank and lower back.

“You did this?” is all I could ask. Of course he did.

“You wanted me to let you get killed?” he asked.

“No, of course not,” I replied. “But I thought you’d just let me get killed regardless. You don’t seem to like me very much.”

His expression tightened.

“I don’t like any visitors; they disturb the peace. Look at him,” he said, motioning toward the tiger. “I had to sedate him just because you wanted photographs.”

I nodded, though I was certain he knew Felton was the one who wanted them.

“Thanks,” I more than muttered. “You didn’t have to do that.”

Getting down was much harder than getting up. I had to make sure I didn’t fall on the cat trying to ride down the bark. When I landed on my feet, I made sure to put as much distance between me and the predator as possible.

“I suppose this means that you don’t want the tour?” he asked.

“No,” I said. “I just want a bandage for my cuts.”

I followed him back to the facility, trying not to think of all the ways that my father never would have gotten into this situation in the first place. But then I questioned myself. If he inspired me, then he was partly responsible, at least indirectly. Moreso, I was thinking about Felton.

Oh, Felton was going to get his photograph, but he was a dead man walking.