Oupa's legacy

My Oupa (grandfather) always used to quote one of his elderly neighbors to us: “You can’t shoot guineafowl, they’re God’s birds.” And Oupa never shot the guineafowl. They nested in the garden and grew fat on the seeds and scraps Ouma (grandmother) put out for them.

This didn’t mean that Oupa never hunted. He spent much of his life in Malawi, in the years when hunting was a part of everyday life; for food, for safety and for the thrill. Oupa hunted for all these reasons but never extravagantly and never losing his deep love for nature. He was intimately familiar with the bush and all its creatures and their ways. He could name all the trees and took as much, if not more, pleasure in simply being around and observing the animals as he did in hunting them. Above all he took the greatest delight in sharing his knowledge and experiences with anyone who was interested.

As an adult, an ecologist no less, I look back with fondness to the stories Oupa used to tell around the campfire - wild stories of a rabid leopard threatening the village, a friend being bitten by a hippo in the lake, hyenas stalking the camp at night, and finding a hidden buffalo calf. As a doctor in a very rural community, Oupa also had some crazy hospital stories, like the time the hysterical nurse thought that the big monitor lizard in the hallway was a young crocodile or the story of the man who kept complaining that he felt something tickling his leg inside of his cast only to find a little gecko body inside when the cast finally came off.

My own love for the African bush is probably largely inspired by my Oupa. As a child growing up in East Africa, my family had their own share of wild stories from our times in the bush. We also kept a wild assortment of pets: two injured francolins that we released after a while, a big old tortoise, the monitor lizard who lived on our verandah, a baby squirrel, a duiker and a young porcupine. Some we rescued from hunters, others we raised after their mothers were killed and others we nursed back to health but all those that survived were released back into the bush. I definitely did not inherit his hunting instincts!

In his old age, Oupa had difficulty walking and often became very forgetful. Yet, he was still the same man; the great hunter who was afraid of nothing, the beloved story teller who swept us away on the wings of his words, the doctor with the gentle hands who treated every single person as if they were royalty – and above all my dearest Oupa.

When the time came for him and Ouma came to move to a retirement home, we took them on one last camping trip. Oupa was already very frail but still of sound mind. I remember spending hours at a water hole with him and my father and siblings, watching birds and some kudu and impala. We kept wanting to leave, it was getting late, but somehow we just couldn’t tear ourselves away. It was as if we were waiting for an appointment. I will never forget that afternoon.

It was winter and the dry grass was golden in the late afternoon sun, the sand around the water shining red. The regal kudu silently, daintily stepped closer, sniffing the air before finally drinking. The small herd of impala were grazing some distance away, only their backs and the horns of the rams visible over the long grass. It was such a peaceful scene, no sound except for the flocks of small seed eating birds twittering in the trees. Then it changed. It was as if some presence was making itself known. The atmosphere became tense, like a balloon about to pop. A dead silence fell. The kudu literally disappeared into the scrubby bushes. The birds were quiet, the whole veldt holding its breath. We scanned the area with our binoculars, silently gesturing and barely daring to whisper. A few more tense minutes passed and we were on the verge of leaving again when the impala ram snorted a warning to his herd. We stared in their direction. My brother suddenly stiffened and pointed, hissing: “Leopard!”

And there it was! At first we could only see the very tip of its tail weaving as it walked through the grass towards us. Then he stepped into view. What a magnificent creature! Gold and white and black, as stealthy as only a great cat can be, strong rippling muscles under his skin and yet as graceful as a dancer. For a few heartbeats the leopard slipped across the open patch of sand and then disappeared into a clump of trees. It was as if the world let out a collective sigh, the birds started singing again, the impala resumed their grazing and we stared at each other in wonder. Oupa had tears in his eyes.

This weekend we had Oupa’s funeral. He was just a few months short of his 90^th birthday. It was such a bittersweet day. Everyone shared memories and stories and tears and laughter. Some of the stories I knew and others I didn’t. But the picture was clear. Oupa was an exceptional man, loved by many. He left a legacy of caring for people, for nature, for standing up for those who cannot do so for themselves.

The next day I took a stroll with Ouma. We saw the guineafowl again. I could hear Oupa saying, “You can’t shoot the guineafowl, they’re God’s birds.” I’m still not sure I know what he meant but I do know that I will never see those quirky birds with their spots and their haunting, sad cries that bring up visions of the wild without thinking of my beloved Oupa. I hope that I can live up to his legacy, of serving and caring without any puffed up pride in myself but instead a gentle humility and delight in doing what needs to be done.