Parched Serengeti

God makes no mistakes; only what man interprets as mistakes due to his limited faculties, or mistakes made by man due to his impaired faculties. As far as perceived mistakes go, the Serengeti does not usually cross the mind of the average tourist. A sunset casts a striking silhouette of an acacia tree, leaves like a blackened cloud. Wildebeest migrate in unfathomable hoards, a swelling surge of raw life traversing the plains and rivers alike with a degree of stubborn patience only graced upon those of the animal kingdom. Giraffes peer over the horizon as they feast from a canopy buffet. A pride of lions and lionesses sleepily laze about well into the morning whilst the cubs play-fight. It appears to an outsider that it could be nothing but a divine menagerie; which it surely is. But divine judgement cannot be ignored when evaluating the goodness of such a menagerie.

Charles Stuton's right leg hung limp, dragging behind him as he hopped, his left thigh burning. Self-loathing overcame his desire for rest; he had resolved to work his muscles to completion and then see where the Serengeti took him. Blood stains seemed to have bubbled up all over his body. There was one on his forehead, one on his right shoulder, several on his chest and stomach, and deep, dark red liquid oozed out of a sizeable gash in his right calf. The word dishevelled is fairly accurate. Dying is far better.

The Serengeti was cold; the Serengeti was vast. Distance upon distance, league upon league, mounted on Stuton's conscience like the heavy blow to the head he had recieved. He had tripped, fallen, bashed his forehead against a large stone at the rivers edge. Blinding pain, unbearable pain, had shot through his head. It was splitting. His safari hat had promptly discarded itself in the fall, and with the sunset, his final defences against the sheer magnitude of the night sky had alluded him. In the same motion, his calf had caught against a protruding branch that had fallen and lay half-submerged in the river. It gouged through his leg, blood spurting in excessive quantities. He had screamed.

But this was a peculiar man. He had welcomed the pain with bitter resolve, even as he hated it. He had told himself that he deserved it, that it was coming his way, that like a freight train it had been coming his way his whole life. I suppose it had.

Now, in the cold and in the dark, Stuton had resorted to crawling through this Tanzanian wasteland. He clawed at the ground, dry dust clouding up around him and filling his dry lungs. A series of fierce fits of coughing ricocheted through him like great seismic events.

Eventually, the crawling reduced to writhing, as the coughing reduced to wheezing. The word throbbing cannot capture the sheer totality of the experience. Resigning himself at last, he rolled onto his back like a severed lizards tail, gazed up at the heavens. They looked back down judgementally, clouded their faces.

A cloud! Stuton prayed to God one final prayer, a prayer for rain from this feeble cloud, anything to quench his thirst and drown his sorrows. But God disregarded his petition, the cloud crawled onwards as Stuton no longer could, slowly, painfully, traversing the parched Serengeti and offering no comfort to the restless. Soon it would dissipate, just as Stuton too would dissipate, his flesh, blood and bones absorbing themselves into this accursed earth.

He was a man of regrets, a man of sorrows, and a man of deep despair. He had ventured out into the Serengeti to die; he had gone of his own accord. When in his final cry he exclaimed 'Oh my love, forgive me! I should have known, I should have known better!' he did not refer to the foolhardy escapade he had embarked on; unless that escapade involved an unwanted proposal, a strained marriage, an angry divorce, a consuming jealousy, a murder, a double murder, a triple murder, and a cowardly escape to a remote African country. An escapade that was the life of Charles Stuton.

And so, he had carried out God's will for him, inflicted his own penalty. Wandered into the wilderness, not for forty years, but for years everlasting. The Serengeti, where men go to die, at the hand of God and at the paw of God's noble beast, Judah's lion.

There laid the body of Charles Stuton, dead before midnight. Charles Stuton, charged with a triple homicide and, if it had not been for his untimely demise, was facing court. He had murdered his divorced wife, her new partner and their son. A terrible man, a profoundly evil man...and a sorry man. A deeply sorry man. And in his final hour he had experienced the pain, the torment, the suffering, and had understood with perfect clarity the crime that he had done. I believe that if he had not tripped he would have mustered the courage to bash his brains in with a rock; but that is of course just speculation.

***

As the morning Sun made his ascendancy to the throne, illuminating the landscape, a small blotch became visible. It was the body of a man. The body lay under the cool shade of an acacia tree among the sparse yellow flowers. Blood stained the surroundings. Wildebeest paid some interest, as a dog pays interest to a lamppost, or a child to a dog. The giraffes gave no heed to it, their heads stretching high up above the commotion. If the giraffes had looked up, they would have noticed the circling of vultures far above them. A wildebeest chewed at a bloodied safari hat, quickly gave up the endeavour.

A pride of lions sunbathed till noon at a nearby rock outcropping. Some of those with more acute senses detected blood. They padded their way over, royal, elegant creatures they were. The lifeless body lay still. Very little meat by a lions standard, but enough for a meal. The lions roared, intimidating the wildebeest, who rapidly departed, leaving the lions to their own devices. Within minutes, the body had become a carcass, sitting in a pool of blood which dried quickly, releasing its moisture to the parched Serengeti air.