Melissa Haynes - Learning to Play with a Lion's Testicles

My heart crumbles. Shivers cover my body, sending my hair on end. The emptiness is overwhelming. Pushing past the nurse, I leave the room without ever looking at my mother.

“Pass me that cable,” the Drill Sergeant shouts.

“What?”

“I said pass me that cable… the winch… on the truck. We gotta move this hartebeest outta here.”

“Where will we take her? What will happen to her?” Why is he being so abrupt, an animal is dead. Can’t we take a moment?

“She’s cat food now.”

“Cat food? Shouldn’t we bury her, or… something. She deserves something.”

“Circle of life—her death is another animal’s dinner. We’ve talked about this before. Are you going to help me, woman, or not?”

“I can’t.” I’m paralyzed just as I was in the hospital. I can’t bring myself to look at the hartebeest.

“You can’t be afraid of death. If you fear death, you fear life—it’s the same thing.”

“I’m sorry, I just can’t do this.”

“If you were afraid of death you wouldn’t be here, in Africa, would you?”

He’s right. Death is part of life and in avoiding dealing with it, I’m avoiding life. I have to confront it. Now.

I force myself to look at her. Her head is slouched forward, her lips pressed into the mud. Her giant, black eyes are vanquished and void. I can’t pull my eyes away, if only I had not been such a coward before. Now it is too late. Cremated and cast away at sea, my mother is forever gone.

It was a fatal mistake on my part to believe that Death was something that existed outside of me, for when confronted by him again, he completely consumes me. He overtakes me from the inside, where I had made a comfortable home for him. I am too exhausted to run anymore. Instead, I stand before Death, and succumb to him. And as I finally let go of my fear of Death and allow my wound to be exposed, something totally unexpected occurs.

My enemy is not who I think he is. He somehow becomes less evil and less intimidating. He has lost all his power over me—the power I had given him.

The Drill Sergeant kicks the hartebeest in the side with a hollow thud and a small stream of urine trickles out of her. He cinches the cable tightly around her neck.

“Turn on the winch,” he orders.

I move the switch and, as it begins to turn, her neck snaps back from the force. Her partner watches from up on the hillside. Motionless, he keeps his vigil until she is loaded into the truck. Then he turns slightly to look at me. We seem to look right into one another as an unspoken understanding is reached. But there is one major difference between he and I; he stayed until the very end. He did not let fear or guilt drive him away. He is stronger than I am.

With one leap, he is gone over the hillside, never to be seen again.

I’m on top of the world this morning, like I can conquer anything. I’m elated, unstoppable, and positively radiant with courage.

The reason for this newfound mojo that is bursting from my seams is that I, single-handedly, on a solo mission of determination, have killed the Boogieman. I defeated him with the stealth of a Ninja, the resolve of a Viking, and the sleekness of a hired assassin.

It’s true, I have slain the dragon of darkness once and for all. I am no longer forced to live in exile because I have reclaimed my country and become a national hero—even if that country’s borders are my tent walls, and I am its only citizen. The tent that was once a temple of doom is now my castle, my solace—my home.

Last night was the first time the silence was silent. There were no mystery noises, no whispers, and no ravenous beasts at my door.

The previous evening’s weekly ranger’s meeting in the common area went late. I was waiting in my tent for them to finish so I could sneak back in. Their meetings don’t usually last more than half an hour, but last night’s meeting was long, since it included plans of reconstruction after the storm.

The last thing I remember was opening my book. And then the next thing I knew, I was awakened by the squawks of the Hadeeda. I did it. I slept in my tent. How can I not be positively ecstatic?

The storm has finally passed. As I wait for the Drill Sergeant to pick me up, my senses feast on a smorgasbord of delicacies. My eyes devour the sky above as the artistic genius magically fills his canvas. The near-black backdrop just above the mountain peaks comes alive with brushstrokes of pink, lavender, and purple. This is followed by the faintest touch of silver wisps that yearn for the sun’s reflection to bring them to life.

I feel alive just watching it all come to be; I am finally one with this land. I have survived the outback, and the Drill Sergeant. I have embraced it in its entirety, no longer crippled by the unknown, by the darkness and the sounds it whispers in the night. No longer afraid of Death.

Harrison rolls up, and I climb into the back. The Drill Sergeant raises an eyebrow at me, but even his disapproving gestures can’t rattle me today.

“What are you so happy about?” he asks.

“Can’t a person just be happy?”

I carefully place my feet on either edge of a big rusted-out hole and cast aside any physical flaws Harrison may have. For now, a new vision of Harrison is forming before me, a vision more appropriate for this fine victorious morning.

His chipped and dented body becomes a Roman chariot, gleaming white with gold embellishments. My crappy gloves, stained with blood, dirt, and soot, are now long, golden gladiator gloves. A pair of powerful white stallions with flowing silver manes has replaced Harrison’s fatigued 275 horses under the hood. I hold on to the roll bar tightly as if it is a pair of reins. His mighty stallions take off into a rumbling gallop. I hold my head high as the ruler of these lands, the heroine who has defeated the demon of darkness. On this bright and glorious day, I am welcomed by a sea of loyal subjects… well, not so much a sea as just two: Bonty and Wildebeest.

“Good Morning, Bonty!”

Bonty’s big satellite ears turn and twitch as he looks up.

“We did it, Bonty! We did it!”

During this experience in a distant world of sleepless nights, wild beast confrontations (that includes working with the Drill Sergeant), combative elephants, and confrontations with deep-rooted beliefs, we are triumphant at last.

This was supposed to be a mission of giving, but the more I give of myself, the more I receive from this place and all its inhabitants.

It is no coincidence that my neighbor is this little outcast in white knee-high socks. Bonty inadvertently reminded me of a truth that had long since escaped me: I am never alone.

“Good Morning, Wildebeest!” I call out, as we pass by the other lone grazer.

His beard is no longer grey but, instead, is covered in brown mud, and although it may not have seemed possible, he looks even stranger than he did before.

The Drill Sergeant has acquired an old boom box that’s now sliding around on the dashboard, beating out sweet sounding tunes. The timing is perfect on this victorious day.

“Turn it up!”

The Drill Sergeant turns it up, and although it’s crackly and fades in and out, I can make out the song, and nothing is more suitable on this fine morning than the words that fill the air:

“We are the champions my friend, and we’ll keep on fighting till the end. We are the champions, we are the champions, no time for losers, ’cause we are the champions… of the world…”

It’s one of the greatest songs of all time, and even though the radio can barely be heard, I’m belting out the words at the top of my lungs, and I don’t give a damn who hears me.