My Song of Africa

In the predawn darkness, I lie on my cot secure in my mosquito net; the smell of night lingering in the air.  I hear the sound of a large white blossom falling from the baobab tree next to my hut.  The low buzzing of bees hum from their hives in hollows of its limbs.  The dawn breaks as the sun leaps into the sky, shattering the darkness with unexpected suddenness.
The silence, as well as the darkness, is broken.  Sounds erupt.  Baboons, my ever squabbling neighbors, start their raucous chattering.  A warthog grunts as it leaves its burrow to start foraging.  I hear a leopard cough and the baboons send a warning through the bush that he is still on the prowl.  The giant baobab explodes with shrieks and squawks as dozens of parrots fly from their nesting holes.
Birds and monkeys add their voices to the sounds but through it all, I hear my song.  Every day, all day long, I hear the song of the mourning doves.  Their soft cooing cuts through everything and touches my heart.
I emerge from my cocoon and start a fire.  There is still a chill in the air, but it will soon be gone.  By the time I finish breakfast the day will already be heating up.  The song of the mourning doves is the only sound that will remain… What song of Africa will they sing for me today?
As head of security for Coutada 5, District of Machanga, Sofala Province, Mozambique, I started my day hunting poachers in the mopane forest of central Mozambique, about thirty-five miles from the Indian ocean.  As I moved through the bush I cut the trail of a Nyala bull.  I decided to follow the animal.  The grass was about a foot high with scattered leaves on the ground.  As I slowly crept along the mourning doves suddenly ceased their singing, the bush fell silent. I froze.  The song of Africa had stopped. It is as if the birds and animals were warning me something was about to happen.  Everything was holding its breath and watching.  My heart pounded as I looked around.  Then, as if it materialized from nowhere, there it was, three feet in front of me.  The sinister coil of a huge puff adder.  Its brown and grey leaf pattern made it almost invisible.  They hunted by lying await in ambush.  One of the deadliest snakes in Africa.  In another step, I would have been dead.
The puff adder was as big around as a man's arm and four feet long. 
As I eased back and circled around the snake I heard the Nyala before I saw him.  The snake had distracted me, ruining my stalk.  He was a nice bull, and with his horns laid back he ran through the thick forest with amazing ease.  In a flash, he was gone, but I was still alive.  Bush sense had saved my life.  That and my doves with their song of Africa.
In Africa, there is no such thing as being “at the top of the food chain.”  Everything, man included, is both predator and prey.

Marshall Kimbrough-Warren