The Teacher

At first the solitary lioness was just a beautiful animal of the Timbavati. We were excited and enchanted. Safe in our game vehicle, an open-top Land Rover, we trailed her for about 20 minutes as close as 10 feet away while she steadily walked her path.

Then I saw the visible wounds on her back and flanks and noticed how carefully she walked. It was utterly heartbreaking. South Africa has broken my heart repeatedly; I’ve wept every day. Lioness is wounded and solitary and must keep moving continuously because no pride will accept her and she cannot remain in their territory. She may not be a tragic figure in the sense that she only knows the present moment and not the whole arc of her life. For instance, she may have little recollection of her cubs or the glory of her youth or even a sense that she is now old. But she does know she is in physical pain, limited, and alone. I imagined myself as her—or any of us as her—and I wept.

One of the things we humans bring to the wild is a sense of time: past, future, and our inevitable mortality. This consciousness allows us to make stories, tell stories, and view the animals, who live only in the present, from a storytelling perspective. Perhaps we make and tell stories because we want something to outlive us. Perhaps we teach our young not only how to survive but also how to thrive, if we can, because we want them to have good stories. Lioness is now part of my story. I will never forget her. But can she say the same about me? No, probably not. In which case, I think I am the richer one, the one who has benefitted the most. I am a scavenger of experiences here in South Africa, weaving stories from the strands of every present moment, like my moment with her. I learned her name in the Shangaan language, spoken by the indigenous Africans in this area, and I repeat it with pride and love. She is magogo mafazi ngala. Once upon a time, before she was old and injured and alone, forced to endlessly walk on in physical pain without a moment of rest, she was mafazi ngala. Her name is one more strand that makes my memory strong. And when I return home, I will take the weaving with me.