1931 February | Never Again

Then – Camp Modja, 22 May 1930 to 10 April 1931, Suzanne goes hunting

The hunters squat on their haunches. It’s a trick she saw many times at village occasions, but that she can’t manage. She just kneels. Down in the shallow valley, among tall grass and trees, the buffalo herd munches its way through the morning, lowing and hooting, headbutting each other for the sport of it, scratching their hide against bark, or rolling in mud pits to kill off parasites. Swaggering through the brushwood, the ponderous motion of the vast herd is a warning to predators by itself. 

Divide and conquer then; easier said than done. 

They had already given up on two buffaloes this morning. The first one had started stamping and snorting, ears fluttering: they had been spotted somehow and they could not chance ending up trampled by a stampede. Some of the beaters had just looked at Suzanne, wordlessly; she had looked straight back at them. Nope my friend, I did not make any noise. The second one had just reared its head and gambolled back towards the rest of the herd, a spring in his step, clearly pleased with himself to have played such a good trick on them. You had to like a clever prey. And so, on to this isolated old male. They had to sync their movements. 

One thing still would not change: it was going to be Suzanne’s kill.  

The beaters and trackers had been first rather puzzled and reluctant at the prospect, but, as long as they are getting their meat, it was her funeral… Yes, this isolated male philosophically munching some plant or other while solving some cosmologic mystery would do. François knew that this happened: an old buffalo, sensing that Nature had his number, would just stand there, or even walk into a hunting party, as if he had decided it was time, and a good way, to die. You had to have respect for this.

And here was one under the eucalyptus tree, innocently grazing.

Oh, she had made darling dear François work for this, the Modja buffaloes, the one topic he would never shut up about. When he asked her a week ago, for the umpteenth time, to join him for hunting, she had coyly pondered for a full minute, mentally reviewing her extremely busy social calendar, full of all of the other things he could never dream of, know about, nor understand, obligations and engagements that summed up, all things considered, to … zero. Never say that she let him win without some sort of effort.

And so she had agreed, and Savannah Frans had taken over, stalking prey among the tall grass in the morning Sun. 

He had heard and smelled the herd at the last dig. And they had followed fresh bullshit since dawn, let’s not make too fine a point of it, she thought. She knew that she should feel elated, somehow, the primal activity of stalking prey, the thrill of the hunt and so on. So far, it had mostly felt and smelled like squishing along mud trails. 

She had been told, and read, to walk against the wind not to be spotted; in such a pungent smell she thinks? 

The trackers, ahead in the grass, signal to stop and point at a tall tree. One makes the sign of curved horns. She stifles a laugh. François jolts her with a look, and nods to the hunter. What, she shrugs? He does not rise to the bait. He sniffs the air, for some reason, drops a few strands of dry grass, then points at the long grass blades, curves his hand into a direction: flank the buffalo and approach it from its front. 

The moment of truth approaches. They slowly creep forward.

He hands her over the Mauser M98 hunting rifle; a 9.3 he calls it. She knows it has quite a kick, she fired abandoned Mausers in Soissons. A hunting rifle with a military kick then. They crouch forward. 100 meters away. 75 meters away. Halt. The buffalo shakes his head to dislodge some fly or a parasite. He looks straight at them, annoyed, weary. It is all about patience to take that one good shot. Miss and it will gore you. Just in case, François has laid the 16 gauge shotgun, loaded and ready, on the ground. 

The drill he had drummed into her kicks in. 

Pick your target. Never shoot from the rear quarter of the target, always from the front quarter. And if you can’t, abandon, your bullet would just thrash around fat and excess meat. Shooting between the eyes, through the brain, would take an excellent shot, which you are dear, but the chances of a deflection on the thick, angled skull or even the horns are just too high. You aim at the chest, a third of the way up from the bottom, to sever the heart cluster. Blood circulation is vaporised: clean, instant. 

She kneels, pushes her helmet back a little, props the rifle over her shoulder for stability. He covers his ears. 

Aim. She knows how to conjure up a line from her eye through the iron sights, the top of the front sight to that spot, to that light brown patch of mud on the buffalo’s chest then. Let everything go and forget it is about killing. Let the abstract maths of physics, gravity, time and space wash over you and create the moment. Good. 

Catch the play of the firing mechanism. Breathe out, breathe in, hold mid way. 

Shoot. She squeezes the trigger with the tip of her index and lets the shot surprise her, as it should. That will leave a bruise. The buffalo jerks his head up, starts for a few meters, startled. Unsure what has just happened. He blinks in relief. Or is it resignation? No time for pain, shock and regret possibly. The old bull turns to join the herd one last time. 

One, two, legs buckle, it falls on its face, crashing into the tall grass. 

The trackers spring up, applaud, whistle and cheer. 

François beams broadly at her: your kill! We need a photo of that. 

She is proud and happy. Mainly because he is happy and proud. They approach the carcass. So little blood yet, no torn flesh. The buffalo smell of dung and cow. He looks just like he fell asleep on his feet. Clean kill. She is happy. Relieved. Killed it in one shot. Done it, me. Adrenalin fizzles away. The butchery starts immediately to preserve the skin, the meat, discard the entrails as hyenas already circle the clearing. 

All of this walking, this stalking, this skulking in the tall grass, all of it feels so alive, so real. 

But buffalo is good meat. 

Still, it feels like an assassination. She sees again that despondent look in the buffalo eyes asking that’s what you came for? She does not have that with slaughtering farm animals; then at least, it feels… honest, does it? 

Deep in thoughts, she walks back.

My first kill. My last. 

Never again.

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You read part 16 of Transvaal Blue Skies: the true story of how, early last century, Suzanne moved to Africa and built her laager. This is a series of loose dots weaved in a chronological thread, wrapped into a story to be plucked and observed, heard and remembered, recognised and judged. Suzanne Dulière was my grandmother.

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