The Travails of the Hunter

THE TRAVAILS OF THE HUNTER

Culled from my short story

I looked up at the sun from the groove in the forest. From the position, I guessed the time should be around 2p.m. I walked some few paces and sat down at the foot of shady little tree.

I sat cross legged like a man practicing yoga exercise, the rifle held across my knees.

I have been prowling the forest since 6 a.m. the only game I have seen since then were the squirrels. The fact did not in any way demoralize my desire to trudge on. This is just a tip of the many travails of the hunter.

You have yourself lost from the world and its many troubles, from the fumes of the burnt diesel of trucks (molue), the harassment of the landlord (even if for just a few hours), from the many perfumes of the city that sometimes assault your sensory organ, that you might want to fight the manufacturers of pirating on the richness of nature.

Here in the forest, you are part of nature. All about you there is nothing artificial. Perhaps the only thing artificial is clothes you are wearing and the lethal barrel in your hand.

There is beauty in the forest that one cannot place his hand on. Various wild flowers bringing out their scents, as if in competition, trying to outdo the other. There are many sounds coming to you at the same time that you are hard put trying to distinguish them, unless, of course you are an expert there.

This beauty is however, frequently punctured by the encroachment of foreign bodies like myself and host of other game hunters who has come to visit the inhabitants with deaths and terror.

The other set who are also unwanted guests are the farmers that cut down the young beautiful tree and flowers. But of course, the most devastating set are the ones that hew down all the big trees in the forest, from mahogany to iroko tree, from hard wood to cotton tree. You mention it and they are at it. They never thought it takes decade for those trees to grow up to what they are. We all have excuse of doing what we are doing to the forest.

I brought out my military issued water bottle from inside my hunting bag and took a gulp to quench my thirst.

I got wondering what all those bush meat eaters in town think goes into making their menu. The selection and taste they have on the various meats. Having had too of much of the ice fish and beef, why not for a moment of sheer self fulfillment, have a change of taste and go for a bush meat, they will reason.

One may not have known where he can get one. Well, he need only to check up With Iya Bose who sells pepper soup or Mama Ngozi who specialize on goat meat pepper soup, and they will satisfy their appetite.

One can get bush meat along any highway as he drives to town on his next journey. He can get it dry, fresh, cooked, barbecued, the choice is his. But of course, he need to have some extra cash than the normal cash for iced fish or pomo/kanda, if he is one that fancies those, but feel like going big time for a change.

That is as far as the people in town know about the bush meat. They do not know the hunter. They never cared about his sadness and joy. They will not believe the music of the birds the hunter hears. They are songs he would not exchange for the city dwellers’ Highlife, Reggae, Fuji, Juji, or whatever else they are called.

The hunter’s music is the natural music of the sparrow, the weaver, the crickets, the squalling of the squirrels, the murnings of the eagle, the hewing of the wood pecker, the whispering of the many birds and of course the humming of the creeper-I mean snake.

I have rested enough. I stood up, gathered my things and continued my trudging deeper into the forest. From the distance I saw the branch of a tree swaying vigorously. I know I will still make a kill.