by Linda Tucker
Jason and I continue observing to make absolutely sure the lions have emerged fully from their tranquilized state. With the cubs contentedly feeding on the carcass, Marah finally settles down to join them, momentarily distracting herself from the uncomfortable band around her neck. Carefully assessing the situation, and concluding all’s well, Jason and I decide to head back to camp ourselves for a quick lunch.
I’m keen to return to see how my Godmum is doing. It’s entirely unlike her to have missed today’s big event. She insists we go ahead with our careful plans for the collaring, even though she doesn’t feel strong enough for the early rise this morning.
NEARLY TWELVE HOURS HAVE PASSED since we fitted the collars first thing this morning. The sun’s setting, and we’ve returned to our lions. Jason, Godmum, and I. She spent the day in bed, but says she’s “fighting fit” again. Thomas was monitoring in the interim. We take over, and Jason tests his telemetry equipment to ensure the devices are operating. Jason points the aerial out of the Land Rover window toward the pride, now full-bellied and sleeping contentedly. He suddenly turns to me, looking perplexed. Both radio collars are malfunctioning. He tries the equipment again, shaking his head.
“I don’t get it,” he comments, totally flummoxed. “Thomas and I activated the collars, and just to make sure, we tested them three times this morning before going into the boma. They were working perfectly. Then I tested them one final time when we fitted them in the boma!”
Jason unhitches the radio from his belt and crosschecks: “Thomas, Thomas, come in Thomas.”
“Thomas standing by,” crackles back.
“Did you check the radio collars this afternoon, Tommy?”
“Affirmative. Working fine.”
“Hmm, neither is working now,” Jason ponders, turning to us. “They’re guaranteed to function minimum eighteen months.”
Mireille and I consider a moment. Meanwhile, Jason tests the equipment one more time before laying it down in frustration. Both collars are malfunctioning.
“So where’s that leave us?” Mireille asks.
“Catastrophe,” Jason replies factually. “We’ll need to replace the collars with new ones, which means tranquilizing the lions all over again!”
“Oh, dearie me!”
“Wouldn’t do it before one week’s time,” Jason notes, shaking his head. “Really important not to dart the lions too soon after today’s tranquilization.”
I’m concerned but can’t help smiling to myself. That little “inner voice” tells me Marah herself may have “scrambled” the technology.
“Give me a moment, please Jase,” I ask. “And Godmum, if you don’t mind: no talking please—we need to concentrate our minds on the lions.”
To test my hypothesis, I have to sit in absolute stillness, tuning in to Marah and her cubs. Accordingly, our usually chirpy chairperson forces herself to keep dead still. Jason has also fallen silent, with a mixed expression of bewilderment and frustration on his face.
I calm my mind and open my heart to my lion family. They are stretching languidly now, with full stomachs, reluctantly waking up again after their day’s siesta. Letaba gives a massive yawn, displaying his pink tongue and impressive not-so-juvenile teeth. His fluffy mane is now partially pressed down by the radio collar fastened around his neck. He yawns again even wider than before, and I imagine he’s going to get up in a moment, but instead, he flops, with all his weight, onto his brother, and promptly falls asleep again. Again, I concentrate on clearing my head of rational concerns and worries, and try to reach that meditative pranic state of peace and calm. And, as always, a surge of overwhelming love fills my heart. The cubs are still asleep, and I focus on Marah’s majestic face. She’s sitting poised, with her paws straight in front of her in the classic sphinx position. Suddenly she looks up at me, and those Nefertiti eyes beam straight into my soul. At that moment, her transmitted words resound in my head, just as they did on that occasion when Mireille and I visited her just before her rescue from the zoo. I have her answer about the radio collars. It’s crystal clear. And it’s not surprising:
We don’t appreciate these restrictions, the Queen informs me. Why d’you use telemetry when you could employ telepathy?
As always, I feel utterly humbled. In my mind, I try to explain to Queen Marah that the telepathic skills of our monitoring team (myself included) would be hopelessly inadequate in tracking the pride in dense Timbavati bushveld.
“Please understand, Marah,” I murmur under my breath. “For your family’s safety—as well as our peace of mind—we need you and your cubs to wear these tracking collars.”
From her demeanor, I see she’s heard me. She remains poised in her statuesque, regal pose, intently transmitting that searing gaze like a laser beam straight into my soul. But suddenly she relaxes, and I watch how she gives a deep sigh, as if to say, with utmost tolerance: Hmmm. Your limitations are understood, beloved daughter. So be it.
After gaining Marah’s sanction, I turn to Jason, encouraging him to go ahead with replacing the radio collars.
“I’m sure we’ll have better luck next time,” I say, studying the queen closely. “I don’t imagine we’ll have any more resistance or interference from Marah.”
“Hmmm,” Jason ponders.
It is so idyllic with our lions that all three of us are reluctant to head back to camp. Instead, we stay on, watching. Before we know it, a half hour has passed. While Marah endures this band around her neck with grace and dignity, I’m beginning to suspect, from his audacious behavior, that Prince Letaba, by contrast, is secretly proud to have been singled out as the dominant male over his brother. Marah is suddenly directing her gaze at me again, and once again I hear her transmitted message. It seems clear enough.
“Jase,” I request on impulse. “Test the collars once more, if you don’t mind.”
“You serious?”
“Yes. Seriously. Try them again.”
Patiently, Jason removes the aerial and once again points it out the window in the pride’s direction. Then he joins the aerial to the handheld telemetry set and examines the screen carefully, just as he did many times in assessing the malfunction.
“You’re not gonna believe this,” he comments, turning to me. “Both collars are suddenly working!”
Mireille and I laugh out loud, while Jason simply shakes his head. He’s come to accept more than the odd weird and wonderful occurrence around Marah and her family.
NOVEMBER 2, 2005. I sit on a spectacular promontory of precipitous rock frontage, looking out over a vast expanse of lowveld, stretching out to the faraway Drakensburg Mountains in the east, without a single human dwelling in sight. It’s been a long, hot day in the dry, winter sun. Day’s end. With the radio collars fixed and functioning as from yesterday, no practical detail remains to delay the release of the lions. We are ready! On my own now, I’m preparing for the biggest moment of my life: the freedom of Marah, the lioness to whom I’ve pledged my life! Alone, apart from Sam and Cibi, and all of Nature stretched out before me.
I called this vantage point Lion Lookout. It was two hours’ walk from Base Camp, and one of my favorite places to meditate and dream. From this high point, I can see the sun sinking down toward the horizon. Beyond the lush evergreen Tsau River snaking its way below me, the bushveld lies dry and parched, like the skeletal scene from The Lion King before the return of the true monarch. These past barren months have reminded me of Scar’s derelict wasteland, many times over. All the while, internally, my heart mirrors this desolation and frustration at being denied Marah’s reinstatement to her rightful lands. Now, all this is set to change!
In just two days’ time, Marah, Queen of Lions, will walk free!
This outing with Sam and Cibi will be my last before the grand opening of the gates, and I have no doubt that this high promontory where I sit now will soon become Marah’s favorite haunt! From here, the lions’ boma is about eleven kilometers away—and I imagine the queen restlessly pacing he
r eastern fence line in anticipation of her imminent release.
Putting my binoculars to my eyes, I survey the open stretch of savanna laid out below me, which Marah will soon roam. We’ve named it in her honor: The Marah—a lighthearted play on Kenya’s Masai Mara. From here, I can see a newly settled herd of some sixty wildebeest, brought in two weeks ago from a nearby reserve by articulated truck, as a final preparation before the pride’s release. Like the other three herds already resident, they look totally at home now, although struggling to find grazing. I spot a herd of waterbuck in the distance, distinguished by the white rings around their rumps. It’s a relief to see these lovely creatures have weathered the drought. And there’s a small dazzle of zebra and some last surviving impala rams in a bachelor herd, on the distant plain. No kudu herds to be seen, nor bushbuck, warthog, or nyala. These species have been particularly hit hard by the drought, but I pray there are some survivors. Despite the long months of attrition, the atmosphere feels very different now, on the brink of our biggest step yet.
Up here, overlooking the natural hunting grounds, I can’t help thinking of that grand opening scene from The Lion King when all the animals of the bushveld gathered to pay homage to the newborn royal cub, as the King and Queen of beasts stood high above them, looking out over their kingdom from the edge of Pride Rock. Sitting on my log, with Nelia’s walking stick in my right hand, like a matriarch looking proudly out over these lands, I feel the tingling parallels in my fingertips—knowing that the real-life Lion Queen will lead her cubs up to this promontory, and here she will stand tall, surveying her pridelands to the distant horizon, as all other natural kingdoms gather in homage.
The radio crackles; Jason asking for my ETA. I inform him of my location, and the route I’ll be heading back. He indicates he’ll collect the dogs and me by Land Rover at Mamba crossing, before night closes in completely.
Heading back down through the darkening undergrowth, I think of Mireille, and how elated she must be feeling. No doubt, the Grandmother of the White Lions will be preparing a hearty supper. It will take a lot of doing to persuade her to retire early tonight.
With the epic event scheduled for the morning after tomorrow, the intervening day has been declared a Day of Rest in anticipation. But no one in their right mind could sit around resting while waiting for this big moment! Not least our fired-up team, and least of all Mireille Vince herself. She has plans. A while back, my Godmum was invited to be the honored guest at a prize-giving event at our local community school, and she is not going to let them down. Besides, in her mind, nothing could be more appropriate on the eve of Marah’s Big Day than to celebrate with the local Tsonga community. I wholeheartedly agree. We’ve had forty White Lion fluffy teddies sewn up, along with one hundred Tshirts and three thousand White Lion badges manufactured for the occasion, so I’ll be joining her tomorrow to help hand these out.
Not one to wait around while bureaucracies shuffle paper over the past eleven months, Godmum has been drawn into educational and poverty-relief programs with the local community. In between all the White Lion duties, she and I have been developing an ecoeducational curriculum, using the iconic White Lions as a motivational symbol. Recently, the neighboring community area around the White Lions’ ancestral territories was declared one of the “poverty nodes” of South Africa. In some of the schools with which we’d worked, the classrooms are no more than empty shells, crammed with children attempting to get through the syllabus without the aid of a teacher or even textbooks. Some of the classes take place outside on the dry, dusty earth, under a tree. Tragically, many of the children come from child-headed households, where both mother and father have died from AIDS, and these little ones are left as the sole breadwinner for their entire family of younger siblings. The program we’ve been developing is designed to bring assistance and hope into the schools, as well as the greater community, in these poverty-stricken areas, where morale is low.
During the last few months, Mireille and I have made countless enthusiastic visits to several Tsonga schools in the region to pursue this challenging but deeply fulfilling work, which I view as directly related to the White Lions’ spirit of hope and enlightenment. Funjwa Lower Primary is our most exciting project. The little school’s situated in the small village of Acornhoek, approximately an hour’s drive south from the lions’ land. The principal, Daphne Mhaule, is a miracle worker who constantly seeks to improve the lives of both her pupils and their families. Watching Mireille and Daphne meet for the first time was, for me, like witnessing a reunion of old souls. They soon discovered the Tsonga community in this region attends a Swiss Mission Church, which, amazingly, was one of the church buildings built and established by Mireille’s missionary parents over sixty years ago when she herself was a little adopted urchin.
Daphne sings in the choir at the Swiss Mission Church every Sunday, and Mireille and Daphne began regularly attending services together in the simple brick-and-mortar building, which pulsates with African choirs and is well attended by people, goats, and chickens.
Somehow, everything has come full circle, and Mireille has found her life’s purpose. So, there’s no point arguing with the Kokwane of White Lions when this matriarch has her mind set. Instead of a Day of Rest in the lead-up to D-day, Mireille will be celebrating in the heat and dust, with the people she’s loved since childhood. And the lions and I will be celebrating with her.
CHAPTER 31
Mireille Star
NOVEMBER 3, 2005. THE DAY BEFORE THE LIONS’ RELEASE. Outside in the dust, under a large tree, Mireille, Xhosa, and I wait expectantly for the celebrations to begin. Around us, more than one thousand faces are spellbound, in anticipation.
What with all the excitement building up to Marah’s big day, it’s not surprising my Godmum has been temporarily out of action. She’s recovered her robust strength, and true to form, she is at the center of everything, orchestrating events.
Daphne Mhaule stands in front of all her students, directing and smiling warmly as she looks out at the milling ocean of eager faces.
Then she swivels on her heels and beckons to Mireille.
“Kokwane, come here!”
“Yahoooo?” Mireille calls back.
“Come and sit here with me, Kokwane tangala tobasa,” Daphne instructs, using the phrase Grandmother of the White Lions in Tsonga.
Mireille marches across the makeshift performing stage of grass mats laid out in the dust so as to join the sturdy, warmhearted schoolmistress on one of the two plastic chairs. I smile, watching them seated side by side, two matriarchs, yin and yang, waiting for the proceedings to begin.
The teachers wander around, settling the children into their respective places. Many kids are crammed under the ample shade of the huil-boerboon’s vast natural canopy, but others have to make do with the heat and dust. On wooden tree stumps around the periphery are parents, aunts, uncles, grandparents, and other local community members, all seated under colorful umbrellas, having gathered from far and wide to hear the children’s tales and watch their performances.
Everyone participates in our ecoeducational programs, teachers and students alike. Our approach is to encourage them to create expressions of joy and celebration for the return of the White Lions to their natural habitat. With permission from their teachers, our first step is to invite each child to express themselves in whichever medium or subject is their strength: painting, dancing, writing, beadwork, pottery, or wood carving.
As Maria taught me, the legends of the White Lions go back into the hazy mists of time, but much of the great knowledge has been lost, since the storytellers themselves have died out, leaving no legacy. But a new story is being scribed.
Daphne stands up and calls for silence. The excited chatter of nearly a thousand five-to ten-year-olds immediately dies down … and if the proverbial pin were to drop on the dusty ground, I believe I’d hear it.
Xhosa steps forward and gives an exaggerated bow, invoking roars of giggles and laughter
. Then he swings into his rap performance in dedication to the White Lions, as mounting excitement swells in the sea of children. Everyone is standing to get a better view, and soon the spellbound little bodies are swaying to the left and right, in waves, clapping their hands in time to the rhythm Xhosa is creating. After he brings his performance to a close, there’s a momentary hush.
“So,” Xhosa announces in his most theatrical tone, feeding into the eager silence as he looks out into the crowd. “Where d’you think … the White Lions come from?”
“From God,” announces one bold little voice.
“Aha!” responds Xhosa. “From Timbavati,” says another.
Suddenly, the crowd shouts in unison. “Timba-Vaaaaati!”
“So tell me, young ladies and gentlemen: what does Timbavati mean?” Xhosa asks.
“Stars! Place of Stars! Starlions!” Different versions come back.
“And what sound does a lion make?” Momentary silence.
“Huh?” pronounces Xhosa. “Are there really no lions out there, ladies and gentlemen? Only sheep?”
He peers into the crowd again, as if searching.
“I’ll ask again,” he says. “What sound does a lion make?”
Suddenly the hush transforms into a monumental Rooooooooo-aaaaaaaaaaaarrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr!
The young voices reverberate in unison—a cacophony of small cubs suddenly empowered by the great lion spirit. I think back to the frightened little urchins I met on my first day at this school. A few months back, these same brave, little souls were so withdrawn and timid that many were too afraid to put their hands up, let alone speak out. But when we showed them pictures of Marah, the Queen who has returned to her royal lands, together with her cubs, I watched a flame ignite in each child! The White Lions did the rest, transmitting their sublime and radiant force of love, hope, pride, and leadership. Now most of these little lionhearts are roaring their courage and excitement into the world.
Suddenly there is a little White Lion character, with a body costume made of a recycled maize-meal sack. Then, after some jostling, one child steps forward, like a news reporter making an announcement:
