Zambezi by Tony Park Page A

her. He told her to run, in fear, from him, to leave his place. But she defied him. So be it. He started walking towards her, but still she held her ground.
    Precious kept her eyes on him, hardly daring to breathe as he stopped, no more than twenty metres from her. Sometimes the men, when faced with a bully, would make a noise or scream at him and often as not the troublemaker would back down and run away But the men had rifles to back them up.
    She had only her fishing rod and her tigerfish.
    He yelled at her again and her whole body seemed to vibrate from the noise. The tears rolled over her full cheeks, carving rivulets in the dust that had settled on her during the minutes that she had stood motionless.
    The bully started towards her again and she was more scared than she had ever been in her whole life. She wondered again if it was worth risking the river, hoping that the crocodiles were asleep and the hippos not close to shore.
    ‘You will run! I am the one in charge here! You will run and I will chase you. That is the way of things, the way it should be.’ The white one had run. He had caught her and he had played with her and he had killed her. His life had changed, but at least the white one had done as he had expected.
    Precious raised the plastic bag above her head and started to swing it. Round and round went the heavy fish. Her arm moved like a windmill, faster and faster. She could see the confusion in his evil glassy eyes and this gave her courage.
    She shouted at him. ‘Go away! Go away! You will not have me today, you bastard! Go away and leave me!’
    Mashumba stopped in his tracks and blinked at the strange sight. He was not scared – just confused.
    The woman let go of the bag and it sailed towards him. He dodged to one side to avoid the missile. The bag thudded into the ground next to him and skidded along the dirt, giving him a fright.
    He spun around and retreated a few paces. He sniffed it. It was quite pleasant, but it could be investigated later. He turned his head and looked back at the woman.
    Precious had summoned the last of her courage to throw the bag. Her heart had leaped at the sight of the foul bully running from the flying fish. She did not wait around to see if the heavy missile hit his big scarred forehead. She dropped her fishing rod, turned and ran. Precious didn’t feel the sharp rocks and prickles, nor the heat of the sand as she reached the riverbank. She nearly stumbled, but regained her balance in a heartbeat. Her dress rode up her thighs as she ran, exposing slim, muscled flanks. Her arms pumped like an athlete’s and she felt the breeze from the river on her face. The shimmering water was so close and she could see no dark humps of the hippos’ backs, no furrow in the bank where a crocodile had dragged its lethal tail.
    She would make it. Once in the water she would be safe, because everyone knew he could not swim. Everyone knew the hated one feared the water. Twenty metres, ten … She could do it. For her son and her daughter, she would do it. Precious risked a glance back over her shoulder.
    She screamed, louder than she had ever screamed in her life. ‘ SHUMBA! SHUMBA!’
    Not that it would do her any good. Not that anyone would hear, but if there was, maybe, a fisherman, or a tourist, or a ranger within earshot they might come and save her. She cursed herself for running – she knew she should have stood her ground.
    At last, she was running from him. It was as it should be. Mashumba lowered his head and charged. Christine Wallis was no stranger to the Zambezi Valley – the broad, shimmering river; the stagnant, reflective pools surrounded by wildlife; the quaint old-fashioned lodges; the scenic campground; the man-made dirt roads and the timeless game trails. She knew them all, the same way other people know the route from their home to their office or the stops on a subway.
    Chris had devoted half her working life to the preservation of wildlife, but she could