In the bosom of merciful fangs

                          

It was a sunny day spurring every soul into an unforgettable picnic. It came to me that my fishing rod was under the bed, and then I hurried into the room to fetch it. I started my car and bid farewell to my wife and my lovely girl, Sarah.

The region had known a great deal of change, for there had been a fierce scramble between some of the fast-growing economics over gaining a foothold in this open market and the benefit of which had catalysed flashy infrastructure, which the locals had been lauding for ages.

In a matter of minutes I reached the “Temodo River”, in contrast with the preceding years when it used to take me more than two hours. The river was teeming with colourful fishes and beautified with a majestic view.

The canoe was still at the same place and in the care of Mr. Adam, a short and plump man, and an older-timer and friend of the family. Once I was on board, I started rowing past three deserted jetties. After a while, I stopped to bait my hook and then cast it into the water in a blink of an eye. Waiting for a chance to catch a fish, I immersed myself in a deep sea of childhood memories of the place.

When I regained my consciousness, I found myself lying on a bed and surrounded by bodies in motion, most of whom wearing white garments. Two accustomed hands were patting mine, in an attempt to soothe me and to show sympathy without knowing for which reason. Her soft voice was telling me “Welcome back to the land of living, Omar!”

All I could recall was that my canoe had capsized, but the course of the events was detailed by an eye witness, a local whose name I can’t recall.

The man’s account revealed that a hippo, a large creature, attacked my canoe viciously ramming into it at full speed. As a result, the canoe capsized and my head hit an edge of it.

What happened next, according to the man’s version, was striking and   breathtaking, and the first of its kind he had ever witnessed.

A fight took place involving two huge beasts, the hippo that had attacked me, and a crocodile, in what might have seemed to any passer-by as a normal fight that occurs frequently in the wild. The hippo lost the fight to his rival and left the scene. The man told us that he had immediately started his tireless supplications asking God to save my life, for there was not any possibility of rescuing me from the hideous situation, nor was he able, at least, to catch the beast’s attention and drive it away from me. It surprised him when the animal carried me inside his terrifying mouth and dragged me ashore into a safe place. What’s more, the creature let its gaze rest on me motionlessly till I was able to move some parts of my body, and then went back to the water, maybe to celebrate the crushing victory.

A familiar voice came from a corner of the room telling us” It’s Kimmo who saved your life. The crocodile you and your deceased grandpa saved when you were just five years old.” It was my grandma’s voice.

Kimmo neither forgot my face nor how I acted towards him, albeit the physiological transformation it occurred to me; he still remembered me and my helping him. Words do fail me, when an animal proves an unmatched gratefulness, in contrast with human being’s stances sometimes adopted in similar situations, in a world where countless people are becoming callous and morally corrupted.  

Ismail KAMAL