Safari Buffalo: The Calves' Odyssey

Chapter 2: First Steps Into the Wind

I wake to the feel of cool grass against my cheek and the steady rise and fall of the mother buffalo’s chest beneath my head. The darkness is still thick, but there’s a faint glow on the horizon—pale blue, like the inside of a seashell—telling me the sun will come soon. The herd is quiet, most still asleep, their breathing soft and rhythmic. Only a few males are awake, standing sentinel at the edge of our resting spot, their heads tilted toward the darkness, ears twitching at every sound.

I shift, stretching my legs slowly. They’re less wobbly than yesterday, but still feel like they’re made of something soft and unsteady, like wet clay. The mother buffalo stirs, her eyes opening to slits. She nuzzles my neck, her nose warm and rough, and I let out a small, contented grumble. I’m hungry again—not the hollow ache of yesterday, but a gentle tug in my belly that tells me it’s time for milk.

She stands up slowly, her joints creaking softly, and I scramble to my feet beside her. This time, I don’t tip over. I stand there, swaying a little, but my legs hold. She turns toward me, and I nudge her side, finding the teat easily now—my body remembers, even if my mind still feels new to this world. I latch on, and the warm milk flows into me, sweet and thick, and I close my eyes, savoring the feeling of fullness spreading through my belly. When I pull away, my chin is sticky, and she licks it clean, her tongue rough but gentle, like sandpaper dipped in warmth.

As we finish, the first rays of sun break over the horizon, painting the sky in streaks of orange and pink. The grassland lights up slowly, the green of the grass growing brighter, the shadows shrinking back. A bird calls—a loud, trilling sound—from an acacia tree nearby, and suddenly, the herd wakes up. There’s a rustle of fur, a clatter of hooves, and soft lowls fill the air as buffalo stretch and shake off the sleep of the night. The males let out deep, rumbling grunts, and the sound vibrates through the ground, making my hooves tingle.

The mother buffalo starts walking, and I follow, keeping close to her side. The grass comes up to my knees, tickling my legs as I move. I notice things I didn’t see yesterday: the way dewdrops cling to the grass blades, glistening like tiny diamonds in the sun; the small bugs that crawl through the dirt, their legs moving so fast they blur; the way the acacia leaves twist in the breeze, casting dappled shadows on the ground. My senses feel sharper, more alive—like a door has opened, and I can see and smell and hear more of the world around me.

We walk toward a patch of taller grass, where the herd is gathering to graze. As we go, a breeze picks up, blowing from the east. It carries the smell of water—fresh, cool water—and something else, something sharp and earthy, like rain that’s about to fall. The wind ruffled the mother buffalo’s fur, and she stops for a moment, lifting her head to sniff the air. Her ears twitch, and her eyes scan the horizon. I stop too, copying her, even though I don’t know what I’m looking for. She sniffs again, then lets out a soft lowl, and starts walking again. Whatever she smelled, it wasn’t dangerous. Not yet.

When we reach the tall grass, the mother buffalo lowers her head to graze. She tears at the grass with her teeth, her jaw moving in slow, steady motions. I watch her, curious, then nudge at a blade of grass with my nose. It’s taller than the grass I touched yesterday, thicker, with a rough edge. I take a tiny bite, chewing slowly. It’s not sweet like milk—it’s bitter, a little sharp—but it’s not unpleasant. I swallow, and my belly feels light, like I’ve done something new, something grown-up. The mother buffalo looks up at me, her eyes soft, and I take another bite. This time, I chew faster, liking the way the grass crunches between my teeth.

A group of young calves trots past, their hooves kicking up dirt. They’re bigger than me—maybe a few weeks old—and they’re chasing each other, jumping and snorting. One of them, a calf with a white patch on its forehead, stops and looks at me. It tilts its head, then trots over, snuffling at my shoulder. I freeze, not sure what to do. The mother buffalo is still grazing, but I can feel her watching us, her body tensing a little. The other calf sniffs me again, then lets out a small squeak. I squeak back, and suddenly, it jumps away, trotting back to the other calves. I let out a breath I didn’t know I was holding, and the mother buffalo nuzzles my side, like she’s proud of me. Maybe I am brave, after all.

As the morning wears on, the sun climbs higher, and the air warms up. The breeze dies down, and the grassland feels still, quiet except for the sound of the herd grazing and the occasional bird call. I’m tired—my legs ache from walking, and my eyes feel heavy. The mother buffalo notices, because she stops walking and lies down in the shade of a small bush. I curl up beside her, my head resting on her leg, and close my eyes. The shade is cool, a welcome relief from the sun, and I can hear the sound of her breathing, slow and steady, and the rustle of grass in the faint breeze.

I’m almost asleep when I hear a sound—a soft, scuttling noise. I open my eyes and see a small animal, brown and furry, with big ears and a long tail, crawling through the grass. It’s a hare, I think, though I don’t know the word for it. It stops, sitting up on its hind legs, and looks around. Its eyes are big and black, and they lock onto mine. I freeze, not wanting to scare it. It sits there for a moment, then flicks its tail and scuttles away, disappearing into the tall grass. I watch it go, my heart racing a little—not from fear, but from excitement. It’s the first small, wild thing I’ve seen up close, and it makes the grassland feel more alive, more like a place full of secrets.

When I wake up again, the sun is high in the sky, and the herd is starting to move. The mother buffalo stands up, and I stretch, my legs popping softly. We walk with the herd toward the waterhole—the same one we went to yesterday. As we go, I see more animals: a group of antelopes, their coats a rich brown, leaping through the grass; a pair of ostriches, their long legs carrying them quickly across the plain; a vulture circling high in the sky, its wings outstretched. The mother buffalo doesn’t pay them much attention, but I watch each one, my eyes wide. The world is full of so many different things, so many different shapes and sizes and colors. It’s overwhelming, but in a good way—like opening a box full of toys, and not knowing which one to play with first.

When we reach the waterhole, it’s busier than yesterday. There are more buffalo, more zebras, and even a few wildebeests, their shaggy manes blowing in the wind. The water is still brown, but it looks cool, and I’m thirsty. The mother buffalo walks to the edge of the water, and I follow. She lowers her head to drink, and I do the same, dipping my nose into the water. It’s cold, colder than yesterday, and it makes me shiver, but I drink anyway, gulping until my belly feels heavy and cool.

As I drink, I notice something moving in the water—a dark shape, gliding slowly beneath the surface. I freeze, my nose still in the water. The shape is long, thin, with a pointed head. It moves silently, like a shadow. The mother buffalo lifts her head, her ears pricked, and follows my gaze. She lets out a low, warning lowl, and steps in front of me, shielding me from the water. The shape glides past, disappearing into the deeper part of the waterhole. I step back, my legs shaking. What was that? It was quiet, so quiet, and it moved like it was hiding. The mother buffalo nuzzles my head, her body warm against mine, and I know she’s telling me it’s okay, that we’re safe now. But I can’t stop thinking about the dark shape in the water. The grassland has secrets, and some of them are scary.

We stay at the waterhole for a while longer, the mother buffalo drinking again, me standing close to her side, watching the water. A zebra comes over to drink, its stripes glowing in the sun. It doesn’t notice the dark shape—maybe it’s used to it, or maybe it doesn’t see it. The zebra drinks quickly, then trots away, joining the other zebras on the edge of the waterhole. I watch it go, and then I look back at the water. The surface is calm now, no shapes moving beneath it. But I know it’s still there, somewhere, waiting.

When the herd starts to leave the waterhole, the mother buffalo walks beside me, her body close. We walk back toward the tall grass, where we’ll graze for the afternoon. The sun is still high, but the breeze has picked up again, carrying the smell of grass and earth. I feel tired, but I also feel alive—like I’ve learned something important today, something about the grassland and the things that live in it. It’s not just a place of warm sun and sweet milk. It’s a place of dark shapes in the water, of wind that carries secrets, of animals that are both friend and foe. But it’s my home, and as long as I’m with the mother buffalo, as long as I’m part of the herd, I think I can learn to live here.

As we walk, I see the hare again, sitting in the grass, watching us. It doesn’t run away this time. It just sits there, its big eyes looking at me. I stop for a moment, and the mother buffalo stops too. We stand there, watching each other—the small, furry hare and the tiny, shaggy buffalo calf—until the hare flicks its tail and disappears into the grass. I start walking again, and the mother buffalo follows. The grass tickles my legs, the sun warms my back, and the sound of the herd’s hooves fills the air. It’s a good sound, a safe sound.

That night, when the herd settles down to sleep, the mother buffalo curls around me, her body a warm shield against the darkness. The sun has set, painting the sky in shades of purple and blue, and the first stars are starting to twinkle. Somewhere in the distance, a lion roars—louder than last night, closer. The herd tenses, the males letting out deep grunts, their horns lowered. I press closer to the mother buffalo, my heart racing. But she doesn’t move, just holds me tighter, and after a while, the lion’s roar fades away. The herd relaxes, and the soft sound of breathing fills the air again.