It's a mad, mad, mad, baboon world

(By Erik)

What happens when your wife’s at work, you’re at home watching PBS and it’s too wet outside to do yard work?

You get Baboon Fiction.

Here’s a little dialogue piece I thought up while learning about the brutal realities of baboon life in the Zimbabwean wilderness thanks to Murder in the Troop, an episode of the public TV series Nature.

The whole piece got a little big Lion King on me, but not in a child-friendly way. (Hey, it’s a baboon-kill-baboon world out there. Just watch the show.) Anyway, apologies to the Zimbabwean friends and biblical characters whose names I borrowed for this piece. (I'm horrible at thinking up names.)

Let me know what you think. If you like it, I’ll write some additional pieces. If you don’t, I’ll go back to composing a cappella lyrics for TV theme songs.

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Salome and her husband sat on a ridge overlooking the dry flood plain. The rains were late this year. The parched land beneath their feet testified.

“It’s been three days,” Nhamo said, watching his wife caress the short hair of their son. His ears seemed so tiny. “He’s gone. You have to release him to the spirit world.”

“I know,” she said, carefully grooming the boy’s body. “Tomorrow morning. I promise.”

A few feet away, the king was feasting on a faun he’d pried away from its mother. His fangs sliced eagerly through the tender flesh. There was no need to hurry over. He’d started eating long before dusk, and his new queen, Shana, would get the carcass when he had his fill. The rest of the tribe would get whatever she left — if there was anything left.

The king needed the sustenance — they all did. Nhamo knew it. Still, this new monarch seemed to relish his kills, especially the young ones.

Nhamo looked back at his wife, her eyes fixed on a point far beyond the valley. He tried to match his wife’s gaze and spoke again.

“I want to thank you … for not blaming me for what happened,” he said.

After a pause, she answered him.
“There’s no one to blame,” she said. “It’s our way. He’s the king now. He’s younger, faster, stronger.” There was no condescending tone in her voice — just brutal truth.

Nhamo was too old and wise to disagree. All he could do was picture a time when the outcome of the fight would have been different.

“In my prime, I would have torn him apart,” he said.

“No you wouldn’t,” she replied. “You would have spared him like he spared you when he took the tribe. But you would have shown him mercy and kindness … and the same to his children,” she added, quietly.

Nhamo grunted, pawing the dry grass at his feet.

“You know this isn’t over,” he said. “He’ll come after Timothy next. As long as you’re nursing, he can’t —”

“It’ll be OK,” she interrupted him, quick and assured. “Shana’s diverted his attention for now. He’ll leave me alone. And we’ll both watch Timothy.”

Instinctively they turned their heads toward the tree line, where their son played with a small group of friends. The children had managed to avoid the king’s terrible wrath three days ago, but they all remained at risk. Right now, none of them seemed to care.

“Twins are a rare gift,” Nhamo said. “It’s not right that he won’t remember his brother.”

“We can’t change that,” Salome said, her voice trailing into a whisper. The king had left the carcass and was approaching.

“All yours, ladies,” he said, like a gracious host inviting undeserving guests to a banquet. Cleaning his long fangs, he passed them and headed for a nearby shrub.

“Still no rain,” he said, over his shoulder, “so we’ll go back to the Zambezi tomorrow.”

Salome walked toward the body, where the others had already gathered. “That river’s still full of crocodiles,” she told her husband, barely above a whisper. “We could lose half the tribe. Those crocs can devour anyone they choose.”

Fixing his gaze on the reclining king, Nhamo’s eyes bore a sudden sense of resolve.

“Yes,” he said. “Crocs are like that.”