Let the River Run
Copyright© 2026 by Jody Daniel
Chapter 29
Along the Sabi River, Skukuza, Kruger National Park.
The Sabi River slid past us in broad ribbons of green and brown, its surface flashing silver wherever the early afternoon sun found a gap between the trees. It was that strange, drowsy hour in the Lowveld when the heat seemed to settle over everything like an invisible blanket. Even the wind had given up.
Wolfie drove the old ranger’s bakkie with one elbow hanging out the window, the vehicle rattling and squeaking as we followed a sandy track along the riverbank. The air that came through my open window was hot and dry, carrying the smell of dust, sun-baked earth, and the faint sweet scent of wild sage crushed beneath tyres that had passed this way before.
The bush was alive despite the heat. Cicadas screamed from the trees in a deafening metallic chorus that rose and fell like a power line vibrating in the sky. Somewhere deeper in the riverine forest a pair of hornbills called to each other with their hollow, barking notes. The liquid chatter of a flock of waxbills drifted from a thicket ahead, while unseen doves repeated their mournful, rhythmic cooing from the shade.
Every now and then came the harsh, unmistakable cry of a fish eagle from somewhere downriver.
The sound seemed to hang over the bushveld. I leaned my arm on the door and watched the bush slide past.
The riverbank was thick with vegetation. Ancient jackalberries spread their dark canopies over the water, while towering sycamore figs thrust roots into the muddy banks like the fingers of giants. Between them grew tangled curtains of tick bush, dense and untidy, their dusty green leaves crowding the edge of the track.
The stuff was everywhere. Brush against it once and you’d spend the evening pulling ticks from your socks.
The sunlight painted the tick bush in shades of olive and gold. Dust settled on every leaf, muting the colours until they blended into the faded palette of late winter in the Kruger. Beyond the green ribbon of the river, the landscape opened into tawny grasslands dotted with knob-thorns and marula trees, their bark glowing amber in the afternoon light.
The smell changed whenever we crossed a patch of shade. Near the water there was a cool, earthy scent of damp mud, rotting leaves and river reeds. Then we’d emerge into the open again and the smell of dry grass, dust and warm stone returned, baking beneath a cloudless African sky.
A pair of impala bounded away from the track ahead of us, white tails flashing like signal flags before they disappeared into the tick bush.
“There’s enough wood here to keep Gustav busy for a month,” Wolfie muttered, squinting into the trees.
I laughed. “That’s because Gustav thinks a braai should be visible from space.”
Wolfie nodded gravely. “Valid point.”
The bakkie rolled on.
Somewhere in the river below us a hippo snorted loudly, followed by the splash of water. The sound echoed off the banks before fading back into the constant background music of the bush: cicadas, doves, rustling leaves, distant birds and the low whisper of the Sabi itself. It was the kind of afternoon that felt older than memory.
The air shimmered above the sand. Dust hung behind the bakkie like a golden veil. Sunlight filtered through the river trees in shafts of molten amber, turning every drifting insect into a spark of light.
For a few moments we did not speak. There was no need. The bush was speaking loudly enough on its own. The endless drone of insects, the scent of dry earth and river mud, the flicker of sunlight through the trees, the slow movement of the Sabi beneath its curtain of green.
It felt as though the whole of Africa was holding its breath, waiting for evening to arrive and release the wilderness from the grip of the afternoon heat.
“Right,” Wolfie said, “we can park here. I have seen a lot of old logs and kindle wood around here.”
“Okay,” I replied as Wolfie stopped and killed the engine.
“Just watch for boomslang (Green tree snake) and scorpions,” Wolfie said as he got out. “You can get some of those big logs while I go a little further for some kindle wood.”
“I know about the critters of the bush,” I replied. “That’s why I brought my leather gloves.”
“Just be careful,” Wolfie replied and walked off. Soon he was swallowed by the thicket. I noticed that he did not have his trusty 30-06 with him, only his nine millimetre in a side holster.
Back at Skukuza bungalows.
Back at the Skukuza bungalows, the afternoon heat had driven everyone into the deepest shade they could find.
The Lowveld sun was still hanging high over the camp, bleaching the world outside into shades of white-gold and dust. Beyond the veranda, the lawns shimmered in the heat haze, and somewhere between the bungalows and the river a cicada was conducting a one-insect symphony at full volume. The air felt thick enough to drink.
Even the vervet monkeys had given up their usual mischief and retreated into the jackalberry trees.
Inside the bungalow, the thatch roof trapped a pleasant coolness that smelled faintly of dry grass, old timber, and the lingering aroma of coffee from breakfast.
Darya sat at the heavy timber dining table, completely absorbed in the stripped-down components of her .50 calibre rifle.
A soft white cloth had been spread across the table like a surgical drape. The enormous bolt assembly rested on it alongside springs, pins, and tools arranged with military precision. Despite the thin film of gun oil coating everything, the cloth remained immaculate.
I suspected she would somehow keep it spotless even in a dust storm. The sharp, clean scent of solvent drifted through the room.
Darya was running a patch over the bolt carrier, her movements precise, rhythmic, and practised. There was something almost meditative about watching her work. To anyone unfamiliar with firearms, it probably looked like she was performing maintenance on a weapon capable of ending arguments from a kilometre away.
To Darya, it appeared to be no more remarkable than washing dishes.
Across from her, Nadia occupied a canvas bush-chair with all the elegance of a sedated leopard.
She was slouched so low that gravity seemed to be winning an ongoing battle for possession of her body. One boot rested on the edge of a footstool while the latest issue of Hunter & Rifle lay open across her lap.
She wasn’t reading it.
For the last five minutes she had been completely captivated by a paper wasp.
The insect drifted lazily beneath the exposed rafters, tracing looping figure-eights through shafts of sunlight that filtered over underside of the thatch roof. Every now and then it would pause in mid-air as though reconsidering its life choices before continuing its slow patrol.
Nadia tracked it with the same concentration she’d once used while stalking a wounded buffalo.
The screen door squeaked open and then closed behind me as I stepped inside, grateful for the shade.
Both women looked up. Outside, the heat felt like opening an oven door. Inside, it merely felt hot.
“Gustav is already fussing over the grids,” I said. “The guys went down to the river track to get a load of leadwood, so we should probably start heading over to the braai area before—”
“Sit.” Nadia didn’t even glance away from the wasp. She turned a page of the magazine with a sharp snap. “The firewood can wait. You’ve been putting this off since lunch.”
I stopped halfway through removing my sunglasses.
“Putting what off?”
The wasp continued its aerial patrol.
“Don’t insult our intelligence.”
That got my attention.
Darya’s rhythmic cleaning stopped. The patch paused halfway through the bolt carrier. She carefully set the assembly down, folded the cloth once, and reached for a fresh patch. Only then did she look up at me. Her dark eyes were calm, cool and utterly merciless.
“We want the full briefing, Kait.” There was not the slightest hint of humour in her voice. Which somehow made it worse. “Did he apologise properly, or do we need to assign Nadia to re-educate him?”
Nadia’s mouth curled slightly.
“I do enjoy educational work.”
“Oh, for heaven’s sake.” I felt heat rising into my cheeks. And for once it had absolutely nothing to do with the three o’clock Lowveld sun.
I leaned against the back of the sofa and crossed my arms.
“He was a perfect gentleman, if you must know.”
Both women stared at me.
“We talked,” I continued. “It’s sorted.”
“A gentleman.” Nadia finally looked away from the wasp. A slow, dangerous smile spread across her face. “That sounds terribly boring.”
She tossed the magazine onto the table.
“Did he drop to one knee?”
“No.”
“Quote poetry?”
“No.”
“Recite Shakespeare while gazing tragically into the middle distance?”
“Definitely not.”
“Pity.”
She sat upright.
“Come on, Kait. Details.”
Darya nodded once in agreement.
“We’ve spent the last day and a half trapped in vehicles and that damn helicopter of his with his brooding.”
“Professional-grade brooding,” Nadia added.
“The man could teach a masterclass.”
“Give us something.”
Despite myself, I laughed.
The tension I’d been carrying around all afternoon began to crack.
“He didn’t quote poetry.”
“Disappointing.”
“He apologised.”
“Less disappointing.”
“And?”
I sighed.
The two of them looked like investigators conducting an interrogation.
Only one was armed with a sniper rifle and the other possessed the social subtlety of a hand grenade.
So, I told them. Or at least, I told them the version I was willing to share.
I told them about the quiet sincerity in Adrian’s voice. About the way he’d admitted he was wrong without trying to hide behind excuses or pride. About the uncomfortable honesty of the conversation. About how he’d sat beside me while the afternoon drifted around us. About the way he’d taken my hand. The way he’d held it. The way he’d looked at me.
I painted them a picture of a decent man trying to make things right. A stubborn man. A protective man. A man carrying more weight than most people realised. The man I care about far more than was probably sensible.
What I didn’t tell them was everything else.
I didn’t mention the shadows that occasionally crossed his eyes when he thought nobody was watching. I didn’t mention the moments when the relaxed helicopter pilot disappeared and something far harder looked out through those blue-grey eyes.
I didn’t mention the tactical precision that slipped into his voice whenever conversations wandered toward security, operations, or his years as a task force commander.
There were scars there. Not the visible kind. The heavy ones. The kind earned over years. Those pieces belonged to him. And increasingly, they felt like they belonged to me as well.
They weren’t something I wanted picked apart over a rifle cleaning table.
Darya listened quietly.
When I finished, she picked up the bottle of oil and applied a single drop to the bolt rails.
For a brief moment, the corners of her mouth softened.
On Darya, it was practically a standing ovation.
“Good.”
The bolt slid smoothly into the receiver.
“A man who knows how to surrender gracefully is a keeper.”
The massive bolt locked home with a deep metallic clack.
Nadia groaned dramatically.
“Ugh.” She threw her head back against the chair. “Fine.”
Another groan. “True love wins.”
“It’s not—”
“Sure.”
“It’s not.”
“Absolutely.”
“Nadia.”
“Of course not.”
I grabbed a cushion and threw it at her. She caught it without looking.
“Now,” she continued, standing up and stretching, “let me find my shoes so we can all go watch Gustav commit unspeakable acts against innocent pieces of meat.”
“Gustav would be horrified by that description.”
“Gustav thinks charcoal is a food group.”
“Fair point.” I smiled despite myself.
Across the room, Darya completed her reassembly and cycled the bolt once.
The heavy mechanism slid backward and forward with a smooth metallic whisper before locking into battery.
Outside, a hornbill called from somewhere beyond the bungalows.
The cicadas were still screaming in the heat.
A hot breeze rustled through the trees.
Everything felt peaceful.
Comfortably ordinary.
For a little while, at least.
A mile down the river track, the afternoon silence was just as thick.
At Gustav’s boma firepit.
At Gustav’s bungalow, preparations for the evening braai were already well underway, despite the sun still hanging high in the early-to-mid afternoon sky.
Inside the spacious bungalow, Gustav Preller stood at the kitchen counter, tending to several thick slabs of springbok fillet he had personally selected from the camp stores the previous day, and soaked them overnight in buttermilk to remove the strong, minerally flavour.
Game meat is considered a little “wild” or “gamey”. This comes from the animal’s natural, uninhibited diet of wild shrubs, high muscle activity and high levels of iron in its body. Thus, one must soften this flavour by dairy soaks, and quick, intense cooking.
He turned each cut with practised hands, ensuring the rich marinade coated every surface evenly. The scent of garlic, crushed pepper, coriander, rosemary, and a generous splash of red wine drifted through the room, filling the air with promises of the feast to come.
As head ranger of Skukuza, Gustav enjoyed accommodations considerably more comfortable than those of the ordinary staff. His bungalow stood slightly apart from the cluster of ranger houses, nestled beneath towering riverine trees that offered welcome shade against the relentless Lowveld sun. The building itself was solid and practical, designed for function rather than luxury, but years of careful upkeep had transformed it into a welcoming home.
Three bedrooms branched from a central hallway, while a dedicated dining room occupied one side of the house. The kitchen, Gustav’s pride and joy, was modern by bush standards. It was neither cramped nor extravagant, but large enough for several people to work comfortably while preparing meals. Gleaming counter tops, sturdy cabinets, and a collection of well-maintained cooking utensils testified to Gustav’s belief that food was as important to morale as rifles were to security.
Outside, beyond a set of sliding doors, lay the true heart of the property: the boma.
Constructed from stone and timber, the circular enclosure sheltered visitors from the evening breeze while providing an unobstructed view of the African sky. A large firepit occupied the centre, blackened from countless braais held over the years. Around it stood sturdy wooden chairs and tables worn smooth by use. It was more than merely a place to cook meat. In the culture of the bushveld, a braai was an institution.
For Gustav, it was practically a sacred ritual.
Officially, the boma served as an entertainment venue for visiting dignitaries, government officials, conservation donors, military officers, researchers, and the occasional politician seeking photographs with wildlife. Unofficially, it was Gustav’s preferred method of diplomacy.
He firmly believed that disagreements dissolved faster over glowing coals than across conference tables.
Whenever questioned about his enthusiasm for hosting braais, Gustav invariably delivered the same explanation with complete seriousness.
“The sacrifice on the round altar of a gift of devotion,” he would declare grandly, gesturing toward the firepit, “contribute to the wellbeing of mutual spiritual understanding and companionship.”
Nobody was ever entirely certain whether he was joking. Most suspected he wasn’t.
A bottle cap clicked against glass and Steve lifted his beer, taking a long swallow. He sat beneath the shade of the veranda roof, boots propped on a nearby chair, watching Gustav work through the open doorway.
“How long still before we light up the fire?” he asked.
Gustav snorted. “Not until that useless ranger and pilot comes back with the wood.”
He dropped another fillet into the marinade and shook his head.
“We can’t start the fire without wood.”
The statement carried enough irritation to suggest he had repeated it several times already.
Steve chuckled. “They’ll be back shortly.”
His expression shifted into one of amusement as he glanced toward the side of the bungalow.
“And I hope you don’t have vodka around.”
Gustav looked up. “Why?”
Steve nodded toward the corner of the building. “Because here comes that Polish redhead and her two co-conspirators.”
Curiosity immediately replaced Gustav’s annoyance. He stepped toward the doorway and followed Steve’s gaze.
Three women emerged from around the side of the bungalow, walking together beneath the dappled shade of the trees. Their laughter carried ahead of them on the warm afternoon air. The unmistakable red hair of Nadia caught the sunlight like a flame, making her easy to spot even from a distance. Darya and Kait flanked her with the confidence of people clearly up to no good—or at least something entertaining.
Gustav studied the approaching trio for a moment before a broad grin spread across his face.
“Ah...” he said, straightening and wiping his hands on a kitchen towel. “Beauty arrives and we haven’t even started the sacrifice.”
Steve laughed into his beer.
To read the complete story you need to be logged in:
Log In or
Register for a Free account
(Why register?)
* Allows you 3 stories to read in 24 hours.