iPod and Imagination (BEDA day 3)

Crouching behind a tall tuft of sand colored grass, I was on my toes as to not make a sound and scare off the gazelle grazing a mere 10 feet in front of me. The blazing sun directly overhead was to blame for the chain of salty sweat beads about to fall into my eyes and singe them blind. But I could not wipe. Any sudden movement would lose me my dinner. Well aware of my capabilities, I knew I had to get closer to it because there was no way I could throw my spear from this distance and confront the gazelle with an untimely death. I inched closer and heard the crunch of a small anthill collapse beneath my feet. My prey heard it too. Its head bobbed up to investigate the noise. I didn’t dare so much as to take a breath. I couldn’t afford to lose this one. I hadn’t eaten for days and wasn’t sure the loud pleas of my stomach wouldn’t compromise my position. The gazelle was afraid, and if I didn’t strike now, I would certainly not be eating tonight. There was no way I would be able to keep up on foot. It was now or never. I leapt from behind my hiding spot but I was too slow. I watched my dinner prance away. Just then I heard a growl from behind. The cheetah I named Ngozi, was behind me. I had barely touched her back when she jetted off, me riding her bareback in the direction of my dinner. Across the Serengeti we flew. The beads of sweat were now created a mask of dried salt deposits. I could see the gazelle. Being a cheetah, it took Ngozi a matter of forty-five seconds to catch up. Once side by side with my prey, I thrust my spear into it’s neck. Blood painted the surrounding grass crimson. After a few seconds, the gazelle once so graceful, skidded to a halt. I couldn’t have done it without Ngozi, so I let her dine with me. Stuffed, lying on Ngozi and, I watched the buzzards green with envy over my catch. Then... my cell phone vibrated.

Okay, so today didn’t go exactly like that. I more so chased my skateboard-riding kid-brother down the street in my suburban neighbor hood. In my defense, it was hot. A record breaking ninety-nine degrees Fahrenheit. And most important to the story, I was listening to the Mridanga album. For all you non-African music lovers, Mridanga is an album comprised of the intense percussion, bells, and unintelligible shouting that comes to mind when Americans think of "African" music. The best. I think I’ll go for another bike ride tomorrow.