calf bellowed and was pulled under. Blood spurted from a rush of foam. With an anguished roar the cow lunged. Her huge jaws gaped and closed on the body of the crocodile. Immediately the thorny vice on the calf’s leg loosened.
In a sweep of red spray Novikela tossed her head upwards and the crocodile soared into the air. Then its body smacked into the water, bitten clean in half. Blood spread in bright-red feathers as the severed halves floated downstream.
The cow lifted her injured calf over her broad muzzle and carried her to their bed in the reeds. For days afterwards the little one limped, but her wounds healed fast under her oozing sweat.
The calf did not forget the terror though. From then on she always pressed close to the shelter of her mother’s shoulder.
Four
One morning at dawn, Novikela led her calf to Mzamuli’s territory at the edge of the reeds. Soon the bull would be leading his cows back to the river after the night’s grazing. The cow waited, listening.
Before long she heard their soft grunts approaching. She turned to face them as they entered the path through the reeds. She lowered her head and grunted.
Mzamuli stopped still. Then he snorted and came slowly towards her.
Novikela stood very quiet and lowered her head again, keeping her body between the calf and Mzamuli. Nombili4 pushed past the bull and greeted Novikela, followed by the other cows and calves.
Mzamuli uttered a triumphant “hom-hom-hom!” as he welcomed back his old cow and the calf he glimpsed behind her. They followed him into the river and swam, a family united, to the nursery on the sandbank.
There they lifted their heads and grunted to the cows and calves of Nosibanzi5 and Ndlebe6, who were wading ashore, discharging dung into the water with sharp tail flurries, booming a greeting.
Novikela’s calf pressed herself under her mother’s belly and peered between her legs at great feet and bellies, crisscrossed with scars and skinfolds. Rumbling and sighing, the cows milled around them to welcome Novikela and her newborn. Huge bristled maws nudged the calf, acknowledging her, binding her to the group.
“Gomph,” Novikela grunted and sank down onto the sand. She was back in the sanctuary again. Here her calf was safe in the presence of the great warm cows.
No animal in the bush dared approach a hippo nursery. Not even the bulls entered without permission.
“Gomph.” Novikela leaned her muzzle over Nombili’s neck and closed her eyes. She opened one eye when her calf rose and approached an older calf.
They stared at each other and began to push heads, grunting and scuffing sand. Then they locked jaws and twisted their heads from side to side. They pushed each other backwards and forwards, until Novikela’s calf fell over.
The older calf collapsed onto her and they fell asleep together on the warm sand.
Five
Mist lay in the river valley one morning, veiling the reeds. Mzamuli and his cows were trotting down from the hills after a night’s grazing.
The bull stopped to discharge dung, marking his territory. Suddenly his nostrils dilated. In the mud lay a pile of strange dung and the deep prints of an intruder. Mzamuli quickly spattered his own dung over the insult and barged through the reeds to the water’s edge.
There he paused. In the shallows stood a strange bull. Mzamuli opened his maw wide and displayed his tusks. The stranger responded with a gape as wide and threatening.
Snorting anxiously, the cows shepherded their calves across the river to the sandbank. They turned to stare as Mzamuli belched up a gust of foul air, opened his maw even wider and swung his head from side to side while his curved tusks flashed. But the young bull stood his ground and insolently displayed his own tusks.
He, Sihambi7, had come to fight.
It was ten seasons since Sihambi had been driven from the herd. Having matured at eight years old, he had made his first fumbling attempt to mount a cow. The cows had chased him from the nursery and an angry bull had attacked Sihambi and driven him far into the bush.
Desolate, he had wandered along the river, seeking shade and water to cool his torn hide. Towards sunset he had approached a bachelor wallow that two young bulls had established on the outskirts of the herd domain. Submissively he had drawn near, begging acceptance. He was admitted into their company and the three young bulls had wallowed and grazed together through many seasons. They often sparred with one another, training for the day when they would attempt to wrest power from a bull with cows.
Today Sihambi, the banished youngster, returned in his prime, eighteen years old. He was driven by an urge he could not tame. He was ready to fight a bull for his cows, to kill or to be killed.
“Hom-hom-hom-hom!” Mzamuli boomed and moved slowly towards him. Sihambi did not back away.
“Grrahoom!” The old bull charged headlong and drove his massive head against Sihambi’s. With a buffeting sideswipe he sent the young bull staggering into the reeds. But Sihambi turned nimbly and presented his head again.
“Chock!” The huge skulls met. A sliver of fear crept through Mzamuli. He had not met a head like this for a long time. Fear and fury drove him to charge again, pushing Sihambi back up the muddy channel through the reeds.
When Sihambi stumbled, the old bull ripped into his neck. Bellowing, the young bull sidestepped and backed off. Surveying Mzamuli, he saw that the old bull was grunting with each breath. He was not fresh.
Years of sparring in the bachelor wallow had taught Sihambi that when you were not as heavy as your opponent, you had to tire him with running. Once out of the reed beds, he would have the advantage. So he let Mzamuli drive him further away from the river.
When they reached the sandy space beyond the fever trees, Sihambi moved nimbly around Mzamuli, darting in to slash his flanks and retreating before the huge head could send him reeling. For over an hour he taunted Mzamuli, until the old bull was bleeding from a crisscross of slashes over his flanks and shoulders.
In a desperate charge, Mzamuli drove Sihambi back, cornered him against a termite mound, slashed a long curl of white fat from his shoulder and buffeted him sideways into a thorn thicket. With a roar of fury Sihambi scrambled to his feet, scattering dust and tussocks.
The big bull stood ready for him, presenting his muzzle. Sihambi made as if to meet him head on, but sidestepped a pace or two away and slashed upwards into Mzamuli’s belly.
With a groaning belch, the old bull ran for refuge in a wild gardenia thicket. His lungs were pumping like bellows. And he was afraid, more and more afraid.
Instinct urged him to return to the cool water where his weight and exhaustion would be offset by his powerful head and tusks. He left the thicket and headed to the river.
Sihambi was waiting
