MALAIKA
VAN HEERLING
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MALAIKA
synopsis:
synopsis:
A middle-aged man with the crushing weight of his American past seeks peace and a simpler life in rural Kenya. Armed with only his smokes and coffee he discovers a friendship with the most unlikely of friends—a lioness he rightfully names Malaika (“Angel” in Swahili). But she is no ordinary lioness nor is he an ordinary man. Between them they share a gift. But not all embrace their bond and some seek to sever it. Discover this new world rich in human truth and sensibility.
MALAIKA
Chapter One
Chapter One
The weight of my waking body sagged as my hand dangled off the beaten plastic armrest. My fingertips stuck to the lip of an American coffee cup mostly because of the moisture clouded in my palm, rather than my grip. My God, she was quiet. Had I been her culinary eye’s desire I definitely would have been it. For some reason I had the nostalgic disco beats of the seventies circling the air ducts of my mind. In hindsight perhaps this was a coping mechanism. It seemed that I had been through more in the last couple years than I cared to think about.
My other hand gingerly held a loosely rolled cigarette—in the early mornings I am not as motivated as most of the workforce, no doubt readying themselves for their day’s toil.
I rolled the tobacco up to my lip, my eyelids shut to the cresting sun over Kenyan mountains. The fiery smoke warmed my throat from the morning chill. This African tobacco chars more tender throats but my once virginal uvula and esophagus toughened up long ago. The fire these days simply continues to callous the linings of my ever embattled breathing pipe. It’s an acquired taste. It is earned, I suppose. An argument for my ex-wife? Perhaps.
It was to be a very clear day. January usually is, and hot of course, but this goes without saying—I wasn’t yet used to the opposite seasons. The only ones to complain about the heat are foreigners, so I complain—God do I complain.
I readjusted my back for a moment lifting the slipping cup of Joe to my mouth, and then lowering it back down to its roosting spot a foot or so off the ground, dangling from my fingertips.
She was quiet. When you live in the wild and your hand is pushed into the air by what can only be bad, you notice. You notice real fast. I’m not sure if I was leaping from the foldout chair when I heard the guttural sniff or if I was already standing. This was a beast. At least three hundred pounds, a big cat. She paid little attention to me at first. Sniffing the spilt coffee as it contoured to the cracked earth. Pawing it, she sniffed and lapped up what she could find. Then licking her chops she raised her head squarely at me. The sun looming over the mountains reflected in her eyes. Her body language was uninhibited, relaxed even, but those eyes—burned fierce.
Swiftly I realized that neither one of us was moving. Not good. I had frozen at five feet away from her with my cigarette hand pressed out towards her as if the fiery cherry were a shield. I didn’t want to be the first to move. Then I remembered, “deer in the headlights” syndrome, and thought—shit, move your ass! Just as I was about to shift my body weight backward her eyes flickered toward my intended route. Smart. They’re not known as killing machines because they are guessers.
Lions never hunt alone . . . I was a goner for sure. Knowing this was it, I figured that I better take another drag. When Abasi found what was left of me he’d discover the last remnants of his sweet, sweet tobacco. I gently pulled my cherry shield back to my lips. I wasn’t dead yet or being dragged into the jungle. Good sign. So I sucked. It was the best smoke I’d ever had. Still not dead. Even better. I exhaled quietly as the smoke billowed from my mouth. She tilted her head up toward the expanding cloud of ‘Kenyan’s Best’, and, sniffing the air her nostrils flared. She shook her head and huffed some from the foreign and relatively concentrated dose.
Not that I wanted to see my disembowelment chasing me up, I did look however, albeit slowly, to my right and my left. No other interested visitors that I could see. I wasn’t about to turn my back on this feline, but, even though I was sure to be dead in less than five minutes, I did gaze toward the house. It was wide open, both doors and all three windows. However even if I could manage to get in she’d be on my heels or through a window before I could grab and cock my shotgun. I’d be wrestling a full-grown lion in a four hundred square foot sand brick hut. That is, if I could even make it through the door.
She never took her eyes from me as she sniffed the air again. I billowed out yet another tobacco cloud. She sniffed the air a third time, but didn’t recoil from the smoke. Placing one paw toward me, her eyes continued to deadlock on mine, but now lacked the fierceness of before. She sniffed the air again, I puffed again, and now another step toward me. Too close. I panicked and feebly pushed the cigarette from my hand where it landed just in front of her fuchsia and ebony edged nostrils. I took two steps back. She noticed, but preoccupied herself with my token expression of “please-don’t-eat-me.” Huddling in front of the smoldering tobacco, hunched down, she investigated the curious object.
“Careful. It's h—” Her tongue peeled from her massive mouth and pressed against the ember. She yelped loudly and hissed, bouncing backward “—ot,” I finished. She shook her head angrily in my direction, as if to say how about a little warning next time . . . “I tried to tell you but—” This was when I realized I was talking to a lion. I’m not sure why but I do know that she didn’t eat me. Her composure came back somewhat as she began to cautiously pull her body forward. She was proud. Head high shoulders and back straight. Really just a marvelous creature. The muddled russet coat was truly brilliant to behold, especially so close up. I held my hand out palm up because I’m an idiot, I know, but it seemed like the proper thing to do at the time. I was right. She tentatively pressed the crown of her head against my knuckles. I wasn’t ready for the sheer power. It didn’t hurt because her push was a “gentle” push. She pressed her body against my pant leg, nearly knocking me to my butt. I pressed my hand against her fur. It was surprisingly soft, but thick and rugged—if it is possible to be these at the same time. She circled me two times. I didn’t move much. Then she treaded her footsteps back to my chair, sniffed at the coffee sodden ground again and trotted back into the jungle.
I felt ashamed about wanting to take her down. Although I’m sure it crossed her mind once or twice, so maybe we were even.
My other hand gingerly held a loosely rolled cigarette—in the early mornings I am not as motivated as most of the workforce, no doubt readying themselves for their day’s toil.
I rolled the tobacco up to my lip, my eyelids shut to the cresting sun over Kenyan mountains. The fiery smoke warmed my throat from the morning chill. This African tobacco chars more tender throats but my once virginal uvula and esophagus toughened up long ago. The fire these days simply continues to callous the linings of my ever embattled breathing pipe. It’s an acquired taste. It is earned, I suppose. An argument for my ex-wife? Perhaps.
It was to be a very clear day. January usually is, and hot of course, but this goes without saying—I wasn’t yet used to the opposite seasons. The only ones to complain about the heat are foreigners, so I complain—God do I complain.
I readjusted my back for a moment lifting the slipping cup of Joe to my mouth, and then lowering it back down to its roosting spot a foot or so off the ground, dangling from my fingertips.
She was quiet. When you live in the wild and your hand is pushed into the air by what can only be bad, you notice. You notice real fast. I’m not sure if I was leaping from the foldout chair when I heard the guttural sniff or if I was already standing. This was a beast. At least three hundred pounds, a big cat. She paid little attention to me at first. Sniffing the spilt coffee as it contoured to the cracked earth. Pawing it, she sniffed and lapped up what she could find. Then licking her chops she raised her head squarely at me. The sun looming over the mountains reflected in her eyes. Her body language was uninhibited, relaxed even, but those eyes—burned fierce.
Swiftly I realized that neither one of us was moving. Not good. I had frozen at five feet away from her with my cigarette hand pressed out towards her as if the fiery cherry were a shield. I didn’t want to be the first to move. Then I remembered, “deer in the headlights” syndrome, and thought—shit, move your ass! Just as I was about to shift my body weight backward her eyes flickered toward my intended route. Smart. They’re not known as killing machines because they are guessers.
Lions never hunt alone . . . I was a goner for sure. Knowing this was it, I figured that I better take another drag. When Abasi found what was left of me he’d discover the last remnants of his sweet, sweet tobacco. I gently pulled my cherry shield back to my lips. I wasn’t dead yet or being dragged into the jungle. Good sign. So I sucked. It was the best smoke I’d ever had. Still not dead. Even better. I exhaled quietly as the smoke billowed from my mouth. She tilted her head up toward the expanding cloud of ‘Kenyan’s Best’, and, sniffing the air her nostrils flared. She shook her head and huffed some from the foreign and relatively concentrated dose.
Not that I wanted to see my disembowelment chasing me up, I did look however, albeit slowly, to my right and my left. No other interested visitors that I could see. I wasn’t about to turn my back on this feline, but, even though I was sure to be dead in less than five minutes, I did gaze toward the house. It was wide open, both doors and all three windows. However even if I could manage to get in she’d be on my heels or through a window before I could grab and cock my shotgun. I’d be wrestling a full-grown lion in a four hundred square foot sand brick hut. That is, if I could even make it through the door.
She never took her eyes from me as she sniffed the air again. I billowed out yet another tobacco cloud. She sniffed the air a third time, but didn’t recoil from the smoke. Placing one paw toward me, her eyes continued to deadlock on mine, but now lacked the fierceness of before. She sniffed the air again, I puffed again, and now another step toward me. Too close. I panicked and feebly pushed the cigarette from my hand where it landed just in front of her fuchsia and ebony edged nostrils. I took two steps back. She noticed, but preoccupied herself with my token expression of “please-don’t-eat-me.” Huddling in front of the smoldering tobacco, hunched down, she investigated the curious object.
“Careful. It's h—” Her tongue peeled from her massive mouth and pressed against the ember. She yelped loudly and hissed, bouncing backward “—ot,” I finished. She shook her head angrily in my direction, as if to say how about a little warning next time . . . “I tried to tell you but—” This was when I realized I was talking to a lion. I’m not sure why but I do know that she didn’t eat me. Her composure came back somewhat as she began to cautiously pull her body forward. She was proud. Head high shoulders and back straight. Really just a marvelous creature. The muddled russet coat was truly brilliant to behold, especially so close up. I held my hand out palm up because I’m an idiot, I know, but it seemed like the proper thing to do at the time. I was right. She tentatively pressed the crown of her head against my knuckles. I wasn’t ready for the sheer power. It didn’t hurt because her push was a “gentle” push. She pressed her body against my pant leg, nearly knocking me to my butt. I pressed my hand against her fur. It was surprisingly soft, but thick and rugged—if it is possible to be these at the same time. She circled me two times. I didn’t move much. Then she treaded her footsteps back to my chair, sniffed at the coffee sodden ground again and trotted back into the jungle.
I felt ashamed about wanting to take her down. Although I’m sure it crossed her mind once or twice, so maybe we were even.
copyright 2010
MALAIKA
Reviewed by retired high school teacher.
This novella is deceptively simple in its voice, but "Malaika" captures all the subtlety of man's need for honesty and truth in an unconditional friendship. This is more than a friendship between a man and a lioness.
Their bond transcends reality into the world of dreams where communication is possible when language and prejudice prevent the simple joys of just being in this world. Thoreau's idea of "simplify, simplify, simplify!" works for the crazy American who has jettisoned his family and creature comforts and needs a catalyst (excuse the pun) in order to see that he is running away from his life rather than facing it.
Emerson and Thoreau, as well as Thomas's friends in the village at the edge of the Serengeti, see what Malaika sees--that the ways of the world are cruel, troubling, and complicated. The lioness becomes a mother symbol of strength and hope for mankind even though it takes man time to see beyond his own selfish tendencies. This is a lovely book in which the simplicity of the text allows the reader to see the complexity of the human condition.
Cheryl K.
Their bond transcends reality into the world of dreams where communication is possible when language and prejudice prevent the simple joys of just being in this world. Thoreau's idea of "simplify, simplify, simplify!" works for the crazy American who has jettisoned his family and creature comforts and needs a catalyst (excuse the pun) in order to see that he is running away from his life rather than facing it.
Emerson and Thoreau, as well as Thomas's friends in the village at the edge of the Serengeti, see what Malaika sees--that the ways of the world are cruel, troubling, and complicated. The lioness becomes a mother symbol of strength and hope for mankind even though it takes man time to see beyond his own selfish tendencies. This is a lovely book in which the simplicity of the text allows the reader to see the complexity of the human condition.
Cheryl K.
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Rules, structure, and opinions attempt to cage and shape art.
But to be technically imperfect is to be an artist—definition.
Ironically the imperfection is the perfection.
~Tarn Williamson~
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