We went to the Serengeti as a family, staying in a lodge nestled right inside the heart of the savannah. Each morning, elephants and giraffes would stroll past our room as though we were guests in their kingdom. It was nothing short of magical.
By day, we ventured out in a four-wheel drive across endless golden plains, watching wildebeest migrate in unison and gazing into the ancient Ngorongoro Crater where the earth seemed to hold its breath.
One late morning, while we lingered over breakfast, our driver suddenly appeared. Breathless with urgency, he said: “There’s a kill. Come if you want to witness it.” We scrambled into the vehicle and sped off. Ahead of us, a pack of lionesses had locked their eyes on a gazelle.
The air was taut with silence and dust. With perfect coordination, they fanned out, circling their prey. The chase was swift, brutal, and decisive. Within moments, the gazelle was subdued.
As the lionesses began their feast, others waited at the edges of the scene the hyenas, patient but restless the vultures, wheeling in the sky even eagles perched nearby, biding their time.
It was a hierarchy of hunger, each species knowing its place in the cycle. After some time, our driver urged us to move on. By the evening, when we passed the same spot, not a trace remained not even bones.
Nature had consumed everything, leaving only the imprint on the earth. I thought to myself: how extraordinary this balance of survival is nothing wasted, nothing left behind.
And yet, how strange that we, as humans, could sit in awe and even excitement at the sight of one life extinguished to sustain another.
In that moment, I felt both wonder and unease, humbled by the raw honesty of the wild.
