Storming buffalo

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I woke up alone and realised that my people had already left without me. I was a late sleeper and stubborn to wake up, so it did not surprise me that they had left me behind.


The fire had gone out, and nothing was left behind except the dirt beneath my feet. So I picked up my sack and headed north.


I saw their backs as they headed up the steep hill. They were walking up slowly, in small groups, with metres of space between them. I knew there were close to a thousand folk making their way up the mountain. They could not see far ahead, and they were reserving their energy, so they walked like stubborn donkeys, silent, quiet, with just their nearest and dearest in their hands.


I felt guilty, or rather pressurised, to catch up, to show face, so I edged myself to the right where I was suddenly in a clearing. I wondered briefly why no one was walking there. It was so dusty that I could not see even two metres ahead of me.


The next thought I had was filled with an image of a storming buffalo, coming right at me. I did not stand a chance. One second I saw the raging buffalo stampeding down the hill, and the next I was dead. I remember thinking, thank God I did not feel any pain, but I realised I was dead.


And thereafter I sat like a wise man in the open plains and gave sage advice to the seekers. I had died but somehow I had also come back to life. And I felt better off for it.

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