09/07/2026
Poachers in the Hills
Night had settled over Mpatamanga Ranch when Thomas first saw the light.
It was small at first, no more than a flicker against the black outline of the hills. It appeared once, disappeared, then appeared again, moving slowly across the slope above the Shire River.
Thomas stopped walking.
“There,” he whispered.
I followed his eyes.
It was not a star. It was not the glow of a village fire. It was not a firefly drifting harmlessly through the night.
It was a torch.
Bison, my elder scout, stood beside us in silence. He did not need anything explained to him. He had spent too many years in the bush to mistake that kind of light. It moved with purpose. It paused. It searched. Then it dipped low again among the rocks and trees.
Poachers.
At Mpatamanga, a light in the hills at night was never innocent.
For more than twenty years, I had fought to protect that ranch — its woodland, its wildlife, its riverbanks, and the quiet life that still survived there. No government patrol was waiting nearby. No donor-funded vehicle was parked at the gate. No NGO team was coming up the track.
That night, as on many nights before, it was just us.
Bison watched the hillside with the calm of an old scout who knew how men moved when they were trying not to be seen. Thomas knew the paths and gullies better than anyone. I knew what was at stake.
We moved without torches.
The climb was slow and careful. Loose stones shifted under our feet. Dry grass brushed against our legs. Thorn branches pulled at our clothes. Below us, the Shire River moved through the gorge, dark and unseen, carrying on as if the land above it was not about to be tested.
The torch appeared again.
Closer now.
Its beam swept briefly across the ground, then vanished behind a shoulder of rock.
We dropped lower and worked our way along the ridge, using the darkness and the shape of the hill to cover our approach. Every step had to be placed carefully. One snapped branch, one rolling stone, and the poachers would know we were coming.
Then we heard them.
Voices.
Low. Careful. Men speaking in the dark, trying to keep quiet but unable to silence themselves completely.
Bison crouched and held up his hand.
We stopped.
The poachers were below us now, trapped between two rocky outcrops without knowing it. Their torch flashed once, and in that brief wash of light I saw the shape of a man bending towards the ground. Another stood behind him, holding something long in his hand. Whether it was a spear, a panga, or a firearm, I could not tell.
In the African bush at night, you do not gamble with assumptions.
I stood ready with my 12-bore shotgun, prepared for whatever came back at us from the darkness. A desperate poacher, cornered on a hillside, could turn very quickly from thief to killer. We were not there to play heroes. We were there to protect the ranch and to survive the night.
Bison looked at me.
I nodded.
Thomas moved quietly to the left, cutting off one line of escape. Bison edged forward, silent and controlled, waiting for the exact moment. The poachers moved deeper into the narrow gap.
Then Bison rose from the darkness.
“Iwe!”
His voice cracked across the hillside like a rifle shot.
For one second, everything stopped.
The torch froze.
The voices died.
The whole of Mpatamanga seemed to hold its breath.
Then the night exploded
I fired a warning shot in the air.
One man shouted. Another stumbled backwards. The torch beam spun wildly across the rocks and trees. Thomas came in from the side, shouting hard, and I stepped forward from above, ready for any flash of fire from below.
But no shot came.
The poachers had no idea how many of us there were. In the darkness, our voices bounced between the rocks and returned larger than life. To them, it must have sounded as if the whole hill had risen against them.
They broke.
Branches snapped. Stones rolled down the slope. One man fell, scrambled up again, and vanished into the bush. Another threw himself through the scrub as if the darkness itself had teeth. Their torch dropped, rolled, and went out.
Bison went after them with his machete first, steady and fearless despite his age. Thomas followed close behind. I moved as far as the ground allowed, watching the black spaces between the trees, still ready in case one of them turned back.
But they did not turn.
They ran until the hillside swallowed them.
Then silence returned.
Not all at once, but slowly. The insects started again. A nightjar called somewhere in the distance. The river continued moving below us, dark and patient beneath the gorge.
Thomas found the torch lying in the grass.
Near it was a crude wire snare, twisted and ready.
That told us enough.
Bison picked up the snare and held it in his hand. In the dark, I could not see his face clearly, but I knew what he was thinking. We all did.
That wire was not just wire.
It was suffering waiting to happen.
It was an animal strangled in silence.
It was everything we had fought against for twenty years.
No one said much after that. There was no need. We gathered what they had left behind and stood for a while on the hillside, listening to make sure they were gone.
That night, no animal died in that part of Mpatamanga. No snare was set. No poacher walked away believing the ranch was empty or forgotten.
As we made our way back down through the rocks and thorn, I looked once more over the dark shape of the land.
Mpatamanga was still standing.
And so were we.
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