Samson stood before us. And we weren’t particularly proud of ourselves.
Our entire bodies were tensed toward this impressive animal, the oldest lion in the reserve, our guide Joseph had told us. The oldest, perhaps, but still very imposing, and still full of spirit if I judged by the casual manner in which he’d climbed to the top of the termite mound next to which our vehicle had stopped. He’d settled himself there, surely to dominate the situation. Certainly also to tell us, with pride and an accompanying yawn, that he was at home here and that we were merely intruders. And this admitted no possible discussion, had anyone even dared to open the debate. He watched us at times with nonchalance, at times with hunger, and I thought I could make out, with some unease, his whiskers trembling with desire. I noticed, surprised, that Grand-Pa’s moustache looked nothing like a lion’s. This made me smile. Only inwardly, though, since I had no wish to show any sign to this animal that might give him a pretext to want to lick my ear a little too closely.
I studied Grand-Pa. He hadn’t stopped watching Samson.
From the start he’d placed his hand on my leg and was squeezing it slightly, but not too much. Just enough to order me not to move from the vehicle if danger arose. Perhaps also to tell me that he was there, still, and that nothing could happen to me as long as he was beside me. Bodyguard style.
And suddenly, I had the impression that the sky was collapsing on us. Thunder overtook us. You know, that low rumble, distant at first, then drawing gradually closer until it makes you vibrate. My body shuddered when Samson began to roar. A fascinating roar, both frightening and impressive. Each powerful exhalation from his body was an act of intimidation aimed directly at me. I felt it deep in my gut. And it took my breath away. I was afraid!
Grand-Pa had told me while packing my suitcase: “You’ll see, you’re going to live experiences like never before in Africa.” I was almost ready to believe him!
