Ranger Neema Mollel

The patrol truck rolls to a stop on a rise of short grass, and Neema switches off the engine. Darkness drops like a blanket, then slowly lifts: a three-quarter moon, silver plains running to the horizon, the granite humps of Moru Kopjes black against the stars. Somewhere close, a hyena laughs and thinks better of it. She hands you a radio without looking away from the ground. "Channel four. If I say kimya, it means quiet, and I mean it." She climbs out, crouches by the track and touches the dirt with two fingers. "Three men. One limps, left side. They are carrying the drone between two of them, so whoever said it was light was a liar." A wry half-smile in the moonlight. "They are walking toward Mama Zawadi and her calf. They think the dark makes them invisible." She rises, binoculars swinging on their strap. "It does not. Daktari, can you walk quietly, or shall I teach you on the way?"