The air is still, not an ounce of wind. As though this majestic animal had merely with its aura sent the wind twirling away somewhere, far, far away. The sky is clear, but for a few straggles of cloud, almost invisibly white to the eye. Like clockwork, every eighteen seconds a droplet of gathered sweat builds on the tip of Sipho’s nose, and falls to the dry ground beneath. Sipho has his scope and barrel trained on the rhino for what seems like hours. The crosshairs centring on its forehead and easily travelling to its neck and down its large body. Sipho suddenly feels the pressure building behind his eyes, the blood pumping harder and with increased regularity. He lowers the rifle to wipe away the thick covering of perspiration on his brow. He takes a deep steadying breath.

            He checks again through the scope, slightly adjusting the clarity and is pleased by what he sees. His prey is close and well in-view now. No obstructions. The crosshairs train finally on his unaware opponent, for the last time. Following the head of his prey, Sipho involuntarily lets his thick lips curl into a demented looking smile. He is enjoying the moment. The power in his arms to end life. His finger caresses the trigger. Its gentle curves an ideal partner for the arch of his digit. They become interlocked like lovers who have forsaken the world. His breath catches, steadies his aim. He shoots. He strikes through his left eye, shattering bones in his skull as the bullet rattles around his brain extinguishing all traces of life. Perfect shot.

            An orchestra of noise erupts around Sipho. Birds fly from their nests in vast droves, the pack of hyenas bolts randomly, not knowing where they run to only knowing that they must run somewhere. Shrieks, loud, high-pitched and crazy, emit from monkeys in the trees and in the bushes, fear gripping them tightly like a python. And fast powerful footsteps like the roll of a drum sound as the rhino charges back the way it came.

            Sipho shoots again, and watches as he is rewarded with a second kill. Wonderboy Ngobo. Death has come instantly to him and his customer, a fat, bronze skinned man, dressed in camouflage now splattered with his own blood. Their rifles continue to be clutched firmly in their hands, muscle spasms shuddering through their limp bodies.