The Man in the Yellow Hat ©

Augusto bought the pistol to shoot the pigeons off the front porch railing. The game warden said they were Grey Parrots and he wasn’t allowed to shoot them, but Augusto bought the gun just the same. As a boy, Augusto shot sparrows with a slingshot and bragged to his father when he had a credible kill. His father would rub the boy’s head and smile and tell him what a skilled hunter he would be someday. The parrots weren’t really bothersome to Augusto, but he liked that they were quick targets that he could shoot from under the shade of his front porch where he drank his whiskey. Sometimes Augusto would drink too much and fall asleep in a dirty, sweat-stained hammock that hung from the corner of the porch. The far end of the hammock was attached to a wooden post that was planted beneath the wide shade of a Mimosa tree in the dusty yard. The game warden, or the man in the yellow hat as he was called, warned Augusto about shooting the parrots, but Augusto cared about little and thought about less. Except George. He often thought about George and what a fun, quick target George would make.

Looking through an early morning fog towards an unseen Serengeti horizon, the man in the yellow hat sat for a long time on the edge of an oasis and listened to the sounds of the sanctuary at his back. The oasis had been silent moments earlier, but nature’s intuition was beginning to lead a pre-dawn symphony into harmonious jungle melodies. On one side of the man sat George, a chimpanzee. On the other side lay a pistol loaded with cartridge-fired tranquilizers. The man was cleaning a hunting rifle. The chimpanzee was pulling tufts of grass and putting the moist rooted ends into his mouth. The man in the yellow hat loaded a cartridge into the chamber of the rifle. He slid the bolt closed, reholstered the pistol, then stood to see if Augusto’s cabin might now be seen through the fog. It was. More than a silhouette of the cabin was now visible as the fog had lifted and the glare from the plains was beginning to shine through the thicket.

Augusto could be seen sleeping in the hammock in the yard. A corked bottle of whiskey lay in the dry earth beneath him. His shirt was unbuttoned, exposing his fat, sweat-shined belly. His crossed arms hid the pistol he used for shooting parrots.

Leboo, a single Maasai warrior watched Augusto from the bushy verdure. The local Maasai had come to the man in the yellow hat to express their excitement in seeing a lion near their village. The latest report was that the lion was seen near Augusto’s cabin. Misunderstanding the excitement for fear, the man assured the excited villagers he would take an early morning look around.

Spotting one another at nearly the same time, Leboo and the man in the yellow hat agreed with silent hand gestures to meet in the thinner foliage beyond the Mimosa tree.

“Let’s go George.” Said the man in the yellow hat.
The chimpanzee sprang to his feet and swiftly ran ahead of the man, across the dusty open, to the Mimosa tree. There was no time for the man to stop the chimpanzee. In seconds, George was beneath Augusto’s hammock holding the whiskey bottle. It didn’t matter, thought the man, George can take care of himself. Separately, the Maasai warrior and the man in the yellow hat continued to circle Augusto’s cabin.

With Augusto’s whiskey bottle in his grip, the chimpanzee noisily lifted himself into the lower branches of the Mimosa tree. Augusto woke with a start.

The man in the yellow hat was the first to see the lion. Its huge flat paws slowly, one by one, settled into the dust. Its solid shoulders were lowered. Its heavy head was up, level, inches above the earth. The lion crept steadily towards Augusto. From his vantage, the man in the yellow hat could see George, Augusto and the long crouching broad side of the lion.

Unaware of the lion that was nearly ready to gallop and leap onto him, Augusto cleared his head and trained his pistol on George.

“Finally.” Said Augusto.

The man in the yellow hat raised and steadied his rifle. His decision was made. The trigger was pulled. With an explosion, Whunk – the bullet found its home in the meaty gut of its target.

Heat simmer distorted zebras and fig trees in the distance. Grazing Wildebeest hardened like marble. Gazelles paused. Life on the Serengeti stopped for an instant, then carried on.