Normally, there were many, many sounds of wild animals at night on our family farm in Africa. I was born on that farm, and lived there my first twenty-nine years.

One of those sounds was identified by adult family members as the barks of Jakkals.

What occurred to me when I was an adult, after having lived for years and years far, far away from the farm, was that nobody had ever heard that Jakkal-bark while looking at a Jakkal barking.

In other words, I have no definite proof that what was identified to me by hearsay as a Jakkal-bark among the many, many nighttime animal farm sounds, was, in fact, evidence that a Jakkal was barking at night.

Incredibly, in the past forty years-or-so I have been living in a modern City, and yet, despite the numerous forms of electronic communications readily available, I have yet to view visual-aural entertainment of a Jakkal barking, day or night.

In other words, I have yet to be convinced that Jakkals, indeed, do bark.

There was a tradition on the farm that a few times a year, except in Winter, a farmer hunt a Jakkal at night at a hidden stationary point. Whenever we heard a gunshot in the early hours of a morning, we assumed it was a farmer Jakkal hunting.

Many times I overheard adult farmers among themselves exchanging details of their early morning Jakkal hunts. Of their failures and success; mostly failures on account of Jakkals being far, far more successful nighttime hunters than farmers. I never heard a hunter mention how fortunate they were that Jakkals did not hunt humans.

As a child, when I overheard farmers discussing their animal hunts, I always, silently of course, cheered for the hunted animal. And so I admired a hunter farmer especially more when they recounted joyously even their failures.

Should I feel a twinge-or-two of guilty conscience that on two occasions when hunted wild animals, not Jakkals, counter-attacked and seriously wounded the hunting farmers, I tried hard to not feel sorry for the injured farmers, even while I was glad the animals escaped injury?

In my adult years, I am forever thankful that no hunter-farmer was ever killed by their hunted wild animal. Surely, my inner conflict would have crippled me for life.

Uncle Neal, my mother’s elder brother, decided to go Jakkal hunting. He followed the farm tradition which was to wait, armed with a loaded firearm, in a high bush in the early morning darkness on a moonless night to ambush an unsuspecting Jakkal, and shoot it dead.

Uncle Neal decided to take me and my cousin Obed along. Obed was fifteen and I was thirteen. I demurred, but Uncle Neal insisted, saying it was necessary experience to prepare me to eventually become a farmer. Eventually, by the way, I never became a farmer.

Obed would have volunteered had Uncle Neal not invited him. Obed, eventually, was one of the children who inherited the farm.

Obed felt extra joyous because he knew how much I was against hunting wild animals that kept to themselves in the wilderness, minding their own wild business. He was one of some of the children on the farm who made fun of me, now-and-then, here-and-there, for being on the side of the wild animals, in a hunt for sport.

In my adult years I became aware just how alien that pro predatory wild animal bias in me was in a person born and brought up on a farm. Nonetheless, in my favor was the fact that, in all the claims that Jakkals were a danger to domestic farm animals, I never heard mention of any instance when that claim was supported by an actual happening.

In other words, in all my twenty-nine years on our family farm no farm animal was harmed by a Jakkal.

Harmed by snakes? Yes, many times.

Harmed by stinging insects? Yes, more times than by snakes.

Harmed by us humans? Yes, more times than by snakes and stinging insects, combined!

And, as well, really, did it make any difference to a feathered farm animal whether it was eaten by us or by a Jakkal? Really?

The three of us dressed warmly. Obed and I armed ourselves with sturdy farm sticks that served as walking aids through dense taller-than-us wild vegetation, and as defensive weapons against wild animals; snakes in particular.

Uncle Neal was armed with a long shotgun. Obed looked at that shotgun admiringly; wishfully; enviously; longingly.

A few years later, Obed would be among the armed farmers. That is when I would learn that, for the first time, Uncle Neal was using newly invented electronic cartridges that night. With electronic cartridges the hunter need not aim for the prey. Hitting the ground near the prey was sufficient to either paralyze or to kill the prey, depending on the calibre of the cartridge fired.

In other words, no Jakkal stood a fair sporting chance against Uncle Neal, that night!

We walked in single-file; I, being the youngest, was last in line.

Eventually, Uncle Neal picked a spot. Obed and I hid, sitting on the ground deep inside a bush of wild vegetation. I assumed Uncle Neal was waiting somewhere nearby to ambush a Jakkal. We waited in total darkness. The next day, Obed would brag to me that he had brought along a flashlight, in secret.

We heard all kinds of animal sounds in the distance, but none in our vicinity. The nearby absolute silence frightened me.

I whispered to Obed my puzzlement about there being no animal sounds in our vicinity. His whispered matter-of-fact all-knowing reply was that most of them were asleep, and that the night hunters among them were probably silently assessing us as edible prey.

Obed’s explanation made me more frightened. We sat still, straining to hear animals, in particular approaching cunning Jakkals.

None came. Nor did we hear any Jakkal barks, near or far. I was nearly-overwhelmed with joyous relief when, eventually, Uncle Neal announced it was time to return home. Dawn sunlight was imminent on the horizon.

While there was a probability that no Jakkal trespassed on our farm that night, I chose to believe that they came, and had expertly outwitted us.

We struggled slowly through the tall wild vegetation. I was especially thankful that because of the early hour, our movements through the wild vegetation did not unleash hordes of predatory flying insects against us.

In single-file we slowly walked up to the main farmhouse. I, being the youngest, lagged a few steps last.

The family member who opened the door for us, stopped us because she saw a strange bird sitting on my back. The four of us stood still.

Uncle Neal cautiously looked the bird over, carefully; extra carefully since dawn light was not bright enough to show full details.

All of us were extremely tense. Because the bird was perched on me, I was, understandably, tense and frightened and on the brink of tearing. Hey, I was only thirteen years old.

The bird was dark-brown. At first, it gave the impression of being a wild dove, but it had no tail. In brighter light a small ridge of feathers was discernible on its head.

A bench was brought out for me. Obed was invited to enter the home; he made a dash for it. Uncle Neal stood on guard on me and my passenger.

The news got to others inside. Some watched through the window. None was allowed through the front door. Many came out through the back door, and approached cautiously, slowly.

My no-nonsense Granny walked up to the bird, and offered it raw rice grains in a bowl. The bird eagerly pecked at the rice. Granny lifted the bird off my back, and lowered it to the ground where she put the bowl of rice.

I did not wait to be invited to enter the home. I dashed inside.

Uncle Neal paused a few seconds. He followed me into the home after he determined there was no danger from the bird.

I went to bed for a few hours. When I came outside later in the day, the bird had left. Nobody knew when it had left. Clearly, after the initial curiosity that discovered nothing of particular interest about that bird, everybody had lost all interest and, hence, paid no more attention to it.

When I asked Granny, she said that after she had put out a bowl of water for the bird to drink, she paid no further attention to it. She assured me that whenever that bird left, it was well-fed, and wholly healthy.

After that, in all my years on the farm, I kept a lookout for that kind of bird. I never saw any.

The three of us never again went on a Jakkal hunt on the farm.

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