The Narrow Path of Life
Three wars. Two lovers. 1 Pride. Will they live through the dangerous, narrow path of Life?
The sun beat down upon her sweaty forehead, causing the heat to sink into her. Her brown feet padded down against the dying, golden grass, causing her beautifully beaded ankle bracelet to jingle in merriment. Her beautiful velvet skin shone in the light of the hot African sun, causing her silk black short dreadlocks to glisten.
Her brown eyes glittered with the warmth of a mother, her face caring and gentle, as her dress swayed idly in the cooling African breeze. Bohlale, or wisdom, carried a small, beautifully adorned pot to carry the crystal clear water the Savannah always carried.
Today, it was her turn to grab the water for her tribe. Bohlale was like the mother of the tribe, though she could never have children. She was devastated when she gained knowledge of the situation, but loves her husband and friends just enough to make it through.
A small jungle, causing the water to always be cool and fresh, surrounded the river. Bohlale watched the animals that scattered around Africa in the distance.
She saw the zebras, galloping wistfully in the wind. She spotted the giraffes stretching their long necks for leaves, for food. And further out, she could spot just the faintest movement of the king of the Savannah.
The lions.
Their pride was beautiful. Each of their coats were dyed the color of the sun, giving a holy glow to them. And she spotted the alpha lion, the ruler. And a little to the left, she spotted a small, new tribe. One of the warriors in her home had left; outraged that he couldn't become captain.
He had left, in a huff, and began a tribe of his own. He was able to do so because some of the others warriors were loyal to him and they brought their families, while he brought his. It was a small tribe, but it would soon prosper.
Bohlale shook her head, as if ridding the thoughts, and walked into the humid jungle. She soon approached the river, and as she was about to gather the water, she heard something; something that shook her motherly instincts to the core.
She turned her head towards the source of the noise and soon spotted a broken, abandoned canoe. She set her pot down, and cautiously walked over to the terrible shipwreck.
It looks like the hyenas must've attacked a couple of foreigners, for the boat was much different than her natives'. But that didn't matter at the moment. All that mattered was the noise she had heard. Bohlale stood in front of the boat, peered over the edge, and gasped at what she saw. Lying on the seat was a beautiful baby girl.
She was wrapped in a white blanket with a bluebird stitched into it. Her face was small and delicate, almost like a porcelain doll. She had the faintest hint of rosy pink cheeks that were round and soft. She had a small tuft of dirty blond hair lying on her head and she had gorgeous brown eyes. And she was paler than those who lived on the Savannah.
She had to be only six months old!
Bohlale's face paled when she noticed the blood splattered around the boat, signifying that the baby's parents weren't alive. She swallowed the lump that had formed in her throat, and picked up the baby. She cradled the child, as if the girl was her own.
Bohlale's heart swelled when she heard the characteristic giggle escape the baby's soft, pink lips. Bohlale smiled in what had seemed to be in ages, and walked forward, all the while cooing motherly comforts to the baby. Forgetting her pot, she began to head back to the village, when a low, menacing growl interrupted her thoughts.
She looked up from the baby, eyes widened in shock at the threats that stood before her.
Female lions.
And they were eyeing the baby nestles in her arms.