May We Be Forgiven

claw-footed tub that opens right out into the bush. There are bowls of Gummi snakes and small stuffed animals for the children. Two black servants bring in tea, lemonade, and biscuits—cookies filled with lemon crème—and peanut-butter-and-jelly sandwiches. I can’t decide if this is the way things are always done or if Sofia asked for some kind of special treatment.
    We rest for an hour, and then one of the guides comes in and talks with us about the safari drive we’ll go on at dusk. The rules are reviewed—cameras are welcome, no loud talking, never any yelling since it could cause an animal to stampede, no getting out of the cars, no trying to feed or otherwise attract the animals closer, hands in the vehicles at all times.
    I drink the tea and worry that while watching lions have their dinner I will once again have to relieve myself. I think of canceling, but the idea of sending the kids off into the twilight with Pieter and Dirk just isn’t going to work.

    W e rest; I give the kids the safari packs Sofia made for them, cameras, hats each with a giant metal button, “NATE’S BIG BM.”
    Dirk brings me a special drink. “This will help you feel better,” he says.
    “What is it?”
    “Gatorade,” he says. “We keep it on hand for pregnant ladies.”
    I’m not sure if he’s teasing or not, but I do feel better after drinking it.
    In the car with us for our evening drive is an older couple from the Netherlands. “I’ve wanted to do this my whole life,” the husband says. The wife, who speaks no English, nods along. “My grandfather came here years ago and brought home an elephant’s skin.”
    “He killed an elephant?” Ricardo asks.
    The man nods proudly. The rest of us say nothing.
    “As you know, this is a photographic safari,” Pieter says. “The only thing that will be shot is a camera.”
    The fellow from Amsterdam nods grimly, as though he’s really wishing he signed up for more.
    “We know that a pride of lions lives in this area; there are multiple females, a couple of males, and some cubs who are a few months old.” The car slows down. Pieter whispers, “What we see here, across the road, are fresh paw prints from the pride: they’re close by.”
    Suddenly one of the black guys points off to the side, and we see a male lion emerge from the bushes, followed by a female and a few younger cubs. The male lion appears to be stalking something; his tail twitches.
    “I know this lion,” Pieter says.
    The lions come closer and we all begin taking pictures of the lioness and her cubs, and then another female lion approaches and we track them to an area where several lions are chewing on what is, thank God, an unrecognizable carcass.
    “What are they eating?” the fellow from Amsterdam asks.
    “Steenbok,” Pieter says.
    “Are the animals fenced in?” I ask. “Is there any chance of running into a wild lion along the road?”
    “Very little,” Pieter says. “Most of our big animals are in game parks and reserves. You might see monkey, baboon, or some antelope out and about, but highly unlikely that you’d spot elephant, lion, rhino, or buffalo. …”
    “And do people still hunt those animals?”
    “They do,” Pieter says.
    “In a fenced park, that seems kind of pathetic,” Nate says.
    And no one says any more, until Ricardo says, “So this is kind of like an indoor/ outdoor zoo?”
    “Sort of,” Ashley says.

    W e spot a male lion having an argument with another male, and that’s good for about a hundred pictures, and then we make our way back to the camp as the sun is setting. The sky is enormously big, and before we are back, the stars are all out and we’re naming and, as a game, renaming constellations.
    Our tent has been remade for the evening. Each of the three giant sofas surrounding the master king-sized bed has been turned into a bed, crisp white sheets, plumped pillows all draped with mosquito netting—at once opulent and rustic. We are given the choice of dining with the other guests or on our own terrace.
    We choose the terrace. Each tent has its own “butler.” Ours is Bongani, a lithe young man with rich black skin who radiates goodness. When the children ask him to sit at the table and share their macaroni and cheese, he shakes his head no. “I have already eaten,” he says, “but it is good to see you enjoy.” Bongani brings me more Gatorade, some toast, and a pot of hot water in which to make my tea. Opening the kit Londisizwe gave me, I