Ivory

Every night, my father leaves the house. He never tells me where he’s going, just to go back to bed. By living in a small town in rural South Africa, word spreads quickly. 

But nobody knows where he goes. Nobody even knows that he leaves.

Tonight, I decided to follow him.

I got in bed like a usual night, kissing the cheeks of my mother and father before heading into my room. I waited and waited and waited. Finally, I heard the familiar rumble of a truck that comes to our house each night, and that was my cue.

I slipped out my window and got onto my bike that I had positioned earlier. It’s rusted, the once bright blue paint now peeled and faded into an orange-brown hue, but I don’t mind. As long as it works, it does its job.

I watch my father get into the truck, and for the first time, I see what it looks like. There’s a large area of truckbed, covered by a thin canopy of beige fabric. About 5 men are currently in the back of it, each holding a shotgun.
My father climbs in, all of them greeting him like an old friend. The part that surprises me is when they hand him one of their guns. 

What could my father possibly need a gun for?

The truck rumbles as it starts up, one man in the front compartment to drive it. I let the truck get a headstart so it doesn’t see me, and then I start to bike behind it. 

One of the taillights is broken, dangling precariously from its socket, barely scraping the dirt road beneath the wheels. I travel within this dim area, the darkness hiding me easily. For once I’m grateful there’s not many streetlights.

After passing the edge of the town, where we are now, the lamps illuminating the side of the road become less frequent since most people only travel here during the day.

One of the men sticks his head out a flap in the side of the fabric.

“There!” he shouts, and the driver instantly slams on the breaks. 

The tires squeal at the sudden stop, and the largest flap in the back gets lifted up. I don’t think before I get off the road as quickly as possible.

I fall into a shallow ditch on the side of the road, tumbling before a tree stops me. My bike follows, landing next to me. I sit up, breathing heavily and brushing the dirt off my hands by wiping them on my pants. The tan fabric of the cargo bottoms is covered with splotches of dirt and leaves, but that’s not my main concern.

I crawl on my knees over to the edge of the hole, laying on my stomach and supporting my body on my elbows. I let my head go up enough to see what’s happening on the other side of the road, and the first thing I see is a herd of elephants.

The large creatures are hard to make out in the darkness due to their gray skin, but the massive silhouette is distinct enough for me to know what they are. 

I’m momentarily distracted from my goal of watching my father and instead focus on the majestic creatures.

The outline of what must be a baby elephant running up to a larger one, likely its mother. It nudges her leg, making a soft trumpeting noise. She makes a similar noise in response and raises her trunk. 

A loud bang rings through the clearing, echoing. Another one follows it. And another.

The mother falls, the thud of her body hitting the ground making every elephant in the herd go silent for a moment. 

Then they all run. In every direction, mostly away from the body of her. One elephant stays. 

The baby. 

It repeats the same noise as earlier, trying to wake her up or get a response. It nudges her with its trunk, making more trumpet noises.

She lifts her head slightly and responds with a weak response, strained, and fading at the end. Her head falls back down, and the baby keeps nudging her with its trunk. 

Another gunshot rings through the clearing, this time hitting the ground near the baby’s feet. It runs away, trumpeting the whole way. At the edge of some trees, it pauses and looks back, as if it’s waiting for its mother. 

The men from the truck, including my father, walk out from the bushes they were hiding in. They whoop and high five each other, and my jaw drops.

I watch as one of the men pulls out a machete from his belt, the metal slightly rusted but glinting from the faint glow of the truck lights.

He raises it above his head and then brings it down above the start of the tusk. He hacks the blade down a few times until the entire tusk falls to the ground. My father and another one of the crew pick it up together, carrying it back to the truck. 

I’m frozen in shock and fear, and yet I can’t look away. 

It doesn’t take them long to gather the parts of the elephant they want, loading them into the truck and then continuing on the same road. I stay this time.

Slowly I get out of the ditch, lifting my bike with me. I cross the road, depositing my bike on the side. Tentatively, I walk towards the body.

The tusks are gone, empty and bloody sockets in their place. Her stomach is cut open, likely empty inside.

I can barely look without bursting into tears, so I go towards my bike to leave. Bushes and trees rustle nearby, and a baby elephant comes out.

The same one as before.

It repeats its call from earlier, more insistently this time. It cries and cries for its mother, and when she doesn’t respond, it lays next to her back. 

It rests its head on her leathered skin and closes its eyes.

I can’t stand the sight anymore, getting on my rusted bike and starting in the direction I came from. 

I’m dazed when I reach my house, climbing back into my window. It’s only when I lay in bed that I process what I just witnessed. Hot tears sting my eyes before slowly falling down my cheeks, continuing their journey until my pillow is wet.

Those men killed the elephant.

My father killed that elephant.

Charlotte Cooper ‘29

I wrote this story while thinking of the way culture and nature go head to head. I've always thought poaching is a major problem that gets overlooked by a large majority of society, so I wrote this piece about a child who witnesses the horrors of this in person.