A few years ago, I found myself sitting under a tree in the middle of the forest, soaked in sweat, with a machete in one hand and a weird feeling in my gut. It wasn’t fear exactly—it was more like that moment when you realize you might be in over your head. The kind of moment where you start asking yourself, “Why on earth did I agree to this again?”
That was the first time I tagged along with my uncle to hunt bushmeat. I wasn’t holding a gun or anything (not yet), just helping out. But that day kicked off what eventually became a huge part of my life. Hunting’s not just about chasing animals through the wild. Nah, it’s way more complicated than that. It’s patience. It’s instinct. It’s knowing when to move and when to stay still for hours even when your legs go numb.
Let me walk you through it.
We usually start early—like, while the rest of the world’s still dreaming kind of early. By 4:30 AM, I’m already packing my things. A torchlight, a water bottle, a small sack of gari and sugar (trust me, it’s a life-saver), and of course, my old, rusty double-barrel shotgun. It’s been in the family for years. Might not look like much, but it’s reliable. Kinda like that friend who always shows up late but still gets the job done.
We move in silence. That’s rule number one. The bush listens more than you think. You step on a dry leaf the wrong way, and whatever you’re after bolts before you even spot it. Sometimes we use traps—those take skill to set. You need to know where the animals pass, how they think, what they sniff. Honestly, I wasn’t good at it at first. I set my trap once and ended up catching a goat that had wandered in from a nearby village. (Long story short: I had to explain myself to a very angry woman named Auntie Mercy.)
Hunting is part strategy, part luck. There are days I walk for hours, sweat soaking through my shirt, mosquitoes feasting on every inch of skin, and come back empty-handed. And then there are days when I spot a duiker or a grasscutter just at the right moment. Heart pounding. Breath held. One clean shot. It’s a rush, I won’t lie. But I always say a little prayer afterward. I know I’ve taken a life, and that means something.
Some people think hunters are just heartless bushmen. But it’s not like that. In my experience, most of us respect the forest more than anyone else. We don’t waste what we kill. We use every part—the meat, the skin, even the bones sometimes. And we don’t hunt just anything. There are rules. Unspoken ones, mostly. You don’t kill nursing animals. You don’t take more than you need. At least, the good hunters don’t.
Funny thing is, hunting’s changed a lot. Back then, it was mostly for food. Now, some folks are just in it for the money. I get it—times are hard. But it feels different. Like something’s been lost. The connection. The rhythm.
I still go out once in a while. Mostly with my nephews now, showing them the ropes. They think it’s all action and wild adventure—probably watched too many movies. But I tell them, “If you’re not willing to sit in silence for five hours and get eaten alive by ants, this isn’t for you.”
Anyway, that’s the life. Muddy boots. Long walks. The sound of birdsong at dawn. And that deep, silent bond with the land around you.
It’s not always pretty. But it’s real. And for me, that’s enough.
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