The older man in the floppy hat snapped another picture, and Ephram almost went rogue. Spirits of Africa, how many candid shots do they need? If they lingered much longer, Ephram wouldn’t be able to control himself. He had to shit!
For the last half-hour, Ephram had been tromping about, flinging mud onto himself, and squeezing his butt cheeks hard enough to crack ivory. Last night’s feast of grass and fruit had worked its way through his innards and now demanded release. But still the Jeep bus full of tourists idled, its occupants blissfully clicking away with digital SLRs and phones on selfie sticks. Hadn’t they heard the old saying? A watched elephant never shits.
I’m no hippo, thought Ephram, whirling my business out behind me in the water. I might be airing it out on vacation, but next week I return to my desk job in downtown Johannesburg. And there, I don’t even like having someone in the bathroom stall next to me when I shit. Some things were meant to be private, and Ephram needed these voyeurs to get bored soon.
“Benny, get a shot of him eating,” a lady in a pink hat tugged at the older cameraman’s sleeve.
When Benny grunted in reply, Ephram swung his head in an aggressive circle and trumpeted indignantly. Then dinner knocked at his back door again and Ephram had to stomp to keep everything in. The tourists exclaimed and clicked faster. The tour driver, however, looked nervous, and Ephram got an idea. Trumpeting louder, Ephram scraped the ground with his tusk. He flung mud toward the Jeep, then snorted and stomped closer. The driver put the bus in gear.
Go see the giraffes already! Ephram trumpeted and charged the bus. Getting the clue, the driver took off, startled tourists clutching railings and hurriedly retracting phone sticks.
Ephram chased them for twenty meters, then stopped, squatted behind a larger acacia tree, and smiled.