The Ghost of Elephant Island!

The Ghosts of Elephant Island!

Ama sat on the ground, her chin resting on her hands, watching her grandmother stare out the window. The golden light of the setting sun bathed her grandmother’s face, but Ama could tell she wasn’t really here—not in their home, not in the present. She was somewhere else, somewhere vast and distant.

“Nana?” Ama’s voice was gentle, hesitant. “Tell me about your trip.”

Her grandmother blinked and turned, as if just now realizing Ama was in the room. She smiled, but it didn’t quite reach her eyes. “Oh, my dear, the Sahel was beautiful. The sky stretched endlessly, the earth shimmered under the sun, and the wind carried the scent of acacia and dry grass. And Ecofest—it was alive with music, drumming, and laughter. People came from everywhere to celebrate the land and its resilience.”

Ama scooted closer. “Did you see any elephants?”

A shadow passed over her grandmother's face, and the light in her eyes dimmed. She shook her head. “No, Ama. There are no elephants left in the Sahel.”

Ama frowned. “But weren’t they there for hundreds, maybe thousands of years?”

Her grandmother nodded slowly. “For longer than we can truly know. The Sahel was once their home. They walked its dry riverbeds, grazed on its trees, drank from its hidden oases. They were part of the land, just as much as the sky, the wind, and the sun.” She sighed, her voice turning heavy. “But then came the poachers. The ivory trade. Bit by bit, herd by herd, they vanished.”

Ama’s heart clenched. She imagined the mighty elephants, their large, wise eyes, their tusks shining under the sun. And then she imagined them gone.

“The last one,” her grandmother murmured. “I keep thinking about the last one.”

Ama looked up. “The last elephant?”

Her grandmother nodded. “There was one left, for a while. A single, solitary elephant wandering the land. No herd. No family. Just footprints in the dust that led nowhere.” She swallowed hard.

 “No one knows exactly when it happened, but he was taken, too. They say the ground where he fell was stained for days.”

A deep silence filled the room. Ama swallowed, feeling a lump rise in her throat. “Do you think he knew, Nana? That he was the last?”

Her grandmother turned to her, as if the question had caught her off guard. She was quiet for a long time. Then, softly, she said, “Maybe he did, Ama. Maybe the land whispered it to him. Maybe the sky told him in the way it stretched a little wider, a little emptier. Maybe the wind carried the sorrow of his ancestors.”

Ama closed her eyes, trying to picture him—the last elephant, alone in the golden light of the Sahel, his great ears flapping, his trunk swaying, listening to a silence deeper than any before.

She opened her eyes. "Nana, where do you think his soul is now?”

Her grandmother’s face softened, and she reached over, smoothing Ama’s hair. “I think he is still there, in the Sahel. Not in body, but in spirit. I think his footprints remain, unseen but never forgotten. And I believe, in the quiet of the wind, if you listen closely, you can still hear his call.”

Ama nodded, closing her eyes again. She imagined the last elephant, walking across the dunes, his spirit free, his presence eternal.

And in the quiet of the evening, she swore she could almost hear him.

The End.