this is Not My first panic attack in Africa, but it might be my last.

“Stop!” George whispers, reaching over and grabbing my left shoulder as we jerk to a stop.

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Two water buffalo stand in a small clearing to the left of the trail behind ten yards of tall savanna grass—brown, gently bending, the tips bending farther with the breeze. The buffalo stare at us—heavy black heads with black noses, black horns caked with mud, black eyes. Each of our eyes are at the same level. George’s Ugandan safari guide eyes. Louise’s Irish wife mother missionary eyes. My American husband father missionary eyes. Four water buffalo eyes. God’s eyes.

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“The motor too!” George whispers. The clutch and brake are to the floor. I gently shift to neutral, ease off the clutch and turn off the ignition. Silence. My ears open wide and reach for anything. All windows are closed. I hear nothing external. I hear my heart speeding up in my ears and that internal ringing that’s always there. A missionary doctor in jean shorts told me that ringing in the ears means high blood pressure. He also said he could diagnose malaria by the smell of a person’s breath. I can’t smell any breath. I can smell bodies. Louise’s faint fragrance still becoming familiar two years into our marriage. George’s clean but pungent sweat, like the sweat of so many Africans I’ve sweated among daily during my five Uganda years. My own warmth coming up through my shirt and down through the salt of dried sweat in the frayed bill of my hat.