Catching birds (The failed hunts and the thrills)
Sometimes I, Christopher, Nathan, Raphael, Fred, Austin, Matthew, and Joe went on a bird hunt. Only to return home from our outings dry, without catching any birds. It was tiring and discouraging. But we always got the strength to get up and try again. Failure did not feel good; we laughed through it all. We shared jokes and always promised to do better next time. But my friends and I would always come up with all sorts of excuses, laughing through it all.
“The birds were too clever today.”
“The wind was against us.”
These were the kind of excuses that Nathan, the most talkative one among our friends, would give.
On one Saturday morning, just before the rains came, we were in the middle of a hunt. We moved slowly. The air was lighter than usual. Confidence inspired the hunt that day. The previous week had gone well enough. We had spotted plenty of birds, missed a few close shots, and convinced ourselves that luck was on our side. We were determined to do our best on the next hunt. Bearing stones and slingers under the rising sun, we teased each other about who would score first.
Just as the ground was beginning to warm beneath the sun, we arrived at Lilayi. The tall, dry grass brushed against our legs, slowing our pace. The feeling was good and hopeful. Birds seemed to be teasing us faintly from somewhere deep inside the bush.
The first sign was a sound. Fred spotted a bird perched low on a branch and signaled to us. All of us froze as he took his time aiming and released the slingshot. His shot went cleanly but struck a tree trunk instead. The bird flew away and we all groaned from disappointment.
“Too fast,” Fred said.
“Maybe you are losing skill,” Austin said with a smirk.
As we moved deeper into the bush, we tried to be quieter and more alert. Every rustle brought us to a stop. We froze with every shadow. Once, Nathan was sure he saw a dove settled near a thicket. We all crept forward, only for the dove to burst out too early, flapping its wings loudly.
“The wind scared it,” Nathan said.
“There was no wind,” Mathew said in a low voice.
As time passed, we became more frustrated with all the misses. Shots were released too quickly. Fred’s shot hit a tree. Matthew’s shot skidded and went to waste across the ground. With no warning, Austin tripped over a root. A flock of doves scattered before any of us could raise our slingshots.
“Ah! Damn it,” he said.
By noon, the sun was very hot. Our faces became sweaty and dirty. The bushes were calmer now, almost empty; all birds seemed to have escaped. We sat under a tree for a water break. The water I had brought from home, in a plastic container, was already warm from heat. I laughed out of frustration.
“The birds probably heard us coming,” Joe mused.
“The birds have become smarter now,” mocked Christopher.
We tried one more time. This time, however, we were more cautious. We felt tired and defeated, dragging our feet along the edge of the bush. Though a little determination still lingered. There was nothing—not one clear shot, no feathers, no prizes.
Without a warning, we turned onto the trail home. Our hands were empty, but our mouths were busy replaying every miss and mistake, laughing and recounting what had gone wrong. Retelling our experiences mattered more than the outcome; the story was already forming as we walked. Another tale added to our ever-growing library. It was a dry day—one to remember clearly because even failure, shared like that, felt full. My friends and I knew we could laugh about it and think about how the next round could completely change our luck. Even failure was part of the fun. There was always the next day.
Lilayi itself became a character in our stories: the tall grass, the dry branches, the wet patches, and the hidden thorns. All these experiences molded into our adventures. It tested us, it surprised us, and it gave us stories, almost like a living presence. We promised to return, and every visit gave us a new memory, adding to the legend of our mornings there.
In retrospect, the failed days shine perhaps even more than the successful ones. They were chaotic and are some of my best memories. They taught us to carry on when our efforts aren’t rewarded and to keep our spirits up even when everything goes wrong. Most importantly, such days were a lesson that problems can make us grow closer.
Those hunting mornings taught much more than aim and patience. They taught life lessons disguised as games and how to find joy in imperfection. The lessons became the foundation of the man I have become. Work or setbacks may slow me down. Then I remember the birds and the rain and moving forward with joy. Back then, I was a boy living in the moment. Now I look back with gratitude. Now I don’t chase birds. I chase a variety of other things like goals, responsibilities, and deadlines. But still, the spirit of those mornings still guides me.
One morning, right before the rainy season, Christopher stepped on a concealed bottle. He screamed, and we all rushed over, ripping a strip from Joe’s shirt to tie around his foot and we all carried him home. His mother scolded us.
“What were you boys thinking?” Christopher’s mother shouted, her voice trembling as she looked at his foot.
“What if the bottle had gone deeper? Running around barefoot in the bush?”
“We’re sorry, Mom, “Joe said quickly.
“We did not see the bottle. We dressed the wound tight and brought him home right away,” I added.
Christopher’s mom shook her head, still upset.
“Sorry doesn’t stop infections,” she said, though her hands were already gentle as she examined the wound.
She was scared that Christopher may have been badly hurt. It was a mother’s instinct, strong even when she understood why we went hunting. But by the following week Christopher returned, slingshot in hand, laughing at our sympathy and limping only slightly.
“You’d think I lost a leg the way you’re all staring,” Christopher said while laughing and adjusting his slingshot.
“At least let us pretend to feel bad for you,” Fred replied and shook his head.
We were young and fearless and invincible.
On another sunny morning we were at Lilayi. Austin hid behind a bush, pretending to chase a bird. When Fred carefully zeroed in on an empty branch to shoot, Austin jumped out, and Fred flinched, missing the shot entirely. The two of them had us laughing for minutes. Those moments, however small they seemed, formed the rhythmic pulse of Lilayi: unpredictability and mischief, lessons in real time, and the flow of the day.
I will always remember the day we returned with three sparrows. That day, three of us managed to catch birds. Me, Christopher, and Nathan. Fred, Austin, Matthew, and Joe, however, did not get as close, and despite trying hard, they did not have as much luck. Fred always seemed to have his stones fly toward the trees instead of anywhere near the birds. Time has marked that day as one of the best of my boyhood, imperfect but unforgettable.
For Fred, not all days ended the same way. Once, he tried to climb a tree far enough to reach a bird’s perch. He wanted to get as close as possible to the bird’s perch, maybe even close enough for a clear shot, though grabbing it by hand was really impossible. But he ended up falling and scraping his arms.
We laughed and at the same time scolded him. We had no medical equipment. So we built a makeshift stretcher. We cut some tree branches and found an old shirt thrown away in the bush. We could cut the shirt with pieces of broken glass and tie pieces of fabric to the branches to make a stretcher bed to carry him with. Although the fabric was worn out, the stretcher was strong enough. It served the purpose.
On another day, Raphael was tripping over a few times. His shoelaces were not well tied and got loose. At the end of the hunt, his shoes were dirty. But he caught two birds and smiled in the middle of all the chaos.
We mastered accuracy and different other skills, which each one of us boasted about. My friends and I tried not to make the birds suffer unnecessarily. If one was injured, we handled it. But we were kids, excited and impulsive, and sometimes our throws caused harm we didn’t intend. Joe had a special skill of sharpening the edges of his stones for weeks. He spent his personal time filing down the edges of his stone, thinking this would give him an advantage. We thought this was an odd thing to do but to his credit, we liked the idea of trying to be better. In the end we teased him the most but had a lot of respect for the effort he put into this and for his legendary rock throwing.
But we were kids, excited and impulsive, and sometimes our throws harmed the birds when we didn’t intend to. Some birds would die. Others were released alive. We were chasing adventure. In the end, we were just a group of young children, learning from experience and mistakes. Victory did not come from getting the prize. It came with trying our best, with the patience and discipline it took to succeed.
I will always be thankful for the days I walked to Lilayi with the stones in my pouch. The birds that sang of my impending victory. The days were not perfect, because I have my own imperfections. Yet, every day I felt more alive.
Now, as I go through the chaos that comes with life. The deadlines, the responsibilities, and the uneventful calendar. I remember that there are some things that people hold on to and do in silence, with patience and effort, and even more for their loved ones. From watching my friends’ victories at Lilayi, I have learned to let the joy of celebration burn bright in the silence of my own victory. As the bush taught me.
