“Bones, Bwana. Man bones, Bwana!”

(“You no believe. No simba now. Yes, they here. Bwana you no believe!”) 

The four of us start walking swiftly toward Makali. “Stay alert, men,” I say, “Watch the grass!”

Makali continues to walk toward us. He is covered in mud from the crawling and I see blood dripping from a long scratch on his right arm.

“You ok?” asked Miles, reaching for his arm.

” Jambo Bwana Miles. Yes, many thorns.” His face turned cold again. “Bwana, no believe! Come see!”

Makali turns and leads the four of us toward the shadows under the trees. As we approach, from about 10 yards I see what looks like white branches or sticks laying all around the largest of the trees. At five yards I become aware of scattered pieces of clothing, a lone sandal, a badly ripped cap, a human skull.

“Bones, Bwana. Man bones, Bwana!”

“Oh my God,” I exclaim.

“Holy shit,” utters Miles.

“Man-eaters,” says Benjamin.

Benga says nothing. He falls to his knees and begins praying.

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