The sun had long set, but you could still feel its lingering spirit. We sat near the bar on the long outdoor terrace that runs from the restaurant to the reception, overlooking the lake. A few metres away, beyond the short electric fence, horned wild animals gathered around the watering hole.
The lake, now under the light of darkness, was now a pale silver, the colour of gossip. Everything eclipsing the lake - the distant hills, the shadowy acacias - was so still, yet you felt like their energy, a conspiracy of nature.
As the last of the dining guests drifted away to the privacy of their luxury tents, a couple carried their drinks and settled under the umbrellas a few feet from the watering hole. They sat in silence, staring out at the family of buffalos and elands. The animals stared back.
I could tell they would not forget this night. It’s hard to forget such nights. Or the sundowner evenings set up on the top of the hill overlooking the lake and the unprecedented view of Elementaita from Serena Camp. But for now, we were all transfixed by the sorcery of the night.
Sitting in the silence of the night at that terrace, nursing your drink, makes you conscious of something whose description lacks words.
It’s layered tranquillity, a complex peace that burrows so deep inside you that it unsettles you. You get an irrevocable feeling that the universe doesn't know you exist, nor cares. You are a mere pollen in the wind, a miscellany of an organism. And it’s humbling.
We polished off a bottle of wine and realised we were the last guests at the bar. The temperatures dropped and it got a bit nippy. It felt sacrilegious to call it a night even though it was the most grown-up thing to do.
We bade the barman goodbye and walked around along the lit pathways, feeling warm from the wine and the night. Across the lake, the Sleeping Moran was doing what he had always done; sleep.
