Right over the river, in a cabin filled with nothing but audacity, treachery and occasional debauchery, there lived a woman. She was, in all manner of the word, beautiful to behold. But because she lived on planet Earth, she could not take herself by this word as she was fifty, single and childless. There was something, it had been established by very reliable history, rather witchy about somesuch women living somesuch lives in somesuch environments.

She did not mind this though and it was mostly because she was called Malaika and the name entitled the owner to simply not care.

The sun, she would have described, was over yonder in the evening sky and much like the previous day, the cold seemed to be biting. It would have been almost punishing to people not used to it but, as she had been there for close to two decades, it was akin to a chaste kiss against her skin. Nary goose-pimples showed on her skin even with the eagerness of the wind that was fluttering her dress here and there. Like every other day, she had no plans and so she knew her day was to end as it always did - with a hot cup of tea, a simple supper and a good read to lull her into the night.

"Perfect," she said with a sigh, as she languidly slouched over her chair, staring intently at the river, allowing it to wash all her thoughts away.

This though, would not have been an interesting story had this been the end. Dearest reader, it is to be noted that the greatest of stories come from the greatest of events and in Malaika's life, this was going to be such a moment.

Her river lulling was halted by a lone wolf.

This was the queerest of things. Wolves, like foreigners, belonged elsewhere. They didn't simply appear on plateau sections of rivers in the great Kenya. In fact, wolves didn't belong anywhere along the equator - what? With their large frames and thick coats, they would die of heat and exhaustion. Yet there, somewhere too close to Malaika for her liking, stood too huge a wolf, staring at her in a very chilling way.

Malaika had visualised many a way in which she would die. It was one of the side effects that came with getting older - you started thinking of things you had no business with. She thought about death in the same unimportant way she did her farm, only her farm was a tad more important than the end of her life. She had imagined herself crossing over in the sweet embrace of sleep or probably choking on a mushroom she had mistakenly thought to be absolutely safe. When she was feeling a bit creative, she had imagined being mauled by a stray lion that had been chased out of its pride. She had decided not to fault it because the way of life simply stated predators ought to eat prey. She had imagined falling into the river and drowning. Being kidnapped and shot dead. Getting sick and dying. She had imagined all number of ways yet never once had she thought she would die by a wolf.

"Shit," she whispered, trying her hardest not to move lest it pounced.

Her heart raced and her palms filled with sweat. She wondered if she had been looking at death a bit too naively and that she ought to have respected the damn thing. Her breath was fighting out of her and while she understood that staying still would buy her a better chance at surviving, her brain kept on screaming she ran fast and far.

They remained at a prolonged standstill, her, hiding the rather obvious quavers and the wolf never breaking eye contact. The creature's eyes were yellow in the way of the midday sun and coat grey in the way of the midnight moon. In any other situation, Malaika would have been happy to sketch it. Passingly, she thought it was the perfect balance of day and night. The coat dulling just enough to let the eyes shine bright and true.

Maybe, it was a minute, maybe thirty, when the wolf moved first, coaxing its head to the side. This in turn prompted Malaika to move just a little into her seat, sure it was about to come. She was going to die on such a beautiful evening. It was a shame, really, that she had been stalling on making preparations on where her final resting place would be. Was she to die, and if pieces remained of her, there was a high likelihood she was going to be buried someone in a fuckass public cemetery with fellow strangers who probably felt just as lost as she.

She whispered, "Please," and she was not sure if it was at the creature or at all the gods who existed out there. Maybe she didn't want to die just yet.

The wolf took one step and that seemed to break all the resolve within herself as she jumped and ran for her house. Her feet moved the fastest they ever had, her breath in tandem with her movements. Had it not been for that situation, she would have believed herself a proper athlete. In all her years, she had never moved with such swiftness, such determination. Yet, despite all that, it seemed to take the wolf all of three steps before it pounced on her, eliciting the most blood-curdling scream from her.

This was how she was to die.