By Braam Pretorius

There’s a moment in the bushveld, just after the rain has passed, when the earth exhales.

The dust settles, the heat retreats, and the air takes on that rich, unmistakable scent of wet acacia, turned soil, and life. It's not just a smell; it's a memory. A full-body experience. You stand in it, breathe it in, and for a second, the rush of the world disappears.

And then… the fire.

That slow, crackling experience of thornwood, with its faintly bitter smoke rising like incense. Not the kind of smoke that stings your eyes. No. This is veld-fire smoke, it wraps around the yard, settles into your clothes, and years later, one spark in a braai will bring it all back.

You make yourself a cup of dark, black coffee, none of that frothy city nonsense. Just ground beans, hot water, and a tin mug. Sitting in your camping chair, boots still dusted from the day, you lean back and stare into the flames. The world narrows to that little circle of firelight.

And then, you hear it.

The long, haunting call of a jackal in the distance. Not howling, just calling. Calling to its mate, or maybe to the night itself. It echoes softly through the trees as the last light bleeds out of the western sky in a blaze of orange and red.

This is peace.

Not the kind you find in meditation apps or behind a locked office door.

The kind you earn.

The kind the bushveld gives you, if you’re quiet enough to hear it breathe.