It wasn’t meant to be anything more than another patrol through the vast grasslands of the Serengeti. I had done this a hundred times—scouting the land, observing wildlife, ensuring everything was as it should be. But that day, something felt different. Maybe it was the stillness in the air, or the distant, almost human-like cries I thought I imagined.

I followed the sound. And there, hidden beneath a sparse acacia tree, was a baby elephant—no more than a few months old. His tiny trunk trembled as he tried to nudge a lifeless body beside him. His mother. She had been attacked—by poachers, we would later learn—and the little one had stayed by her side, alone, crying for help no one had come to give. Until now.

He wouldn’t leave her. He wouldn’t move. But as I approached, his eyes met mine—not in fear, but in desperation. I knelt down and whispered softly. He took one step toward me. That’s when I knew: I wasn’t leaving without him.

Back at the station, we made a space just for him. I wrapped him in an old blanket, sat down, and gave him a bottle of warm milk we had for emergencies. At first, he refused. He cried—a deep, heart-wrenching cry that felt like grief itself. So I did the only thing I could think of—I sang.

It was a lullaby my mother used to sing to me. Soft and simple. As I rocked him gently in my lap, he slowly began to drink. His little trunk curled around my arm, and with the last drop of milk, he tucked his head under my chin and fell asleep.

I sat there for hours. I didn’t want to move—not just because I didn’t want to wake him, but because something in me had shifted. This wasn’t just a rescue. This was a bond. A promise.

Today, he’s thriving—cheeky, playful, growing stronger every day. But he still runs to me when he’s scared. And sometimes, on quiet nights, I sing him that same lullaby. Because no matter how big he gets, he’ll always be my little one.