The waterhole was a placid mirror at dusk, a necessary stop for the herd. A massive bull buffalo, weary and heavy, waded into the cool mud to drink. Beneath the surface, a monster crocodile, a relic of prehistoric hunger, lay in perfect stillness. It did not see a creature; it saw a mountain of meat.
The attack was not a lunge, but an eruption. Jaws lined with conical teeth, capable of crushing bone, clamped onto the buffalo’s right foreleg with the force of a hydraulic press. The monster crocodile had its prize and initiated its dreaded death roll, aiming to twist the limb off and drag the tonnage of buffalo into the deep.
Agony exploded through the buffalo. But this was no delicate antelope. A primal fury, mixed with sheer bulk, took over. It bellowed—a sound of rage and terror that shook the air. It braced its three other legs in the mud and pulled back with all the power of its herd-leading stature. A tug-of-war for life ensued: the crocodile’s spin versus the buffalo’s earth-bound might.
For seconds, they were locked, the water churning violently. The buffalo realized it could not win this way; the crocodile would not let go. In a moment of brutal, instinctual calculus, it made a choice. Instead of pulling against the twist, it drove forward with a desperate surge, twisting its own body with the crocodile’s roll.
There was a horrific, wet crack—a sound of tendon and bone giving way. The monster crocodile, its jaws still locked, was suddenly holding a severed leg. The buffalo, now free, stumbled backward onto the bank, blood gushing from the stump. It had sacrificed its leg. The price was unimaginable, but the alternative was death.
The crocodile vanished with its grim trophy. The buffalo, bleeding and hobbling, was surrounded by its herd, which nudged it toward safety. It had faced a monster crocodile and lived, paying a permanent, terrible receipt for its escape. The waterhole was left stained and still, a testament to the deal that is sometimes struck in the wild: a limb for a life.
