Language of Play
Tlanga (Tsonga) - The language of play.
From the slope below, I watched the light break across the ridge in its last defiant flare — copper, dust, and motion. The pack had made a kill not long before: a young buck, hardly enough to feed them all. The air still carried the sharp, metallic scent of it. Around the carcass, the ground was churned, trampled by frantic paws. Even now, after the bones were nearly stripped, the wild dogs moved in a fevered rhythm, charged with the leftover pulse of the hunt.
Four of them remained higher up the slope — an island of movement above the kill site. They were still running, looping and circling, their bodies streaked with dust and blood. It was not the easy play of contentment, but the restless sparring of hunger. A young female stood near the centre, her chest heaving, her eyes fixed on an adult who was edging closer from below. Another adult lingered behind, cautious but intent, while a younger dog crouched half-beneath her, panting, watching every shift in her stance.
The younger female lunged, a flash of dust and determination. The adult met her advance with a low growl, but not a full challenge. They pivoted, collided, spun — the air alive with yips, whines, and short, sharp barks. It was tlanga, the Tsonga word for play, but play mixed with purpose. The younger one wasn’t merely teasing; she was stalling — protecting what remained of the carcass below, holding space for the others still feeding.
The energy between them was wild and unbroken. Each movement was layered: the hunger not yet sated, the instinct to guard, the pulse of youth testing its boundaries. The pup beneath her squirmed and rolled, caught between submission and excitement. The older female pressed forward again, calm but insistent. The younger blocked, darted, snapped — her body saying not yet in the wordless grammar of the pack.
African wild dogs — Lycaon pictus — live in a world where hunger is a constant teacher. Their hunts are swift, their kills clean, yet even success is precarious. A single impala might feed half the pack; the rest wait, or fight gently for scraps. Within that urgency, play becomes negotiation. It’s how roles are reinforced and tested, how rank is understood without breaking the bonds that hold them together. The gestures may seem frantic, but beneath them lies the architecture of trust — the balance between aggression and restraint.
From my position in the vehicle, just below the rise, I could see the dust spiralling around them like smoke. The sun had dropped low, catching their coats in a burnished blaze — ochre, white, and black flashing through the haze. For a moment, the four dogs froze mid-motion — a living tableau of tension, hunger, and fierce intelligence. Then it broke again: a rush of limbs, a blur of speed, the adult yielding a few steps, the younger standing tall in her brief moment of triumph.
It was the wild distilled — not the calm of completion, but the restless aftermath of survival. The pack was dispersing now, their calls threading through the brush. The light fell faster. The younger one lingered a moment longer, turning toward the others below, the tension still alive in her shoulders. Then she moved off too, swallowed by the dusk and the hum of the African night.
I sat quietly, the camera cooling in my hands, dust drifting through the air. The scene was gone, but the feeling of it remained — a reminder that even in play, there is purpose; even in chaos, a kind of grace.
It was tlanga — the play of hunger, protection, and becoming. A fleeting communion of instinct beneath a dying sun, where survival and affection move as one.
About The Raw Africa Collection
The Raw Africa Collection is a series of fine art wildlife photographs capturing the untamed beauty, power, and diversity of Africa’s animal kingdom. Each image tells a story — moments of stillness, bursts of movement, and the raw essence of life in the wild.
