The Guardian of the Mountains

In the heart of Angola, where the rolling hills of Kungo, Waku, and Ngoya meet the sprawling Mato jungle, the Palanca Gigante reigned supreme. This majestic sable antelope, black and white as night and dawn, was not just a creature of beauty, but a spirit woven into the land itself. To the people, she symbolized resilience, untamed freedom, and the eternal guardianship of their home.

One Palanca, sleek and powerful, moved with quiet grace through her territory, her black coat shimmering in the first light of day. Her curved horns spiraled toward the sky like a crown, bestowed upon her by the mountains that watched her every step. With each stride, her hooves barely disturbed the soft earth, as if the land itself made way for her.

The Palanca had seen much—dawns breaking over Kungo, mists rising from the valley below, and the winds of Waku carrying whispers of ancestors long past. Ngoya, the proud sentinel, loomed on the horizon, always present, always watching. These mountains had stood for millennia, and like them, she would remain.

But she was not merely a wanderer. She was a protector. The jungle, dense and teeming with life, relied on her silent watch. Her presence reminded every creature that this was sacred ground, a sanctuary where the old stories lived, told by the rustling trees and the murmuring streams. Her senses were keen, alert to every change, every subtle shift in the underbrush.

As dusk descended, casting a golden glow across the ridges of Ngoya, the Palanca stood on a hilltop, her gaze sweeping the vast wilderness below. Green canopies, sparkling streams, and clearings filled with the life of the jungle stretched out before her. This was her homeland, her sanctuary, just as it had been for countless generations of her kind.

In the distance, the faint echoes of children’s laughter reached her ears, rising from a village nestled between the mountains. The people cherished her presence, just as they had cherished the stories of the Palanca for centuries. She was more than a symbol; she was a living connection to the spirit of the land.

Yet, that evening, something felt wrong. A quiet unease settled over the jungle. The Palanca turned her head toward Waku Mountain, where a low, rolling mist crept down its slopes like a warning. Her sharp instincts told her the jungle was on edge. She had seen the signs before.

Hunters had come.

Her muscles tensed, and with a determined silence, she descended from the hill, moving swiftly through the dense vegetation. The jungle parted for her, recognizing its guardian’s purpose. She glided effortlessly, her hooves barely brushing the ground, her presence like a shadow in the night.

At the banks of a moonlit stream, she paused, ears pricked. The sound of heavy, deliberate footsteps echoed in the quiet—foreign, intrusive. A group of men approached, their silhouettes tall and dark against the trees, their weapons ready. They had come for her.

But they did not know what they faced.

The jungle stirred around her, as if preparing itself for battle. The alarm calls of monkeys rang out from the canopy, and birds scattered into the night sky with frantic cries. Even the wind seemed to hold its breath. The Palanca stood still, her gaze fixed on the hunters as they neared.

They thought they were tracking an animal, but they had entered a place that would not bend to their greed. The air thickened, the jungle silent now, waiting. The men hesitated at the edge of a clearing, sensing the tension but not fully understanding it.

And then, from the shadows, she emerged.

Her silhouette, tall and regal against the moonlit sky, commanded the space. Her horns gleamed like the blades of an ancient warrior, her presence more than that of a mere creature. She was the embodiment of Angola’s spirit, the guardian of the land that could not be conquered.

The hunters froze. Their hands trembled on their weapons. They had heard tales of the Palanca Gigante, stories passed down through generations, but now they stood before her, and the weight of those stories pressed upon them. Time itself seemed to pause.

The Palanca did not need to attack. Her presence alone was enough. The jungle around her seemed to darken, its shadows closing in. She stared them down with eyes that held the wisdom and power of ages. The men, feeling the force of something far greater than themselves, turned back. They had come seeking a prize, but they had encountered a force they could not comprehend.

As dawn broke over the mountains, casting golden light upon the valley, the Palanca stood once more atop her hill. Below her, the jungle had returned to its peaceful rhythm, the threat long passed. She breathed in the cool morning air, knowing that her duty was far from over.

For as long as the Palanca roamed, the land would remain untamed, untouched by the greed of men. She would continue to walk the valleys of Kungo, Waku, and Ngoya, silent and watchful, guarding the soul of Angola as she had for centuries.

Guardian of the Mountains

In Kungo, Waku, Ngoya's lofty heights,

The sable reigns, majestic in her stride,

Among the lush green lands where spirits bide,

She walks with grace through shadows and through light.

The winds, which carry whispers of old might,

Recall the days when peace would here abide,

When man and land stood ever side by side,

And harmony reigned, shining ever bright.

But hunters’ shadows dare to cross her way,

The jungle stirs, its warning in the air,

This sacred ground is more than fleeting dream.

The sable stands, her gaze makes foes obey,

The trespassers retreat in silent prayer,

Before the spirit of these lands unseen.