A dancing fire flushes the faces of the tourists sitting in front of their tents.

They sit unmoving, sweat sliding down foreheads and upper lips.

The fire crackles and spits out shards of wood still ablaze.

Flecks of charred material rise into the dark sky of the Serengeti,

floating and then landing on the tents,

on the travellers, on their clothes and hair.

Frozen, they sit and gawp.

Smoke rises from the fire, evanescent into the atmosphere,

saturating sleeping bags, clothes and hair.

The smell of flaming meat, smouldering hair, a metallic bloodiness assaults my senses and makes me stare at the fire. On a huge spit rotating slowly round like a hog roast, is the chubby body of a brash American called Wes.

Neelam lives in London and has worked in mental health for over 20 years. She is currently studying a MA degree in Creative Writing at Brunel University having finally taken the decision to return to what she loves doing.