In the mist-shrouded slopes of Virunga National Park, where endangered mountain gorillas navigate a labyrinth of poachers, militias, and machetes, bonds between humans and apes often blur the line between survival and family. On September 26, 2022, one such bond reached its poignant end when Ndakasi, a 15-year-old silverback gorilla orphaned by violence, slipped away from a long illness, cradled in the arms of the very man who had saved her as a helpless infant: André Bauma, a park ranger whose gentle hands had nurtured her through a lifetime of exile. What began as a routine rescue in 2007—Bauma pulling a two-month-old Ndakasi from her slain mother’s side amid the crackle of gunfire—unfolded into a 15-year saga of resilience, viral joy, and profound loss, capturing global hearts and underscoring the fragile fight to preserve Africa’s great apes. Ndakasi’s final moments, captured in a raw photograph that has since amassed millions of views, shattered admirers worldwide, transforming her from a symbol of hope into an emblem of grief that lingers long after the echoes of her playful grunts have faded.

Ndakasi’s story ignited in April 2007, amid the chaos of Virunga’s eastern lowlands, a UNESCO World Heritage site spanning 7,800 square kilometers of volcanic peaks, lush rainforests, and conflict-ravaged borders. The park, home to roughly 1,000 mountain gorillas (up from 680 in 2008, thanks to conservation efforts), is a beacon and battleground: Armed groups like the M23 rebels and poachers encroach daily, slaughtering gorillas for bushmeat or trophies. On that fateful patrol, ranger Bauma and his team stumbled upon a gut-wrenching tableau: Ndakasi’s mother, Nyiragezi, lay riddled with bullets from an AK-47 ambush, her tiny daughter clinging desperately to her bloodied chest, mewling in confusion and hunger. At just two months old—barely weaned—Ndakasi was minutes from death, her survival odds plummeting without maternal milk or protection. Bauma, a soft-spoken Congolese father of three who had joined the park’s Senkwe sanctuary in 2000, scooped her up without hesitation, wrapping her in his jacket as gunfire popped in the distance. “She was so small, like a bundle of sticks wrapped in fur,” Bauma later recounted to BBC Africa in a 2019 interview, his voice thick with the memory. “I knew then she was my responsibility—not just to save, but to raise.”

The Senkwe Orphanage, a rustic outpost of wooden enclosures and bamboo feeders deep in the park, became Ndakasi’s surrogate home. Virunga, founded in 1925 as Africa’s first national park, runs one of the world’s most vital gorilla rehabilitation programs, housing up to a dozen orphans at a time. Bauma and fellow ranger Rodrigue Shukani—both earning a modest $100 monthly salary—assumed round-the-clock duties: Bottle-feeding formula mixed from goat milk and vitamins every two hours, mimicking maternal grooming with soft brushes, and introducing her to surrogate gorilla families for socialization. Ndakasi, named after the park’s first female ranger (“Nda Kasi” meaning “with grace”), thrived against the odds. By six months, she scampered on all fours, her black fur glossy and eyes sparkling with mischief. Bauma slept beside her crate, singing Swahili lullabies to soothe night terrors—echoes of the trauma that claims 80% of orphaned gorillas within their first year, per the International Union for Conservation of Nature (IUCN).

As Ndakasi grew, so did her legend. In 2019, at age 12, she and fellow orphan Ndeze posed for a viral “selfie” with Bauma, the trio mugging cheekily for a photographer’s lens in a moment of unscripted levity. The image—Ndakasi’s tongue lolling, Ndeze’s arm slung around Bauma’s neck—exploded online, garnering 10 million shares and headlines from The Guardian to CNN: “Gorillas Go Viral with Ranger Selfie.” It spotlighted Virunga’s plight: The park loses five rangers annually to violence, yet their work has boosted gorilla numbers by 26% since 2010. Ndakasi, the selfie star, embodied this triumph—clambering trees, foraging ferns, even “mothering” a rescued colobus monkey. Bauma, now 50, described her as “my daughter with fur,” their routine a tender ballet: Morning romps in the enclosure, where she’d tug his beard playfully; afternoons of enrichment puzzles stuffed with honey; evenings curled together, her head on his lap as he read park reports by lantern light.

Illness crept in subtly by 2021. Ndakasi, weakened from a respiratory infection common in stressed orphans, began losing appetite and mobility. Veterinary teams from the Mountain Gorilla Veterinary Project diagnosed a congenital heart murmur exacerbated by her orphaned stress—trauma that stunts immune systems in 70% of cases, according to a 2023 study in the Journal of Wildlife Diseases. Treatments—antibiotics airlifted from Rwanda, physiotherapy sessions—prolonged her life, but by summer 2022, she could barely stand, her once-vibrant frame gaunt at 120 pounds. Bauma refused to leave her side, forgoing patrols to tend her personally, a devotion that cost him promotions but earned quiet reverence from colleagues. “She saved me too,” he told The Dodo in August 2022. “In her eyes, I saw purpose—proof we’re not just guardians, but family to these gentle giants.”

The end came peacefully on September 26, 2022, at Senkwe’s isolation ward. As Ndakasi’s breaths shallowed under a canopy of woven vines, Bauma held her close, stroking her brow as rangers gathered in silent vigil. She passed in his arms, her head nestled against his chest—a mirror of their first meeting, but reversed: Now, the rescuer was held by the rescued. A photographer captured the scene: Bauma’s tear-streaked face, Ndakasi’s peaceful form, sunlight filtering through bars like a benediction. Virunga posted it with a eulogy: “Ndakasi’s life was a testament to the bonds we build in the face of adversity. She will live on in the work we do every day.” The photo went supernova—50 million views in weeks—elicitating sobs from celebrities like Jane Goodall (“A circle of love unbroken”) and Ellen DeGeneres (“Proof animals teach us humanity”).

Ndakasi’s legacy ripples outward. Her story fueled a $2 million surge in Virunga donations post-2022, funding anti-poaching drones and ranger training. It spotlighted the orphanage’s 90% success rate in rehabilitating orphans—many, like Ndakasi, too traumatized for wild release but vital for breeding programs. Bauma, promoted to senior caretaker in 2023, now mentors young rangers, his grief channeled into saving others: In 2024, he rescued Maisha, a poacher’s victim, echoing Ndakasi’s start. Yet the heartbreak endures—gorillas mourn too, with studies showing orphans exhibit PTSD-like behaviors for years. Ndeze, Ndakasi’s selfie partner, grew withdrawn post-loss, underscoring the emotional web of sanctuary life.

In Virunga’s emerald heart, where 604 mountain gorillas cling to existence (critically endangered, per IUCN), Ndakasi’s tale is both balm and blade: A reminder that rescue isn’t extraction but entanglement, where saving a life means sharing its joys—and its shattering goodbyes. Bauma, gazing at her enclosure now empty but for fireflies, sums it: “She hugged me into strength.” Around the world, hearts break anew, but in that fracture, resolve hardens: To fight for the gentle giants, one orphaned embrace at a time.