The Ignored Lion Roaring from the African Bundu, By Samuel Millanzi

 

Introduction

The sun, a molten orb in the sapphire sky, beat down on the African Bundu, a tapestry of emerald green and ochre brown.  The air, thick with the scent of damp earth and acacia blossoms, vibrated with the low thrum of unseen insects.  Within this labyrinth of towering trees and hidden glades, a male lion, a magnificent specimen with a mane the colour of burnt umber, felt a premonition.  A cold dread, deeper than the chill of the night air, settled in his chest. He was aware of something approaching, something that threatened the very fabric of their existence.

This was not a threat that could be sniffed out, or a stampede of wildebeest that could be repelled with a challenge. This was a different kind of danger, a silent stalker, cloaked in the very shadows of the wilderness itself.

His name was K'hara, and he possessed a wisdom that transcended his young age. His tawny eyes, keen and intelligent, saw beyond the shimmering heat haze, beyond the rustle of leaves, beyond the cacophony of the jungle. He saw the hunters.

K'hara was secure in his pride, in the respect he commanded.  He was the alpha, the one who called the shots, the one who protected his pride. But this wasn't a simple territorial dispute. This felt different. This felt… ominous.

He began to roar.  A low rumble, a deep, resonant sound that shook the very foundations of the forest.  It was a warning, a call to arms, a desperate plea for understanding.  The sound echoed through the tangled undergrowth, bouncing off the massive baobab trees, carrying the message to the farthest reaches of the valley.

He roared again and again, each roar a testament to his growing unease.  His voice, normally a source of comfort and strength, was now a desperate plea, a futile cry lost in the vastness of the wilderness. The other lions, content in their lazy sunbathing, listened with half-attentive ears.  A few stirred, yawned, and returned to their slumber, their senses dulled by the oppressive heat.

K'hara’s roaring, a symphony of anxiety and dread, continued. He felt the weight of the impending danger press down on him, a palpable force that seemed to emanate from beyond the trees.  His throat burned, his muscles ached, but he continued to roar. He knew the others wouldn't understand. He knew their minds were not attuned to this specific fear. He continued to warn them.

"The danger is different," he roared in his mind, the sounds vibrating within his own skull.

"They come not in numbers, not with strength.  They are unseen, unseen until they strike."

His lungs burned, the air grew thin around him, a choked feeling settled in his chest. But the roaring continued, an unyielding testament to his fear, his desperate need to alert his pride.  He was certain, more certain than ever before, that this was the end.  He was the last one left.

Unfortunately, his defining roar was misjudged.  The other lions, accustomed to his deep, resonant voice, interpreted the escalating volume not as a warning, but as a sickness. A sickness that weakened his resolve, weakened his spirit.  They looked away, their attention turned inward, to the comforts of the moment, the familiarity of the known. They murmured amongst themselves, their voices as insignificant as the whispers of the wind.

The noise of K'hara's roaring reached the ears of a huge, ancient grey elephant, a matriarch named Zola.  She was known throughout the Bundu for her keen sense of perception, her understanding of the intricate language of the jungle.  She heard not just the sound, but the tremor, the unspoken urgency that vibrated within the very air.

She sensed a different kind of vibration, a different kind of anxiety. The roar wasn't a territorial challenge. It was a primal scream. It was a cry for help.

Zola, sensing the danger that threatened not just K'hara, but all of the creatures of the Bundu, understood.  She remembered the times she had witnessed the hunters' cruel hands, the way they had stolen the life from the unsuspecting gazelle, the way the swift death came from the deafening report.  She knew the silent stalking that the hunter possessed.

Slowly, ponderously, Zola began her response.  She uprooted trees, not in anger, but in calculated defiance.  She hurled them with the force of a thousand storms, sending them crashing down on the path that lay ahead. The elephants' strength in numbers was not enough.  She had to defend her family.

The trees, splintering and smashing against the ground, created a barrier, a fortress of wood against the unseen threat.  The ground trembled. The air crackled with the force of her rage.

The hunters, concealed within the dense foliage, were startled.  They had been tracking this pride of lions for days, their prey-scent guiding them, and now, this unexpected obstacle.  They had underestimated the resolve of the matriarch.

They were the ones now on the defensive, their movements sluggish in the face of Zola's fury. They had expected the animals to simply be prey, not protectors.

K'hara, still roaring, watched as Zola, the ancient matriarch, began her relentless assault. His throat felt dry, his lungs ached, and the world spun around him.  He heard the crash of the trees, the angry snorting of the elephant.  It was a different kind of roaring. It was a roar that echoed through him, a roar that spoke of hope.

The hunters, caught off guard, hesitated.  This wasn't part of the plan.  They were used to the easy kills, the silent stalk. But Zola was not one to give in easily.  Her fury grew with every felled tree, every thrown branch. She had learned that respect from the generations of elephants who had passed before her.

The hunters, realising the strength of their opposition, began to retreat. Their rifles, useless against such a formidable barrier, echoed their own fear.

K'hara, his voice strained, finally managed a final roar, a roar of gratitude.  He had lived through it all.

The sounds of the hunters receded, and the tranquility returned to the Bundu.  Zola, her massive form slumping as she stood among the fallen trees, turned to look for K'hara.

K'hara, still recovering, noticed the elephant's presence. He knew he had to show his gratitude. He couldn't simply stand there, he knew that was an insult. He ran towards the matriarch with a roar of joy, a roar of thank you. Zola, the matriarch, lowered her head and nuzzled K'hara, as if she understood.

The lions, emerging from their slumber, saw the fallen trees and the retreating hunters. They had not only seen the hunters, but they had also seen the strength of their elders, and they had learned a valuable lesson about the unity of the Bundu.

The threat had passed, but the memory of it lingered.  K'hara, although he had been ignored before, knew that his roar was not in vain.  It had been heard, and acted upon.  He had saved his pride.  And the Bundu had been saved. 

 Chapter 1: The Calm After the Storm

As the sun dipped low on the horizon, the sky transformed into a canvas splashed with hues of orange, pink, and purple. The oppressive heat of the day melted away, yielding to a gentle breeze that rustled the leaves. The Bundu, once marked by tension, began to breathe again.

K’hara, having calmed his racing heart, surveyed the battlefield of fallen trees and debris, remnants of Zola’s defiance against the hunters. His pride, which had been dozing in lazy indifference, stirred—shaking off the drowsiness that had held them captive just moments before. They gathered around their alpha, eyes wide with curiosity and concern.

“Why did you not heed my call?” K’hara challenged, his eyes flickering with a mix of reproach and relief. “What harm would it have caused to lend an ear to my warning?”

One of the younger lions, a sleek figure named Nia, stepped forward, her voice soft but firm. “We thought you had succumbed to illness, K’hara. The sound you made—it was desperate, but not in the way we expected.”

“The sickness of a lion is forgotten by nature,” interjected Raiko, a muscular lion with scars that traced the history of his battles. “We do not wish to see you weakened, brother. We thought you called for help, not for our attention.”

An understandable rationalization, K’hara mused. He understood his pride’s instincts—fight or flee, to maintain strength, to protect the bloodline. But they were complacent, too complacent for the deeper intricacies of their world.

“I did call for help,” K’hara conceded, lowering his voice to a grumbling whisper, “but more than that, I called to warn you. This threat is real, and we must be prepared.”

Zola, having watched the exchange, ambled over. There was an air of wisdom about her, a tranquility that seemed to shield her from the chaos of the jungle. “You did well to warn your pride, K’hara. But we cannot afford to waste time with misunderstandings. Unity is our greatest strength.”

K’hara nodded, feeling the weight of responsibility shift. The bond among the animals of the Bundu was not merely survival— it was love and the intricate dance of social structures. Although he had failed in his immediate duty to prompt vigilance, the lessons of that day resonated with him.

Chapter 2: Bonds of Unity

In the following days, as the jungle returned to its rhythm, K’hara led his pride in daily gatherings. They walked through the Bundu, learning to recognize the signs of human activity—they became attuned to the sounds that signified danger. The lions practiced their roars, vocalizing not just to assert dominance but to communicate warnings.

Zola often joined their gatherings. Her impressive stature and gentle demeanor brought an air of calm to the pride’s learning sessions. She taught them the unspoken languages of the Bundu—the rustle of the grass that signaled the approach of an unknown presence, the silence of the birds that foretold danger.

Night after night, K’hara shared stories from the elders, weaving tales of the great migrations, the rise and fall of various herds, and the inevitable cycles of life and death in the wild. As the stars sparkled overhead, gathered beneath the vast African sky, the pride bonded—growing not just as lions but as guardians of their land.

As days turned into weeks, K’hara felt a change within him. The moments of tension were interspersed with laughter and play. Nia and her friends chased after butterflies or attempted to sneak up on the older lions, their little paws padding silently through the underbrush. Raiko, ever the playful spirit despite his scars, would engage them in mock hunts, emphasizing stealth rather than force.

Yet amidst these lighter moments, K’hara remained vigilant. He would spend hours observing the areas where he had heard the hunters. He educated his pride to recognize the scent of gunpowder mingled with the earth, a smell he now associated with the dread of loss.

Chapter 3: The Return of the Hunters

Several moons passed. The Bundu flourished as a sanctuary, but K’hara’s worry never truly vanished. A nagging instinct told him that the hunters would return, perhaps smarter, perhaps armed with new tactics. His watchful eye peered over the horizon, day in and day out.

Then, one latently humid afternoon, the planet shifted.

The heavy air, saturated with the scent of rain, suddenly crackled with tension. Birds, disturbed by a looming presence, abandoned their nests, fleeing toward distant treetops. K’hara raised his head, sniffing the wind. It was the scent of humans—this time there were multiple scents. The hunters had indeed returned, emboldened and equipped.

“Zola!” K’hara called, his voice carrying an urgency he had not felt in the days since their first encounter. The mighty elephant lumbered over, sensing the change in his demeanor.

“They come again. We were right to prepare, now we must act.”

Zola nodded slowly, her gaze surveying the pride. “You must rally the animals of the Budu. We fight not just for our pride, but for every being that calls this land home. The hunters threaten the balance.”

The urgency spread through the pride, echoing in the hearts of Zola’s kin as well. Within hours, K’hara and Zola had gathered various animals—antelope, zebras, even a few wary hyenas—in a unified front. They recognized the importance of their existence and the urgent call to protect their home.

K’hara stood before them, every eye fixated on his powerful frame. “We stand on sacred ground. We have learned that survival does not come simply from strength, but through unity. We will not yield our world lightly. Together, we can drive them back." 

 Chapter 4: The Stand

The sun rose, shrouded in a gray haze of anticipation, and the jungle held its breath. K’hara positioned himself atop a rock, high enough to see over the dense underbrush. The gathered animals—elephants, lions, antelope, and smaller creatures—stood poised as one, ready to face the impending onslaught.

As if conjured by their collective will, the sounds of the hunters emerged from the thicket. Twigs snapped underfoot, and the air surged with the metallic tang of fear and excitement. K’hara’s heart raced, but he held strong, anchoring himself in the midst of the gathering storm.

Zola raised her trunk and trumpeted—a deep rumble that echoed, signaling the charge. K’hara followed suit, letting out a guttural roar that reverberated through the trees, a sound so powerful that it drowned out the very heartbeats of his audience.

When the hunters finally appeared, they stood frozen in disbelief. Two dozen eyes met K’hara’s, wide with shock. This was not the primal chaos they had prepared for; this was an army.

K’hara lunged forward, flanked by Raiko and Nia, a rallying force of strength and courage. The elated cries of Zola echoed alongside the roar of the lions, a sound that quaked the ground beneath the hunters' feet.

The first shot fired—a crack that split the air. K’hara felt every beast flinch, but he pressed on. The bond he had forged with his pride and their allies gave him strength. They moved as one, a tide that swept over the hunters before they could even take proper aim.

Zola charged into the fray, her sheer size instilling a primal fear. She uprooted saplings with a powerful swing of her trunk, hurling them toward the aggressors as distraction amid the chaos. Antelopes zigzagged through the brush, using speed and agility to escape the incoming bullets while distracting the hunters.

K’hara remained central, using his size and strength against those who were mere men. He had never felt more alive, living up to the role of protector rather than just an alpha leading his pride.

In a matter of moments, the tide of battle turned. The hunters, realizing their precarious position, started to panic. Their screams echoed in the Bundu, drowning out the roars and trumpet calls of the defenders. Fear grabbed hold of them, urging them to flee. 

 Chapter 5: A New Dawn

When the dust settled, the Bundu stood victorious. The jungle, once a dormant witness, now thrummed with life. K’hara’s heart swelled with pride—not just for their victory, but for the unity they had forged. Zola stood among them, her enormous form silhouetted against the rising sun.

The animals scattered, jubilant, celebrating their hard-fought freedom. K’hara basked in the moment, feeling lighter than he had in days. His pride, once hesitant to heed the seriousness of his initial warnings, now stood taller, hearts bound by shared resilience.

Days turned into weeks, and the scent of the hunters slowly faded from the Bundu. News of their defeat and the unusual alliance spread across the land. It became a legend shared between animals—a tale of bravery and the bonds that united different species against a common adversary.

K’hara had learned that unity transcends mere strength, and respect for the diverse lives within the Bundu was imperative. Together, they formed a rich tapestry woven from the stories and struggles of their lives.

Zola, having fulfilled her role as matriarch, returned to her herd, but she never truly left the memory of that day behind. K’hara often looked toward the path where Zola had charged, reflecting on the strength found in collaboration.

Chapter 6: A Legacy of Voices

Months later, the seasons changed, painting the Bundu in vibrant hues of green and gold as the rains transformed the landscape. The pride had thrived, their numbers growing with new cubs brought into the world. The lessons learned during times of peril became a foundational ethic woven deep within the fabric of their society.

K’hara now roamed the Bundu not just as its protector, but also as a mentor. He led his pride in nurturing the younger generation, ensuring they understood the importance of vigilance, respect, and bonding across species.

Together, they explored the layers of the Bundu—the rich, earthy scents after rain, the thrill of a successful hunt, the peace of lounging beneath the shade of a gnarled baobab. Every experience was enriched by the connection among them, a connection that thrived on the knowledge they had gained.

One starlit night, as the moon hung high and the whispers of the wind danced through the trees, K’hara gathered his pride and the young cubs. “Listen closely,” he instructed them, “for this is the pulse of our world.”

He spoke of the interconnectedness of life—the antelopes and zebras grazing near their territory, the mischievous hyenas that often challenged them, and Zola the elephant, the matriarch who had guided them through the storm. Tales woven with principles of respect, courage, and unity reverberated like the calls of the wild.

In this circle beneath the stars, the cubs learned the art of communication through the roars echoing into the future. K’hara filled their ears with stories that bore the lessons of their history and the testament of unity. 

 Chapter 7: A Rumble Through Time

As the years flowed on like the great rivers meandering through the Bundu, the story of K’hara and Zola was passed down, becoming legend. It grew through time as a narrative of resilience—a narrative that reminded every creature of the very essence of survival.

The hunters had learned their lesson as well. Heat waves washed through the land, but fear lingered like a ghost in their tactics. The pride continued to thrive, and while the humans evolved, the Bundu retained its soul, a living testament to nature’s beauty and ferocity.

The great circle of life continued. New lions emerged, led by K’hara’s progeny, who had inherited their father’s tenacity and wisdom. Each roar of the Bundu was fortified by the strength of what had come before—a collective memory echoed in each rustle within the grasses.

K’hara had grown into a wise elder, his mane touching silver, but his spirit remained unyielding. He understood that the lion’s roar was not simply a declaration of power; it was a symphony of warning, a proclamation of intent, and a voice for those who had none.

The Bundu thrived in this harmony, a fabric woven of threads that intertwined—but with each passing day, the lion’s roar continued to rise from the depths.

K’hara knew that this rhythm—the roar of a lion, the trumpet of an elephant, the chatter of countless creatures—would forever dance together in an unbreakable bond. They had faced the darkness, and now they flourished in the light, an unspoken promise of strength and resilience for generations to come.  

 Epilogue: The Legacy

Years later, under the same expansive sky, a new cub—one of K’hara’s grandcubs—sat beside him. The young one tilted its head, mimicking the mighty roar of the alpha. K’hara chuckled, a deep and rich sound that reverberated through the Bundu.

“That’s it, young one,” K’hara said, pride swelling in his heart. “One day, your roar will be heard across the land, and it will call forth the strength of all who stand together.”

And as the night enveloped the Bundu, filled with whispers of life, K’hara understood that every roar told a story, every heartbeat echoed life’s lesson, and every bond formed the tapestry of their wild and wondrous home. The legacy of the ignored lion and the mighty elephant remained a tale told by the stars. Together, they had stood as one.

End