meant to save you huh? I’m just a baboon. How’s a baboon meant to be able to get a lion down from up there? Come on, you tell me! Just stay there and chill, otherwise I ain’t gonna help you at all. You can fry up there alone.”

“No - no, don’t leave me up here. Look, I’ll do anything if you get me down, just do it quick.”

“OK, I’ll do my best, but you’re not going to like this.” The baboon laughed to himself, “Just hang loose bro” as he ran off leaving Nengwalamwe stranded like a beached whale. Nengwalamwe thought he caught the baboon’s words as he scuttled away: “No wonder they ain’t nuffin’ around here! And they call me dumb!”

The whale struggled to gain a paw hold. His claws caught on the branches below, but they bent when he tried to put any weight on them. As the sun beat down on his back, the tree stuck up through his underfur. He lay looking at the still water of the hole. The few animals that had been drinking, smaller grazers mostly, had long since scattered. Even the birds had put to flight at the terrifying sound of his unrestrained roaring. There was no one to help him. Even the lionesses had not answered his panic calls.

“I’ll teach them to make a fool out of me. That baboon’s going to make lunch when he’s got me down from here. When he comes back he’ll learn not to mess with Nengwalamwe, son of Nengwala. If he comes back at all that is. He’s got to be addled or something. If I were him I wouldn’t save anyone but myself.”

The sun burned into Nengwalamwe’s back. He tried to roll over but he was sure he’d fall if he did, and the ground looked a long, long way. His view of the waterhole was unfamiliar and unsettling. He had only ever seen water from just above the surface as he stretched down to drink. Looking down at such a steep angle on to the ever-changing flashing and scintillating surface was out of the lion’s experience and imagination. The unknown frightened Nengwalamwe, raising his aggression uncontrollably. He roared repeatedly, his roars carried over every hillock, every kopje and every gully. Despite the fury with which they were made, they carried hope and light into almost every animal that heard them. It was as if they had seen the first break in the last storm clouds of the rains.

As Nengwalamwe roared, he imagined in blood-red detail what he would do to the baboon. He saw every sinew as he ripped the ape apart in a fury and ferocity so strong that it consumed him totally. The tree swayed and shook under the thrashing lion, but it stood firm under the onslaught. A lion’s fury, however fearsome, is a short-lived outburst of intense feelings. It cannot last, particularly when it has no physical outlet. When Nengwalamwe realised that no one was there to hear and that no one was going to come to help him, his fury began to abate. It turned to fear when something cracked loudly. His hindquarters lurched sideways. He tried to grab hold of something; anything to steady himself but it was no use. He slid, scraped and scratched over the treetop, gathering speed uncontrollably. Seconds later he grabbed desperately with outstretched claws as the support of the tree finally gave way to free-fall. Moments later his rump thumped stingingly onto the ground below, his forequarters swinging through the air towards the water. Lion and waterhole met with a chaotic splash as his head and mane fell heavily into the murky water. The already brown water turned misty as the settled silt that lay over the soft mud of the bottom of the water hole rose and swirled. In his panic Nengwalamwe thrashed about, sending the soft mud and slimy water cascading for lengths around.

Somehow he managed to regain his composure sufficiently to right himself. The water, now thick with silt, settled around his forepaws. He was soaked through from nose to tail-tip. He stood up and, with drooping head, dragging tail and dripping, sodden mane, breathed heavily.

“At least that dung-smelling bald-arse wasn’t here to see that.”

“D’ya mean me?” said a voice from a length behind him.

Nengwalamwe turned to partly face the baboon. He thought for a moment then, with a tremble that started high in his neck, he shook himself as dry as he could, showering the onlooker with barely liquid splatters.

Nengwalamwe knew there was no chance of taking down the baboon now, not stuck in the mud. Stuck in the mud? What was a lion doing in mud? It suddenly struck Nengwalamwe that a lot of things that were happening were unusual: the talking wild dogs that didn’t whimper and run from lions; the baboons who lay dead and yet untouched by scavengers; the lionesses who couldn’t care less about a lion and then this - a baboon just standing there. Even that Shalafa was, well – strange. Not that she was different from other lionesses where it really mattered of course. She would do her bit for Nengwalamwe all right.

‘What’s the point?’ he asked himself. ‘This… animal,’ he thought shaking his head sadly, ‘...doesn’t matter a damn. I’ll just get out of here and clean up this stinking mess.’ He lifted a forepaw, dragging it out of the clinging mud with a shluurrp. He looked intently at the ground, looking for firmer ground. His rear paws slipped and he slapped his waving forepaw down into the mud to steady himself. It sank down to the wrist. He pulled the other forepaw up and lurched forward. Now there was no question of picking the best spot to place it down, he just thrust it forward and dug into the mud as quickly as he could. His lower belly slid clammily over the mud as he pulled repeatedly on his hindlegs, trying to lift them free. When at the fourth pull one did slip free he tipped forwards, his muzzle pushing down into the slime. Over on the bank the baboon laughed, turning his head away and biting his lower lip.

Nengwalamwe slipped, slid, fell, grasped and scrambled his way over and through the few lengths of mud. The baboon’s intermittent laughter continued. When, tired and smothered by half the bottom of the waterhole, he finally reached firm, dry ground he pulled himself to full height and stood still, great clarts of wet mud dripping from his belly. ‘I might look like a pratt, but by the stars above, I’ll not act like one,’ he thought, ‘No baboon’s going to get the better of Nengwalamwe… and live.’ He turned to the baboon and looked at him, opening his mouth to expose his teeth. Then he stepped forward. His pads slipped sideways and he lurched to one side. While the lion barely managed to keep himself from falling, the baboon certainly didn’t manage to keep himself from laughing.

Nengwalamwe regained his balance and began closing on the baboon in unhurried menacing paces. He held his head low to the ground and locked his eyes on to his prey. He just wanted to scare the smile from the monkey’s long face. He grumbled an extended growl, yet still the ape smiled self confidently. When Nengwalamwe got within a couple of lengths, the baboon simply scurried away. The lion stopped. Then, with a louder rumble, he shook his head, rolling it about the axis of his neck.

‘There’ll be other times,’ thought Nengwalamwe, ‘you’ll see… you’ll see.’ He twisted smoothly round, lifted himself back to full height. His forepaw slipped but he managed to regain his footing. He walked off gingerly towards the nearest acacia grove. He tried to hold his tail straight and unwaving.

As soon as he was sure he was out of sight among the trees he stopped and sat down, twisting his head round to clean his belly and hindquarters. The mud caked his fur in a thick, already hardening layer. This was not going to be a quick lick or two, this was going to take serious cleaning - hours of work to undo the damage done by that bald-arse.

He lifted a hindleg, claws extended a little, up to his chest in an attempt to scratch away the mud. His claws broke through the soft crust and raked through the ooze below, all he succeeded in doing was to spread it farther. He became desperate and scratched repeatedly at his once beautiful fur. Its gentle shining creamy white smoothness had all but gone, now it was deep brown, gritty and stank like a warthog.

Around him the everyday sounds of the savannah rang out; the rasping of insects; the grunts of wildebeest and even, in the distance, a few high ‘mewwwrps’ of shy and reclusive serval kittens. Another sound reached Nengwalamwe’s ears, the excited yelps of a hyena as he, no… she, finally closed in on her prey. It was a sound that reached into him and pulled him out of his desperation. He looked up and around, letting his hindleg drop back to the ground gently.

He reflected on the events of the morning, ‘I could have hung around until they’d finished, but why should I; I mean me, a grown lion; give that Falasha the satisfaction. A lion’s got to eat… and hyena kill is meat just like any other, he mused on what the kill might have been, ‘how many are there?’ He listened on; the hyena’s yelps died down and became muffled. After a pause, another yelping started. ‘Two. No problem, I’ll have that kill off them before they can turn to run.’ He hesitated for a moment, ‘Do they have to see me like this?’ Then the second yelping died down. ‘Pity, I guess so.’

He got up and headed for the edge of the thicket where the ground rose up in shoulder high knolls and ridges. Some were no more than bumps barely as wide as his shoulders; others were two, three or