he gave up when he heard no reply other than the echoes from the hard bulk above him.

He grew more and more tired as he searched. By full sunset he was growing weary of this new game. The air began to chill noticeably, yet the rock seemed to hold the heat of the day, warming him. It was almost as if it was reaching out and brushing its head against him. He felt no threat from the rock, he felt welcomed by it. He felt it was asking him to join it. This lure held his attention long enough for him to reach the far side of the rock, its long side. It was much more than a mere kopje, this was an almost unbelievably complex series of rocks, boulders and stones of every shape and size dominated by a long promontory that shot out reaching for the clouds some ten or more metres over the plain. Yet even that was dwarfed by the upward thrust of the tower, a seemingly unassailable mass of solid stone. The promontory seemed to have fallen away from the tower, collapsing onto the plain below strewing boulders three or more lengths long on all sides as easily as Nengwalamwe parted the grasses. They made Nengwalamwe feel small. The great rock tower made him feel tiny but welcomed and wanted. This then, he felt, was surely his great Priderock.

Amongst all the confusion of boulders he could just make out a route, twisting and rough, leading to the flat of the promontory. He had at last found the way up. In seconds he leapt up the winding path and inside of a minute stood on the flat area in front of the massive tower. It felt almost like having arrived home. Nengwalamwe thought that this would be the perfect place to live, even if there turned out to be no lionesses around. It was as perfect a home for a pride as he had ever imagined and, lionesses or no, it was all his.

The lion spent most of the night searching along every path and in every cave of the rock, there was even one that drove right through the outcrop, opening onto a wide ledge quite invisible from the western savannah below. Its entrance was below the ledge that ran along the eastern side of Nengwalamwe’s Priderock, so that he had to jump down into its shadowy, draughty, echoing space. The earth that accumulated in some of the rocks’ hollows was sufficient to support small trees, even a miniature acacia: a perfectly foreshortened version of its savannah cousins.

He searched and scented every cave save one: the one that promised to be the biggest and most exciting. It lay at the foot of the tower and probably extended far into its bulk. Nengwalamwe could find no way in, its entrance was blocked by a mass of sharp rocks far heavier than Nengwalamwe could possibly hope to move. ‘I’m gonna need an elephant to move that lot.’  He cast around. ‘No, a whole herd of them! That other cave has an entrance from the other side which you can’t see, then maybe there’s another way in. Perhaps they’re in there… somewhere?’

By the first light of morning he was certain he had searched the whole rock, except the great cave. He could guess its size from the echoes of his scrabbling and the cool air that oozed through the rocks, but there was only the faintest hint of lion’s scent on that air. Yet there it was, it was the only scent of any kind, apart from the lion’s down at the base, that he caught all that night. He began to wonder if the young cub Yali had not been leading him on some kind of wild cattle egret hunt. Possibly she had been deliberately pulling his tail to hide from him where her mother really lived. Nengwalamwe lay down on the promontory and set to thinking. In a few short minutes, just as the sun’s flaming glow crept above the distant horizon he fell asleep for the first time in half a day.

Nengwalamwe woke to aching hunger. He licked his off-foreleg and looked about. The rock appeared very different in the full light of day. He could now take it all in one look. Yet it still appeared never-ending to the young lion, much as the mountains had done. Whereas up there he had given up hope of ever leaving, here he was reassured by the rock’s inviting warmth and massive permanence. A sudden, very unfamiliar and unsettling thought struck Nengwalamwe: for a moment he thought about lying on the promontory watching his cubs play in the safety of the rock. ‘I must be getting very hungry. What a nightmare, I had better find something to eat - fast.’ He was pulled away by the unmistakable sounds of the climax of a Wild Dog hunt drifting up from the plain to the east of the rock. There may not have been any lionesses to share a kill with but that was no reason not to find an easy meal. As his father used to say, “A good kill is any you don't have to make for yourself.” Dogs would present no challenge. Many a time Nengwalamwe had been with his father when they had come across a dog kill. He knew there would most likely be no more than six dogs. A quick roar and maybe a swipe or two of a forepaw and the meat would be his; dogs were no match for lions. Hyenas could be more difficult, even to the point of being dangerous. They were far more persistent, they bit harder and their chatter was far more annoying but dogs gave many lions easy pickings. Young males just didn’t tell their mother too much about it: if they knew what was good for them.

The dog’s howls grew in volume and frequency. It seemed to Nengwalamwe that they must be quite close, though he had not yet realised that the rock magnified and distorted the sounds of the savannah. He got up and sniffed the air but scented nothing.

Within a minute the young lion, perfectly preened with his beautiful bouncing mane flowing over his shoulders, loped down the rocks and was striding out over the savannah, sure of sating his hunger at the expense of a few mangy wild dogs. The sounds of the dogs grew louder and appeared to change direction, moving more round to his left, as he drew away from the rock. Now it was clear that the sounds came a kopje a little way off but clearly visible over the scattered bushes. He broke into a trot. Dogs are quick eaters, gulping down huge hunks of flesh before dashing off back to their den where they would feed the pack mate and the pups. Nengwalamwe knew he had to hurry if he was not to end up with just bones. As he neared the kopje he slowed to a gentle walk and even stopped to check his paws were still clean. ‘Right Dad, now I’ve got to do it for myself. Pity you ain’t here to see this. There again, if you’ve talked to Llasani then perhaps it’s a good thing you aren’t here,’ he thought, smiling mischievously. ‘Sorry Dad.’ He shrugged, lifting his shoulder blades so that they rose well above his spine, even though, or indeed because, there was no one nearby to see. Then he moved off towards the lowest slope of the nearest rock.

A few seconds later he stood motionless on the rounded top of the rock and looked down onto five wild dogs, their deeply coloured patchwork coats mingling into one as they huddled intently around a partially devoured gazelle. They had not heard the young lion’s approach. As he slipped down the rock, Nengwalamwe was careful to keep his claws tightly in to avoid them clicking on the hard rock surface. It afforded him no grip other than what little his pads gained but he wanted to maintain surprise. He decided to risk jumping down the last metre to the open savannah floor, but still the dogs showed no sign of having heard him. Either they were deaf or stupid; probably the latter. He closed to a couple of lengths and stood for a moment before rumbling quietly to announce his presence, just as his father had done. He was confident that the dogs would turn round, whimper pathetically and scatter leaving him to their kill. His father’s voice once more came to his mind, “The weak have only themselves to blame.”

Not a single dog moved in response to his subtle call. ‘Deaf AND stupid? I can get to like living here,’ he thought. He growled, loud enough for even deaf dogs to hear him. One pricked up his ears and lifted his head from the kill. Nengwalamwe thought on, ‘Yep, deaf and stupid. Oh, this is gonna be fun!’ The dog turned slowly to face him and stared at him incredulously.

“Bleedin’ell! ‘Ere, Eddie, would you look at this!” The dog swiped at his neighbour’s hindquarters with his forepaw. Eddie was clearly reluctant to stop gulping down the flesh of the gazelle’s shoulder. “Eddie, get your snout out of it mate! This is really somefin’.”

Nengwalamwe began to wonder if these dogs were quite the same as those he had met before. For a start he had never seen a wild dog that knew so much as a single word of his language, let alone such an almost comprehensible dialect. The dog’s closest companion, presumably Eddie, belatedly turned round to face the lion. His face was bloody from the kill. He licked his cheek noisily with his long tongue before speaking.

“Well lads, look what George has found. If it ain’t a lion...”

“Naa mate, look at it. He ain’t no norm’l lion. Hey you! Is that a mane or what?”

Nengwalamwe stood still, taken totally by surprise by the dogs; he felt rather put out.

“Yeah, he’s just a Dandy Lion! Did you ever see anythin’ so dolled up as that?” George laughed; something Nengwalamwe had never heard any other animal do. “’Ere darlin’ do yo’wanner see what a real male can do?” George thrust his hindquarters forwards and back repeatedly. Nengwalamwe stared back, at first confused then incensed by the dog’s insult. Inside, the pressure built up into a roar that should have put the dogs to instant flight.