Makena is ageing, but like most ageing folks, he doesn’t want to admit it. He can barely run, and when he walks, there’s a slight limp. He sleeps for 19 hours & he barely takes as ample a portion as he used to from what we kill. I am scared.
Four days ago The Wanderers came, announcing their presence with a series of strong, guttural roars that threw ice in our blood. There were just two of them, scrawny, & their manes were scant, but they were dead set on overthrowing, ruining & seizing.
I had hidden Sa & Daarii, quickly, & my sisters had hidden their own cubs too. Makena rose, and suddenly, all that strength seemed to return with that rise. He gave a full-throated roar – a warning – then he gave it again, & again, and when they wouldn’t back down, he shook himself & advanced with a fury, & we all followed, to drive the imperious bastards back into the harsh wasteland from whence they came.
They might’ve been thin & a little malnourished, but they were clearly devoured by the ambition that showed in the sheer ferocity with which they fought.
We had prevailed & repelled them, but two of my sisters had gotten torn up so badly blood still seeped from their wounds right up till the moon came. Makena, bulky & 4-time battle-tested, had fought with the aggression of a disrespected warlord, & had had his left eye scratched so viciously he could barely see from it afterwards. His left paw had also been bitten quite hard & the limp had become even more noticeable.
Our mood was that dark that night. We knew they knew how big of a blow they’d delivered & we knew it was just a matter of time before they came back to finish it off. It was what we would’ve done.
I had Sa & Daarii close. They were just five weeks’ old.
I had fought hard, knowing that the first thing The Wanderers would do if they took the pride was finding & murdering our cubs.
But I had fought harder for Makena.
I met Makena 39 months ago when he came for our pride, him & his brother, Mukhtaar. He was bloodthirsty & cold-blooded. Other lions simply came to chase the alphas & take over. Makena came to absolutely eliminate. Other lions either failed, at worst, or did it twice or thrice, at best. Makena & Mukhtaar did it once, & it looked like Makena could have done it himself, Mukhtaar or no Mukhtaar.
He was not of considerable size like his brother, but the manner with which he fought that day, the valour, boldness & savagery, inspired something in me that I couldn’t name. He hadn’t let our alpha get away. He had chased & eliminated him, then he had set about eliminating every cub in & out of sight, & the mothers just… watched. Then he had assumed leadership & started to mate. Even in mating, he had been cruel. He snarled & growled & bit when he didn’t even need to, because no female had it in them to resist. And when he came to mate with me, it was no more a mechanical activity than any he’d ever done.
I saw a lot in his eyes: hunger, hate, abandonment, a lack of love. A number of unspeakable things had happened to him & I didn’t need anylione to tell me. He had scars all over – bites, gores, even a bullet – & he stayed alone. Not even Mukhtaar approached him.
But I did. And I was sorry I did. Because he had rough-handed me so badly I nearly lost what he had put in me. I never did ever again.
116 days later, I birthed Nuru, Muthoni & Sauda. I lost them. The panthers found & murdered them when I went out to hunt. He mated again. I took in & I birthed Subirá & Tafari. I lost them. I birthed Wanja & Xasan. I lost them. All my sisters had begun to have their third & fourth set of cubs & I hated myself & questioned my worth. I hated my mother for not teaching me how to mother, & I hated myself for not learning how to. Makena didn’t come close to me for a long time. He wasn’t even seeing me. He had lost interest. He was too preoccupied being a father.
But, one night, five weeks ago, he did.
It was mid-June & I was alone. The moon was out & full, but it wasn’t the glistening, frosty ball of white we were used to. It had a strange color, like something bathed in pink. I had never seen anything like it. I think those humans called it the strawberry moon.
He came so quietly I sprang up in an instant & was about to attack. When I saw him, I mellowed, wondering.
I lay down & he sat for a couple of moments, then lay beside me. He had grown so bulky I felt like a cub beside him, his favorite cub. It was silent between us for a long time. I knew what he wanted to do & he knew I knew.
I presented myself to him. I wanted him. Wanted him to thrust me, to bite me, to rough-handle me more than he’d ever done. I wanted to feel that power, the one he used to ‘single-handedly’ take down buffalos, elephants & crocs he yanked from swamps & tore apart. The one he used to stare down a pack of hyenas & repel every wanderer that’d ever tried to seize our pride.
And he did.
But I felt something else. I felt an affectionate edge within all that activity. It wasn’t a cruel one. It wasn’t one borne from fatherhood either. It was one borne from a desire for me.
126 days later, Sa & Daarii came.
I knew that, like others, I had to leave for a while to find my own shelter. He came with us, like he had decided enough was enough. Like he had decided the offsprings of a warlord should not die.
No panther ever came close. No wild dogs. No nothing.
Just me, Sa, Daarii & mine, Makena.
The Wanderers came again. The last time, they were ready, but this time they were sure. They didn’t begin to roar from the edge of our territory. They began to roar several miles off of it, and it wasn’t the roar of two lions. It was the roar of four, maybe five.
Makena was still hurt, so were Elmira & Onyx. The only healthy one amongst us were, perhaps, seven or eight, half of which were spoilt, young lionesses who couldn’t even hunt properly to save their lives. As for Mukhtaar, he had left to form his own pride.
Again, our blood turned to ice.
Makena began to roar. His was the roar of a wounded warlord, and you know what they tell you about wounded lions, right?
When they came within vision, within our territory, we were right. They were five. And, no, they weren’t running. They were walking, like they thought they owned us.
We might have thought the same. Not me. And definitely not Makena.