The Hare and the Lion

In the days when the forests near Mount Kenya were thick with cedar and wild olive, there ruled a lion named Simba Mkuu who believed his strength gave him the right to feast on whichever animal he pleased, whenever hunger struck him. He grew so bold that he called a meeting of every creature at the edge of the great clearing and declared that from that day forward, one animal each morning must present itself to him as breakfast, or he would hunt down ten in a single day out of spite.

The antelope wept. The buffalo lowered his great horned head in despair. The zebra paced in tight, frightened circles. None of them, for all their strength or speed, could imagine a way to refuse a lion who had already proven he could kill whomever he chose. And so, one by one, the animals began to draw lots each morning, sending their kin to the lion's den with heavy hearts.

One morning it was the hare's turn, small Wamwitu with his long ears and quick eyes, and the other animals murmured with pity, certain this would be the quickest breakfast the lion had ever had. But Wamwitu did not weep or drag his feet. Instead, he sat beneath a fig tree for a long while, thinking, until the sun had climbed well past where he was expected, and then he set off toward the lion's den at an unhurried pace, humming softly to himself.

When he arrived, hours late, Simba Mkuu was pacing furiously, his stomach growling, his mane bristling with rage. 'You dare arrive so late, small one? I should tear you apart on the spot for your insolence!'

'Forgive me, great Simba,' said the hare, bowing low but not trembling. 'I was delayed because another lion stopped me on the path and demanded to eat me himself. He said he was greater than you, and stronger, and that this forest belonged to him now, not to you.'

Simba Mkuu's fury turned instantly to outrage. 'Another lion? In my forest? Take me to him at once, and I will show him who truly rules here.'

The hare led the great lion deep into the trees until they reached an old stone well, deep and lined with smooth rock, that the elephants had dug many seasons before during a drought. 'He lives down there, great Simba,' said the hare, pointing into the dark water below. 'He is hiding from you, I think, now that he knows you are coming.'

Simba Mkuu leaned his massive head over the edge of the well and peered down into the still, dark water. There, staring back up at him with the very same fierce eyes, the very same golden mane, was another lion — proud, unmoving, clearly unafraid.

'You dare stare back at me?' roared Simba Mkuu, and his reflection roared back in perfect silence, mouth open, teeth bared. Enraged beyond thinking, the lion gathered himself and leapt into the well to destroy his rival once and for all, and the water closed over him, and the walls of the well were too smooth and steep for him to climb back out again.

Wamwitu sat back on his haunches at the well's edge and waited until he was certain the splashing had stopped, and then he made his way back through the forest, humming the same soft tune, to tell the other animals that they need never again draw lots at the edge of the clearing.

The animals could hardly believe it at first — the antelope insisted on seeing the well for himself, the buffalo grumbled that no story could be that simple, but when they gathered at the water's edge and looked down and saw no lion climbing free, they understood that the reign of fear was truly over.

That evening, the animals held a great feast beneath the fig trees, and for the first time in a long while, no one wept as darkness fell. The elephant, oldest and wisest among them, turned to the hare and said, 'We have tusks and horns and speed and size, yet it was your small mind that freed us all. Tell us, Wamwitu, how did you think of it?'

'I did not think of tusks or claws,' said the hare, 'because I have none. I thought only of what I did have — patience, and a story, and the shape of a well. Strength answers strength with more strength, and the forest would have grown quiet with grief either way. But cunning does not need to match a lion's size. It only needs to understand a lion's pride.'

And so it is still told among the Agikuyu, whenever a child feels too small or too weak to stand against a larger trouble, that it is not always the biggest paw that saves the village, but sometimes the smallest, quickest mind, patient enough to wait for the right moment and wise enough to let pride do half the work itself.