Through the Mist

The savanna was shrouded in a thick, ghostly mist, the kind that blurs the world into whispers and softens its sharp edges. Dawn hung heavy, the air cool and damp, when I saw him—the Sonop male, a lion whose presence seemed to bend the very morning to his will. He emerged from the haze like a phantom king, his massive form slicing through the fog with a grace that masked his raw power.

His mane, dark and tangled, framed a face etched with scars, each a silent story of battles fought and won. His amber eyes glowed with a fierce intensity, scanning the veiled horizon, locked on something unseen. There was purpose in his stride, deliberate and unyielding, as he moved toward the Nwanetsi River, his massive paws leaving faint prints in the dew-soaked soil.

I imagined the Nwanetsi’s banks, alive with the promise of life—prey drinking at dawn, or perhaps a pride he sought to find. His solitude was palpable, a storm of strength and vulnerability, and it stirred an ache in my chest. He paused at the water’s edge, head low, as he tasted the air, and in that moment, I felt the pulse of the wild—raw, relentless, and achingly alive.

He crossed the river and he disappeared into the mist, while the cry of baboons echoed along the ridge line. That fleeting glimpse by the Nwanetsi River was more than a sighting—it was a call to feel the wild’s untamed pulse, fierce and fleeting, forever etched in the mist.