The lion and the jackal

Once upon a time, deep in the heart of the golden savannah, where the sun blazed like fire and the wind whispered ancient secrets through the grass, there lived a lion named Barafu. He was powerful, proud, and feared by all animals. His roar could silence the birds, and his claws were sharper than thorns. Barafu ruled the land with strength and fury, and none dared question his authority.

But not far from Barafu’s rocky throne lived another creature—clever and unnoticed. His name was Sefu, a wiry jackal with eyes like polished amber and a mind as sharp as his teeth. Unlike Barafu, Sefu did not possess great strength. He did not command fear, nor did he claim territory. But he knew how to survive—and sometimes, that was more powerful than brute force.

For many seasons, Barafu allowed Sefu to scavenge the remains of his hunts. The lion, confident in his superiority, laughed at the jackal’s small size and sly nature.

“You feed on my leftovers, little shadow,” Barafu would roar. “You owe your life to my mercy.”

Sefu would bow low, offering a grin. “True, Your Majesty. But I eat well all the same.”

Barafu took pride in his dominance, but age began to dull his power. His roars grew hoarser. His legs, once strong enough to bring down buffalo, now trembled after the chase. He noticed the change but refused to acknowledge it.

Meanwhile, Sefu watched patiently. He noticed the lion’s slower gait, the longer naps, and the growing frustration in his eyes. The jackal, ever the opportunist, began to visit Barafu more often—bringing news, flattery, and subtle suggestions.

One particularly dry season, when prey was scarce and water holes dried to cracked mud, Sefu approached Barafu with a sly smile.

“Great King,” he said, tail swishing behind him, “I bring word of a hidden valley beyond the hills. It is said to be full of antelope and shaded streams—untouched by drought.”

Barafu’s ears perked up. “Why have I not heard of this before?”

“It is well hidden,” Sefu said smoothly, “and guarded by a strange herd of beasts who do not respect your rule. But if you were to conquer them, it would prove your greatness once more.”

Barafu, eager to reclaim his fading glory, agreed at once. “Lead me there. I shall show them the true king of the savannah.”

So they journeyed across the harsh plains. Each day the lion grew more weary, and each night Sefu encouraged him with honeyed words and promises of glory.

Finally, they reached the valley—but there were no antelope, no streams, and no strange beasts. It was a dead end, a desolate place of thorns and rocks.

Barafu growled in fury. “You lied to me, jackal!”

Sefu stood just beyond reach, eyes gleaming in the fading light. “Did I? Or did you lie to yourself, thinking strength alone would keep you king forever?”

With that, the jackal disappeared into the tall grass, leaving Barafu alone, tired, and defeated.

Back in the savannah, things began to change. The animals noticed Barafu’s absence. Whispers spread like fire on dry wind. And into the silence stepped Sefu—not as a king, but as a guide, a voice of reason. He helped resolve disputes, warned of danger, and earned quiet respect.
Barafu eventually returned, limping and gaunt. He no longer roared or hunted. He lay atop his rock, watching the world he once ruled move on without him.

One day, the lion called for Sefu.

“You betrayed me,” Barafu said, voice thin.

Sefu nodded. “I did. But only because you no longer listened. You ruled with strength, but never with wisdom. Now, even the strongest cannot hold their crown alone.”

The lion lowered his head. He knew it was true.

And so, the savannah had a new balance. Barafu remained a symbol of past power, a sleeping shadow of his former self. And Sefu, with neither crown nor throne, became the true leader—quiet, cunning, and respected.Moral of the Story:
Strength may win the throne, but wisdom keeps it. Even the mightiest fall when they ignore the lessons of time and the power of subtlety.