The Lion and the Donkey's Pact

e sun filtered softly through thick leaves, there lived a lion named Rafi and a donkey named Bobo. They were as different as could be—Rafi was powerful, proud, and feared, while Bobo was clumsy, loud, and mostly laughed at by others.

One dry season, food became scarce. Rafi, though strong, found hunting harder than usual. His usual prey had grown clever, and he grew weaker with every failed chase.

One morning, while Rafi lay beneath a tree, panting and tired, Bobo happened to pass by, humming a ridiculous tune.

Rafi let out a low growl. “Do you mind, Donkey? I haven’t eaten in two days, and your singing is not helping.”

Bobo blinked, then grinned. “Well, lucky you! I might have a solution.”

Rafi raised an eyebrow. “You?”

“Yes, me,” said Bobo proudly. “You’re strong, I’m loud. That could be useful.”

Rafi chuckled. “How is being loud useful in hunting?”

“Simple,” said Bobo. “I’ll scare the animals out of hiding with my voice, and you’ll catch them. We split the meal fifty-fifty.”

The lion thought for a moment. As ridiculous as the plan sounded, he didn’t have a better idea. “Very well. We’ll try your way. But no tricks.”

The next day, the odd pair set out. They approached a patch of tall grass where rabbits often hid. Bobo brayed so loudly that birds flew from the trees, and the rabbits leapt from their hiding spots—right into Rafi’s paws.

It worked.

They tried it again in another part of the forest, and again, it worked like a charm. That evening, both lion and donkey sat beside a small stream, feasting.

Over the next few days, they continued their pact. The forest animals were confused and terrified by this new team. A lion and a donkey? Who would’ve thought?

But with each successful hunt, Bobo grew more arrogant.

“You know,” he said one evening, munching on fruit beside Rafi, “I think I’m the brains behind this whole operation.”

Rafi glanced at him. “Perhaps. But don’t let your voice grow louder than your sense.”

Bobo ignored the warning. The next morning, while preparing for another hunt, Bobo strutted around the clearing. “Maybe I should be king of the jungle,” he said loudly. “Everyone’s afraid of my voice, not your claws.”

The forest grew quiet.

Rafi stood still, his golden eyes locked on Bobo. “You think your voice is mightier than my strength?”

“Well, I mean... sort of,” Bobo said, suddenly unsure.

“Then prove it,” said Rafi. “Go hunt without me.”

Bobo swallowed but nodded. “Fine. I don’t need you anyway.”

So Bobo went into the woods alone. He brayed and stomped, making as much noise as possible. But without Rafi nearby, no one ran. The animals peeked out and laughed. Monkeys mimicked his bray. A parrot squawked, “Here comes the mighty king!” and fell off its perch laughing.

Embarrassed, Bobo returned at sunset, ears drooping and voice hoarse.

Rafi looked up from the stream. “Back so soon, oh great king?”

Bobo sighed. “Turns out, I’m not so mighty on my own.”

Rafi gave a small smile. “Neither am I, Bobo. That’s why we made a pact.”

From then on, Bobo toned down his pride, and the two worked together with respect. The forest never forgot the unlikely alliance between the lion and the donkey—a reminder that even the strongest need help, and even the loudest need humility.