Facing the Lion: Growing Up Maasai on the African Savanna. National Kids Geographic

intelligent. They had split up. One had stayed at the southern end of the camp where we were sleeping, while the other had gone to the northern end. The wind was blowing from south to north. The cows smelled the lion at the southern end and stampeded to the north—toward the other waiting lion.

      When I asked my brother, “Hey, what’s going on?” he said, “The lion killed Ngoneya.” Ngoneya was my mother’s favorite cow and Ngoneya’s family was the best one in the herd. My mother depended on her to produce more milk than any other cow. She loved Ngoneya, really. At night she would get up to pet her.

      I was very angry. I said, “I wish to see this lion right now. He’s going to see a man he’s never seen before.”

      Just as we were talking, a second death cry came from the other end of the camp. Again we ran, but as we got closer, I told everyone to stop. “He’s going to kill all the cows!” I told my brother. And I think this is where school thinking comes in. I told him, “Look. If we keep on chasing this lion, he’s going to kill more and more. So why don’t we let him eat what he has now, and tomorrow morning we will go hunting for him.”

      My brother said, “Yes, that’s a good idea,” and it was agreed. For the first time I felt like I was part of the brotherhood of warriors. I had just made a decision I was proud of.

      It was muddy, it was dark, we were in the middle of nowhere, and right then we had cows that were miles away. They had stampeded in every direction, and we could not protect them. So we came back to camp and made a big fire. I looked for my shoes and I found them. By that time I was bruised all over from the cows banging into me, and my legs were bloody from the scratches I got from the acacia thorns. I hurt all over.

      We started talking about how we were going to hunt the lion the next day. I could tell my brother was worried and wanted to get me out of danger. He said, “Listen, you’re fast, you can run. Run and tell the people at the other camps to come and help. We only have three real warriors here; the rest of you are younger.”

      “No way,” I said. “Are you kidding me? I’m a warrior. I’m just as brave as you, and I’m not going anywhere.” At this point, I hadn’t actually seen the lion, and I absolutely refused to leave.

      My brother said, “I’m going to ask you one more time, please go. Go get help. Go to the other camp and tell the warriors that we’ve found the two lions that have been terrorizing everyone, and we need to kill them today.”

      And I said, “No, I’m not going.”

      So he said, “Fine,” and sent the youngest boy, who was only about eight.

      WHEN DAYLIGHT CAME, I took the little boy’s spear and walked out from the camp with the others. Barely 200 yards away were the two lions. One had its head right in the cow, eating from the inside. And one was just lying around: She was full. As we approached them, we sang a lion song: “We’re going to get the lion, it’s going to be a great day for all of us, all the warriors will be happy, we’ll save all our cows.”

      As we got closer, the older man who was with us kept telling us to be careful. We should wait for help, he said. “This is dangerous. You have no idea what lions can do.” But no one would listen to him.

      The other guys were saying, “We can do it. Be brave, everyone.” We were encouraging each other, hyping ourselves up.

      My brother was so angry, so upset about our mother’s favorite cow that he was crying. “You killed Ngoneya,” he was saying. “You are going to pay for it.”

      Everyone was in a trance. I felt that something inside me was about to burst, that my heart was about to come out. I was ready. Then we came face-to-face with the lions. The female lion walked away, but the male stayed. We formed a little semicircle around the male, with our long spears raised. We didn’t move. The lion had stopped eating and was now looking at us. It felt like he was looking right at me. He was big, really big. His tail was thumping the ground.

      He gave one loud roar to warn us. Everything shook. The ground where I was standing started to tremble. I could see right into his throat, that’s how close we were. His mouth was huge and full of gore from the cow. I could count his teeth. His face and mane were red with blood. Blood was everywhere.

      The lion slowly got up so he could show us his full presence. He roared again. The second roar almost broke my eardrums. The lion was now pacing up and down, walking in small circles. He was looking at our feet and then at our eyes. They say a lion can figure out who will be the first person to spear it.

      I edged closer to my brother, being careful not to give any sign of lifting or throwing my spear, and I said, “Where’s that other camp?”

      My brother said to me, “Oh, you’re going now?” He gave me a look—a look that seemed to say, You watch out because someone might think you are afraid.

      But I said, “Just tell me where to go.” He told me. I gave him my spear. “It will help you,” I said, and then I took off in the direction of the other cattle camp. No warrior looked back to see where I was going. They were all concentrating on the lion.

      As I ran toward the next camp, I saw that the little boy had done his job well. Warriors were coming, lots of them, chanting songs, asking our warriors to wait for them. The lion stood his ground until he saw so many men coming down, warriors in red clothes. It must have seemed to him that the whole hillside was red in color. The lion then started to look for a way out.

      The warriors reasoned that the lion had eaten too much to run fast and that the muddy ground would slow him up. They thought they could run after him and kill him. They were wrong. As soon as they took their positions, the lion surged forward and took off running. The warriors were left behind. There was nothing they could do except pray that they would meet this lion again.

      From that time on, I knew the word in the village was that I had run away from the lion. There was no way I could prevent it.

      “You know the young Lekuton warrior?”

      “Yeah.”

      “He was afraid of the lion.”

      My brother tried to support me, but in our society, once word like that gets out, that’s it. So I knew that I’d have to prove myself, to prove that I’m not a coward. So from then on, every time I came home for vacation, I went to the cattle camp on my own. I’d get my spear, I’d get my shoes. Even if it was 30 miles from the village, I’d go on my own, through thick and thin, through the forest and deserts. When I got there I’d take the cattle out on my own. Always I hoped something would attack our cattle so I could protect them.

      Chapter 2

      The Proud One

      My age-mates know my bravery.

      They say I am a lion.

      I roar day and night.

      MY PEOPLE SPEAK the Maa language, which is why we are called Maasai. There are many subgroups within the Maa culture, including mine, the Ariaal. The Ariaal is actually a mixture of two groups, the Samburu and the Rendille. My mother is Rendille; my father was Samburu. We’re nomads: We live where it’s best for the cattle, where there’s good grass and water, away from disease and pests. If the grass runs out or the water dries up, we move. If there’s better grazing land somewhere else, we move.

      A warrior may walk 25 or 30 miles in a day to scout out new grazing land. He’ll just get up and go. He’ll go look to see if the grass is good and for signs of predators or people who may want to steal the cattle. Then he’ll walk back. Even at night, he’ll know exactly where he is. He’ll smell the trees and know that a particular tree grows in that place, or he’ll hear a certain bird and know exactly where that bird lives. When he returns, he’ll discuss what he’s seen with the family or the village, and they’ll decide whether to move the herd.

      The Maa speakers used to live all over Kenya, from north to south. Nairobi—the name of the capital city, in the south—is a Maa word that means “cold.” My great-great-grandfather used