Dahlia and the Garden of Light - Chapter 81: Chapter 81
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Serengeti – Seven Weeks In
Derek had crossed the Serengeti plains twice over by foot and jeep. He’d slept in thorn-walled camps with Maasai guides, in canvas tents beside veterinary crews, and once under nothing but stars, a hyena watching from a nearby ridge and sayinghi to Derek in passing.
He asked everyone the same question.
“Have you seen a lion that doesn’t act like a lion?”
Some laughed. Others shook their heads. But a few… a few narrowed their eyes and muttered strange things.
—
Ngorongoro Outpost – Midday
In a windswept village of red soil and tin rooftops, Derek sat beneath a tree, sharing tea with an elder named Bibi Jalia.
“You dream of him, don’t you?” she asked, not looking at him directly.
Derek stiffened. “How do you know?”
“You smell like someone who listens. Lions speak in silence. He’s waiting.”
“Where?”
She poured another cup of tea, steam rising between them. “Not far. There’s a place the animals and people forgot — behind fences. Where the world tried to put wildness into cages.”
—
Abandoned Zoo – Periphery of the Reserve
The rusted sign read: Kijiji Wildlife Park — CLOSED UNTIL FURTHER NOTICE.
Thick vines choked the fencing. Vultures circled above the overgrown enclosures. Derek stepped through the broken gate with a machete in one hand and a cloth pouch of Dahlia’s petals tucked beneath his shirt.
He didn’t speak, not at first. He just walked.
The cages smelled of old rot and rain. Broken water tanks. Empty feeding bins. A collapsed exhibit marked “Predators – Apex of the Wild.”
Then he saw him.
Emaciated. Scarred. Golden eyes dulled by hunger.
The lion lay at the far edge of the broken exhibit, too tired to stand but too proud to crawl.
Derek crouched slowly. “You’re the one, aren’t you?”
The lion looked up. Not with hunger. Not with fear. But with recognition.
—
The First Few Days
He returned every morning. Left food — mostly scraps and goat meat donated by a sympathetic butcher in Moshi. He poured water from a salvaged tank. He scattered healing petals in the lion’s straw. He stayed quiet.
Some days the lion snarled. Others he ignored him.
But slowly, the wounds healed. The ribs began to disappear beneath golden fur. The lion stood taller. Watched Derek without flinching.
“You’re not just a lion,” Derek whispered once. “I know that now.”
—
Locals Who Helped
The groundskeeper, Wanza, an elderly man with half a foot and a radio that only played gospel, helped fix the plumbing.
“This zoo once had twenty people,” he muttered. “Now it’s ghosts and your lion.”
“I’m not giving up on him,” Derek said.
“Good. Neither did I. He’s waited long enough.”
A vet student named Salima came twice a week with antibiotics. She offered curious glances between Derek and the lion but said little — except once:
“He lets you near. That says more than words.”
—
Derek had crossed the Serengeti plains twice over by foot and jeep. He’d slept in thorn-walled camps with Maasai guides, in canvas tents beside veterinary crews, and once under nothing but stars, a hyena watching from a nearby ridge and sayinghi to Derek in passing.
He asked everyone the same question.
“Have you seen a lion that doesn’t act like a lion?”
Some laughed. Others shook their heads. But a few… a few narrowed their eyes and muttered strange things.
—
Ngorongoro Outpost – Midday
In a windswept village of red soil and tin rooftops, Derek sat beneath a tree, sharing tea with an elder named Bibi Jalia.
“You dream of him, don’t you?” she asked, not looking at him directly.
Derek stiffened. “How do you know?”
“You smell like someone who listens. Lions speak in silence. He’s waiting.”
“Where?”
She poured another cup of tea, steam rising between them. “Not far. There’s a place the animals and people forgot — behind fences. Where the world tried to put wildness into cages.”
—
Abandoned Zoo – Periphery of the Reserve
The rusted sign read: Kijiji Wildlife Park — CLOSED UNTIL FURTHER NOTICE.
Thick vines choked the fencing. Vultures circled above the overgrown enclosures. Derek stepped through the broken gate with a machete in one hand and a cloth pouch of Dahlia’s petals tucked beneath his shirt.
He didn’t speak, not at first. He just walked.
The cages smelled of old rot and rain. Broken water tanks. Empty feeding bins. A collapsed exhibit marked “Predators – Apex of the Wild.”
Then he saw him.
Emaciated. Scarred. Golden eyes dulled by hunger.
The lion lay at the far edge of the broken exhibit, too tired to stand but too proud to crawl.
Derek crouched slowly. “You’re the one, aren’t you?”
The lion looked up. Not with hunger. Not with fear. But with recognition.
—
The First Few Days
He returned every morning. Left food — mostly scraps and goat meat donated by a sympathetic butcher in Moshi. He poured water from a salvaged tank. He scattered healing petals in the lion’s straw. He stayed quiet.
Some days the lion snarled. Others he ignored him.
But slowly, the wounds healed. The ribs began to disappear beneath golden fur. The lion stood taller. Watched Derek without flinching.
“You’re not just a lion,” Derek whispered once. “I know that now.”
—
Locals Who Helped
The groundskeeper, Wanza, an elderly man with half a foot and a radio that only played gospel, helped fix the plumbing.
“This zoo once had twenty people,” he muttered. “Now it’s ghosts and your lion.”
“I’m not giving up on him,” Derek said.
“Good. Neither did I. He’s waited long enough.”
A vet student named Salima came twice a week with antibiotics. She offered curious glances between Derek and the lion but said little — except once:
“He lets you near. That says more than words.”
—
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