Long ago, when the sun hung lower in the sky and animals still conversed like kin, a cunning jackal roamed the dry grasslands. His golden-brown coat blended with the brittle grass. His eyes—sharp, amber, and always calculating—scanned the horizon for food.
But drought had come to the land. The rivers had turned to cracked beds of earth, and the trees stood like skeletons in the sun. Prey was scarce, and the jackal’s ribs pressed tightly against his skin. Hunger had turned his stomach into a growling drum.
One morning, as the jackal slinked through the savanna, he heard an odd sound echoing through the thorn bushes.
“BOOM… boom-boom… BOOM.”
He pricked his ears. It was not the sound of hooves or wings; it was not wind or thunder. Curious, he crept closer and found a narrow clearing lit by shafts of sunlight. In the middle sat a large leather drum—round, taut, and silent now.
The jackal sniffed it. No scent of food, no trap—just old animal hide stretched over a hollow wooden body. But how did it get here? And why did it make such sounds?
He tapped it gently with his paw.
“BOOM!”
The sound startled him but also gave him an idea. “Surely,” he thought, “a drum like this must be treasured by someone. And where there is treasure, there is food.”
He followed the trail around the drum and soon discovered the real owners: a pride of lions, lounging beneath an ancient baobab. The drum belonged to the lion king, used during rituals to summon other beasts. It was sacred—and fiercely guarded.
The jackal’s stomach growled again. He watched from the shadows as the lions feasted on fresh meat, tossing bones and licking their chops.
The jackal knew he couldn’t fight them for food. But he could outthink them.
That night, when the moon was high and the lions snored beneath the tree, the jackal crept back to the clearing. He slashed at the base of the drum with his sharp teeth and dragged it toward a narrow ravine near a hill of rocks where sound echoed strangely.
Then he found an old hollow gourd, left behind by a wandering herder. He stuck a dry stick through the gourd and began tapping it against the rocks and inside the hollow.
BOOM… boom-boom… BOOM.
From the lions’ den, it sounded like the drum still sat in the clearing, calling.
When the lions awoke and heard the familiar rhythm, they returned to the clearing—but found only the tattered remains of their sacred drum.
Meanwhile, the jackal, hidden away, laughed to himself and snuck back to the lion’s abandoned den. There, he devoured the leftovers of their feast—meat, marrow, even a few untouched fruits.
When the lions discovered the trick, they were furious—but too late. The jackal was long gone, vanishing into the horizon with a full belly and a clever grin.
Thus the saying goes:
“The lion may have strength, but the jackal has his mind.”
