Solitude of a King

Solitude of a King

There’s a peculiar intimacy in being stranded on the savannah with a flat tyre and too much time to think. The jack groaned, the wind whispered, and then—there he was. A lion, seated at a civilized distance, as if he’d RSVP’d to the inconvenience. He didn’t move. He didn’t need to. Kings rarely do. I remember thinking how solitude fits power like a tailored suit. His mane caught the light in burnt-gold tones, eyes steady, ancient, unimpressed by our mechanical failure or our quiet panic. We were beneath his notice, which is the highest form of mercy. As we worked, fumbling with bolts and bravado, I felt observed—not hunted, but measured. The way one might assess a painting in a gallery: briefly, thoughtfully, without urgency. When the tyre was finally changed, he rose and vanished into the grass, leaving behind silence and the uncomfortable truth that for a moment, we were guests in his kingdom. And kings, I’ve learned, never need an audience.