Gabby Sykora (Youth For Lions ambassador)
There are wildlife moments that stay with you because of what you see, and then there are those that stay with you because of what you feel. This was one of the latter.
On a recent trip to the Timbavati, we headed out on an afternoon drive with purpose. We knew that a large pride of lions, roughly sixteen individuals, were on a giraffe kill. That kind of sighting doesn’t happen often, and when it does, you don’t ease into it slowly. We made our way straight there, following the tracks, easing off the main road and carefully weaving through the bush as our guide navigated us closer, slowly and deliberately, through thick vegetation and uneven ground.
As we approached the sighting, the atmosphere shifted. We were the only vehicle in “the lock”, a space where access is limited and movement is controlled at a sighting. That meant something rare: silence, freedom, and time. Just six of us on the vehicle, no rush, no pressure, no engines idling nearby. Our guide positioned us perfectly, taking the light, the wind, and the lions themselves into account. And then we sat.
We listened. We watched. We photographed. And we took it all in.
A giraffe kill of that size, with a pride that large, is absolute chaos in the most mesmerising way. Lions feeding, squabbling, dragging, snapping, growling. Cubs darting in and out. Subtle hierarchy playing out with every movement. At any given moment, something was happening somewhere, and we were constantly scrambling to decide where to point our cameras. There was simply too much to see, too much to absorb all at once.
But when you’re around lions, especially on footless ground like that, one rule always applies: never lose awareness of your surroundings.
It was with all our attention fixed firmly on the kill that I heard it. A sound so small it almost didn’t register. The soft crack of a twig behind me.
Everything in me froze.
Slowly, carefully, I lowered my camera. Even more slowly, I turned to sit squarely in my seat. I didn’t need to look directly to know something was there. In my peripheral vision, I saw her.
Not even a metre away.
A lioness.
She was sitting quietly in the shade of the vehicle, completely at ease, staring straight at me. Not aggressive. Not curious. Just present. And utterly aware.
In that moment, time did strange things. My heart stopped and raced all at once. Every emotion possible passed through me in seconds, awe, fear, respect, disbelief. I held my breath without even realising it, willing myself not to move, waiting for her to casually stand up and continue on her way.
She did not.
Instead, she stayed exactly where she was. Perfectly comfortable. Perfectly happy. And very content to scare me out of my wits.
Seconds stretched into what felt like an eternity. My mind, unhelpfully, supplied vivid images of those powerful jaws and the very real reminder of where I sat in the food chain. And then, as if on cue, she yawned. A huge, unhurried yawn, exposing teeth built not for intimidation, but for survival.
She stood. She moved off. She returned to the kill. Just like that.
Only then did I breathe again.
That moment, more than the drama of the kill or the size of the pride, stayed with me. Because it was a reminder of something fundamental. Lions are not spectacles. They are not backdrops for photographs. They are not characters in a story written for us.
They are apex predators. They are intelligent, aware, and entirely at home in spaces where we are only ever visitors.
True lion conservation begins with respect. Respecting their space. Their behaviour. Their needs. Their right to exist without being manipulated, bred, touched, or controlled for human entertainment. Moments like this make it painfully clear how thin the line is between awe and arrogance, and how vital it is that we choose the former.
That lioness didn’t owe me anything. Not a photograph. Not a glance. Not tolerance. And yet, she gave me something far more valuable, a moment of absolute clarity.
Lions do not exist for us.
We exist alongside them, and it is our responsibility to ensure they remain wild, free, and respected long after moments like mine become nothing more than memories shared around a campfire.
