BEIJING: In the early 2000s, along the banks of the Ewaso Ng’iro River in the heart of Kenya’s Samburu National Reserve, rangers and herders encountered a moment so unexpected that it stirred unease and admiration. A lioness was moving through the bush with a newborn beisa oryx calf following her, stumbling on thin legs, small enough to fit between her forepaws.
The calf was barely a week old, but it should not have lasted minutes. Instead, it stayed with the lioness for days. She lay beside it during the heat of the day, shielded it from the sun, and drove away predators that wandered too close.
For days, then weeks, the unlikely pair were seen together. The lioness, later named Kamunyak, which means “the blessed one” in the Samburu language, cared for the oryx calf as if it were her own.
The story ends sadly, as stories from the wild often do. When Kamunyak left briefly to drink from the river, another lion killed the calf. According to local accounts, the lioness searched the area for days before disappearing into the wilderness. Whether that final detail belongs to fact or memory hardly matters. The story has lived on for more than two decades, retold by Samburu elders as a lesson rather than an anomaly.
Locally, Kamunyak’s story is not framed as sentimentality. It is spoken of as an embodiment of restraint, coexistence, and the sacred balance that governs life in the harsh Samburu terrain. Elders describe it as an expression of a land that rewards patience and punishes excess. Visitors may hear it early in their stay, often before they have seen a lion at all. It sets the tone.
“You cannot understand the reserve without understanding the Samburu community,” says Tom Lesarge, director of Samburu National Reserve. “The locals are part of the attraction.”
It is a practical observation. For generations, the protection of nature has been woven into Samburu culture and passed down through the stories elders tell at dusk, rituals performed at sacred hills, and daily practices shaped by survival in the wilderness. The reserve sits roughly 350 kilometers north of Nairobi, where Kenya’s greener highlands give way to semi-arid country. Here, acacia trees dominate the horizon, water dictates movement, and survival depends on knowing when not to push further.
For first-time visitors, Samburu often feels quieter than Kenya’s southern parks. The drama is subtler. There are fewer vehicles, wider spaces, and longer pauses between sightings. That restraint is part of its character. –The Daily Mail-China Daily news exchange item
