A lithe, striped tiger moves with practiced stealth through the brush, muscles rippling beneath his fur as he eyes his quarry—a massive Cape water buffalo, her horns gleaming and her focus fixed on the bubbling pot.
The buffalo stands tall and proud, stirring the broth with confident sweeps of her tail.
"Such a tempting meal you must be," the tiger murmurs, voice low and hungry.
The buffalo doesn’t flinch; instead, she faces the tiger calmly, her gaze unwavering.
"If you’re so hungry, why not hop in and flavor my broth?" she says with a sly smile.
"You want me to get in the pot? Ridiculous!" replies the tiger, bristling.
She stands over him, horns casting intimidating shadows in the firelight.
"I said, get in the pot," she repeats, unyielding.
The tiger shakes his head, refusing, and struggles to his feet.
"Get in the pot," insists the buffalo, her tone growing more resolute each time.
"Never!" the tiger snarls, his pride wounded but his body weakening with each blow.
The buffalo stands tall, her patience unwavering, as she repeats her demand.
"Get in the pot," she says, her voice gentle but firm.
"If I must, I must," the tiger finally concedes, defeated.
"Thank you for seasoning my supper," she says, her tail flicking contentedly.
The night settles in, peaceful except for the gentle bubbling of the broth—a savory reward for the buffalo’s cunning and persistence.
