I woke up at 5am. ‘Is this lion head still at my dad’s?’ I contemplated the question for a while. Probably not, most likely not. It had nearly been 20 years since my mum and I created this mask in the form of a lion’s head in the first place: a papier-mâché head, to be worn by an adult – or actually, by a teenager boy. My mum was at that time in charge of the props for her school’s play: A Midsummer Night’s Dream, with a rather spotty Bottom-Transformed-a-Donkey and a fearsome Lion. I, being 15 at the time and everything a 15-year-old should not be – bookish, loyal to and friendly with her parents, homely – helped her with disentangling tough pieces of string for Mr. Lion’s manes; hours, if not days.
After the performances, of which Shakespeare could have been proud, and at which I, being 15 and just a teenager like any other teenagers, fell in love with one of the main actors (remember, it was my mum’s school, not mine; it was safe to fall in love here), Mr. Lion’s head ended up in our home. For years, it resided on top of the stairs; me saying goodnight to the good king every night, remembering and secretly smiling over my rather innocent puppy love of yesteryear.
No, it definitely wasn’t on top of the stairs anymore. Of this I was certain. I hesitated. Would Mr. Lion still reside in the house, rule some hidden kingdom in a loft or dark corner? Or was he banned, by my mum, my dad? I decided to call my dad later. I looked at my clock: 5.10am. Later, not now. All of a sudden, I knew: this lion mask is important, it is a sign. If it is still there, I’m in. If it isn’t… we’ll see. I only need to produce a giraffe mask on top and then I’ll have everything I need for raising money in an Africa-oriented photo booth. I still have plenty of time, King’s Day is still 17 days to go. I should be fine.
Satisfied, I roll over to go back to sleep. After all, it is only 5.10am. It is settled. But is it? What if Mr. Lion has gone to the well-deserved happy hunting grounds? I realise it is actually about something else. This head was made by my mother, by us. Reusing it would mean getting as close to an acknowledgement of my mother as I can, her giving me a silent approval for flexing my creativity muscle, for me diving into this adventure and thus ensuring success. My mother died, more than eight years ago; Mr. Lion’s existence would mean including her, accepting her help. And I realise all of a sudden that Mr. Lion is supposed to silence my fears: my fears of failing, being a disaster in fundraising, being useless.
No! Readily awake, I sit up. No, this would not do. This lion will roar! I am just as capable as my mum was: I inherited her blood, her feistiness, her passion. I may not be as crafty as she was, but I’ll do. Being apprehensive, slightly doubtful and uncertain? Perfectly fine; but fear won’t do. The lion inside is right awake; I hear its call, I feel its strength, its readiness to fight. I can do this – Mr. Lion or not. I’ll go to Zambia, cycle 600 kilometres, raise the money I need, stand for something I believe in. I’m no longer a cub needing her mother; this lion is awake and roars!