Water pours over the savannah, drenching the thirsty soil. The herders guide their cattle back to their pens and animals run searching for shelter. Others dance in the rain.
The baobab tree is the biggest one for miles, music comes from among the branches.
Pots made of clay and wood catch the drops of rain coming through the leaves and branches. The wind makes the mobiles of hollowed fruit rattle, twinkle, jingle.
Rafiki mutters to himself.
Staff and ceremonial robes hang from a branch. He supports himself on the trunk of his tree that has grown like the walls of a house, wobbly on his feet without the staff. The half of a guardo fruit on his palm, with the paste mixed with so much red. On the wall of his tree he painted a lion, a cub.
"Simba," he proclaims after a soft laugh.
Thunder rumbles in the distance, the lightning too far to illuminate anything at all among the branches. The thunder sounds like the roaring of the Kings and Queens of the Past. This is how they let the savannah know they are still watching even with the stars covered by clouds.