Scar.
Arguably, one of the Maasai Mara's most recognizable wild citizens. Probably its best-known lion. His distinctive disfigurement, replicates the mark on his 'Lion King' namesake.
In these parts, he is legend - he has scattered his seed, inflicted and absorbed battle blows and catapulted his DNA across his stunningly beautiful homeland.
He defence of his kingdom has been exceptionally able. He’s never backed down from a brawl this region’s unceasing lion civil wars.
He mates with a gusto uncommon for a cat of his age - in a couple of these images, he cavorts with a pair of his current consorts
Depending on whom you chose to believe, his eye was either gouged by a Maasai spear or a rival’s claw. To me, its origin slips into insignificance beside the raffish air it bestows.
His injury intrigues but it’s that super-mane that separates Scar from his peers. A rakish shroud of anthracite, bronze and gold. Bouffant and bouncy, it frames his face then cascades - impossibly lush - past his pectorals, caressing his shoulders before it splashes halfway down his back.
An uber Afro; a hair do to outdo all lion dos.
The sun is setting on Scar’s kingdom. His flanks are thinning, there's a hitch to his gait. Challengers figuratively nip at his heels; in the coming months one will successfully bite at his throat.
Don't mourn him when he falls. He has lived and loved very well - his throng of admirers have relished his unprecedented 14 years of skirmishing and siring. As a veteran of countless conflicts and copulations, he's evolved into our perfect metaphor for the intertwining and interdependence of life and death.
He will die well and will depart with his place etched in glory in the pantheon of lions. Until then and after then, we will celebrate him mightily.
Scar is legend.