Her world was a performance. Boneka lost both her parents when she had been very young, during the flood. She, herself, had been hauled by the scruff of her neck by a male lion, whisked away to higher grounds. When the disaster had died down and the pride was slowly piecing themselves back together, the lion left her with a lioness, who became her surrogate mother.
At least, this was what she had described when introducing herself to an audience.
Boneka didn’t need their pity, sympathy, or curiosity if they learned the real reason. A good number of cubs were orphaned through the great flood, it was best not to point out that she had been born shortly after the flood. And that her mother tried to send her and her siblings off, away from the ‘cursed’ Nchi’mahadhi. The cursed pride that took away her mother’s beloved. Boneka didn’t want to tell anyone that she had been old enough to remember her mother being banished, old enough to remember being placed in someone else’s care. She definitely didn’t want to tell them that her mother lumped her and her siblings into the ‘cursed’ bit or that her siblings had died between being sent away, before they could be brought back. Fortunately, she didn’t see their deaths. All she saw was the emotionless eyes of her mother, barely glancing at her as the sentenced her. She remembered her mother walking away until out of sight. Not once did she look back. Not once did she hesitate.
But like all performances and plays, there was tragedy. It was essential. Conflict sparked feelings. And so, Boneka just considered her own tragedies as part of the play.
Being with a surrogate mother was rather odd. She was old enough to know the lioness for nothing more than a stranger, albeit from the same pride. Instead of spending time in the den, Boneka raced around the pride, experiencing the sights of the place, paws in tune with the music. The music lured her, the dancing tempted her. But it was the arts and plays that fascinated her beyond belief. There were things like dolls. Paints. Colors. Elaborately designed instruments. And small puppets. The puppets drew her and she became obsessed. She had nothing to trade for it and refused to ask her new mother for the puppet. And so, she watched the one who crafted it. An opossum named Eiya and his son Emas.
Eiya pretended she wasn’t watching at first, simply going through the business of tying knots on the shells of nuts, connecting twine, fastening reeds. Boneka attempted to imitate this, failing many times. Her paws were just not cut out for making puppets and it frustrated her to no end. After weeks of watching Eiya build his small puppets and attempting to duplicate them, Boneka was near ready to throw the materials in frustration, tears swelling up. And that was when she officially spoke with Emas.
Emas had been a quiet opossum, shy of the world but deftly picking up his father’s crafts. He had watched Boneka’s failed attempts, gathering up the courage to help the cub out. One day, when Boneka looked ready to cry, he hesitated. And his father nudged him. Nudged him without even looking up from his puppet making. But Emas understood. Boneka had watched the opossum approach with wariness and a sulk. He was going to show her up. He was going to shove in her face what he can do and she couldn’t do.
But instead, he simply tied the knot she had been working at. And stepped back, waiting. She watched him, cautiously and unsure. Before picking out the parts she wanted to do next. It began to click and excitement built up in her as Emas stepped in only to tie the knots and loop the twine into pesky tiny holes. Their team had built without a word exchanged between them. It had been a full month before they said a word to each other. But they understood before that, understood when words would have failed them.
Over the years, Boneka learned from Eiya by watching and Emas taught her the tricks he learned from Eiya. She learned of different materials to use, how to gather twine, how to position the string in a way to make the puppets dance. Eventually, she began sketching out ideas that she had dreams about or had occurred to her from a bit of inspiration. She started implementing other bits of material to add flare; bones and scales, dried out flowers and hides, painting them and decorating. With each puppet that she made, her work became more and more elaborate. Eventually, her world was puppets. She stopped participating in plays, stopped joining in the singing. Sure, she dance and sung during the ceremonies. But when not mandatory, she created puppets, always attempting to make the next best thing.
Her puppets slowly circulated into the pride. The more she made, the more attention it brought. She had been stunned when the first order came in. Sure, she had sold puppets. It was how she made a bit of coin or other things of value. But they were always premade, never made based on a customer’s request. The nerves jangled her. But she tried. And tried. And eventually… the customer was ecstatic to receive his personal puppet. And her pride soared.
By the time she reached adulthood, her life revolved around creating puppets and introducing them to theatre performances and dances and other events. She became a bit of a workaholic, staying up by moonlight, firelight, or fireflies. Her attitude more strict and impatient, mostly with adults. With children, she couldn’t snap at. If a cub were to approach her trades, she would smile and give away a small children’s puppet, encouraging them to play with it, showing them how to make it move. For she would never forget her obsession of wanting her own first puppet and the frustration it took to finally achieve it.