Jungle Spring: The Coup Against The Lion king

By Jamal Matar

This charming novel leads us to understand the eternal struggle for power. Who deserves it? Is it the strongest amongst us or the most fair? Its events and dialogues take place in the world of jungle animals when standards are turned upside down. Instead of the lion king, the animals find themselves under the rule of the mouse, in a clear reference to the weak humans who ascend to power in their countries through military coups and conspiracies, and who are not worthy of rule and too incompetent to inact justice.
It is a wonderful novel, where the author has written the characters so lively and vividly it is as though they were animated in a movie. Many of those who have read it have considered it the third sequel to the "The Lion King" series, and in many ways it is indeed so.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Trafford Publishing
• Release date: Dec 19, 2022
• ISBN: 9781698713557

Jamal Matar

A famous writer, theater director, novelist and presenter from Dubai, United Arab Emirates. He wrote and directed more than 10 plays that achieved great fame in the Arab world and won prestigious awards. He also published a number of plays, two books on poetry and a novel entitled ‘Dog’. His style is characterized by direct symbolism in theater and novel, and on the literary level, he has a remarkable presence in reciting poetry and in managing and presenting cultural and artistic programs. His latest novel ‘The Spring of the Forest’ is the culmination of his rich experiences in television, theater, novel, poetry and cinema.

Book preview

Jungle

Spring

The Coup Against

The LION KING

JAMAL MATAR

Translated by:

Fatima Al-Ansari

©

Copyright 2023 Jamal Matar.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the written prior permission of the author.

ISBN: 978-1-6987-1354-0 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-6987-1356-4 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-6987-1355-7 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2022921622

Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Getty Images are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Getty Images.

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Contents

Chapter   1

Chapter   2

Chapter   3

Chapter   4

Chapter   5

Chapter   6

Chapter   7

Chapter   8

Chapter   9

Chapter  10

Chapter  11

Chapter  12

Chapter  13

Chapter  14

Chapter  15

Chapter  16

Chapter  17

To my lifelong

friend, Naji Al-Hay.

Thank you for reviving a story I had forgotten.

LION-BANNER.jpg

Chapter

1

As a child, you discover your little jumps aren’t you flying; jumping is your soul’s gasp for life. And when you jump for joy, you aren’t racing anyone—you simply run.

I’ll challenge myself to a race. I’ll win. I’ll wait and see, and then I’ll try again. If I’m tempted to sit, I’ll stand because my life can’t be good forever. I won’t let myself be lured by the dark, gray skies, with their heavy tears pouring down on me. I don’t accept rainy invitations anymore. Those burdensome droplets are for lovers, with hearts full of joy, while my eyes are rude, I smell bad, and I look ugly. At least that’s what they say about me. What do they want? I don’t know.

Sure, I may be ugly, but what else is new? Life is full of ugliness, and the subjectiveness of beauty is fading— in my point of view. My excessive activity makes them lazy and slow, but I move because I can’t stay still. I’m like a river in that sense—ever moving, ever changing. Nothing can stop me, not even a mountain.

I’m searching for a never-ending wonder. I am not a creature of habit; it dulls my passion. I also can’t tolerate lazy company because I am always in motion. No good comes from staying still, not even for an hour. I stop only when I work and think as a means of resting my body, and that is when I find myself daydreaming of my beloved. I am occasionally lost in reverie—a dreamer, a wanderer with much that is out of reach. Will she still want me despite what she hears about me? A question that makes my body flutter wingless. I am occupied with her love again, her shyness and my pride. Are there not souls that accept and transcend the other’s faults? Are they not able to forget, even for a short time?

Life will end while we wait, anticipating and perhaps in silence, and dry branches will sprout from the seeds of despair.

My flaws are many, and my despised biography is not good. But really, what’s new? Even mosquitoes draw back when they see me for some reason.

I reprimand myself, boil myself with my own tongue, as if everything said about me isn’t enough for me. Am I from such a degenerate lineage that allows for such injustice from my loved one? I pity myself and fear the great fall into an endless spiral of sadness. Let me explain it to you, and then you can judge and decide.

I love her, but she doesn’t care. I don’t know if she even carries an atom of affection toward me. She said to me once, You are not a gentleman. She’s right. I lack chivalry—I’m not noble, nor a hero, nor an angel. In fact, this is what she always does. I bring her the moon, and she flirts with the sun. I give her the rain, and she contemplates the clouds. Dear God, be of help to me, for the soldiers of love have invaded me, and I have saddled my horses for them. Make her my beloved, O Lord, and make the veins of my heart her dwelling.

My sweetheart is known for her poise and strong will; this is why I love her. I don’t want a fool who repeats words like a parrot. I want her to be beautiful and intelligent. I find myself swimming in the magic of her eyes, and I melt. But what breaks my heart is that she doesn’t want me. With whom do I confide my anxiety, weakness, anguish, anger, and despair? I am alone, dwelling, weaving threads of imaginary hope that perhaps she may be satisfied with me as a lover—or a friend. I was alone with her one night. It was so alive with the light of her face; it seemed like a bright dawn. We exchanged looks that kindled fires in me. I lost sense of all logic, and I stumbled for words. She asked me if I loved her.

My heart takes over to answer, and she asks what’s wrong with my heart. My eyes respond with a look that says, Why is your heart unmoved?

Perhaps she is teasing or testing me. Who is like her, with such intelligence and brilliance, that she seeks reassurance and certainty?

Would she understand if I were to sever my hand? Must I throw myself off the highest peak to be believed? One cannot befriend a cruel companion, whose sole concern is to take pleasure in the suffering of others, as is happening to me now.

I don’t have a warm voice, but I sing to her. And she applauds enthusiastically. Has she thought of this lovely memory since? When we started singing together, she closed the door and whispered, Ours alone.

Don’t you remember, my dear comrade, how you crowded us and, with your shoulder, pushed me away, and you ran to shut the door so that the song wouldn’t come out?

We all forget; forgetting is generally a virtue, especially here in our jungle, but an incident like this must never be forgotten. You can’t remain forever ungrateful this way.

I wonder if she has come to the realization that I do not deserve her and that my company is her biggest burden in this life. As children, we used to play in the woods, throwing stones into the water, water as clear as her eyes, her eyes that mixed the brilliance of sun and moon.

How did this miracle happen?

She opens her eyes, and a majestic ray radiates over the world; and she closes them, so we drown in darkness, except for a faint light coming from afar, perhaps the moon.

It seems I’m delirious or sick with a fever. I am constantly in pursuit of motion because calm rattles me. I lose my balance, and my anxiety increases. My anxiety is a frightening hell. I cling to movement, and it’s good for my wounded heart. It should remain active, not lovesick. There is no shame in walking wounded.

Doesn’t it reveal my resilience? Can’t she see how bright my face is?

Let them challenge me if they wish, and if they catch up with me, let them!

When we were young, time was ours, and we played endlessly. And when it was time to race, I would race with her, and she would get angry when she lost. Come, my beloved, let’s race now; and I promise that you will be the winner and that the trophy will be yours forever.

All I ask for is acknowledgment of this poor unfortunate soul, my God; were she to tell me she loves me, flowers will bloom in my veins, and gardens will extend through my deserted heart, and she will be my eternal paradise?

I marvel at her stinginess! I am easily appeased with the uttering of L, and my heart will sing the rest of the word.

It seems to be quite the dream, to hear you speak a complete letter. I am delirious like a madman, a madman who wears the dress of reason. This is what I have become. I have decided: I will go to the king. I will say, "Oh venerable and just king for all eternity, would you be content to blot out a black page of your shining record? No, you will not accept it