I’m a zebra.
Yes, a zebra, and it’s snowing in Africa like there’s no tomorrow and I have no idea what to do. I’m scared. The lions have left and they’re hiding somewhere, but I have no idea what to do now. Being a zebra is hard, you know, being on the edge of being eaten every single day, running around as lions chase you … but it’s quite fun once you get to be able to use your legs properly—at about ten-fifteen minutes after your birth. We don’t have that much fur or anything and now, my hooves are freezing and I have no idea where mommy is; how the hell am I supposed to gallop my way through this stupid snow?
You might wonder why I know that it’s called ‘snow’. Well, a bird, Pyro—he likes fire a lot, mind you—told me about it and how it felt. I have always wanted to see it, ever since I was a little, little zebra … but it was hard and it took me long time to realize I was never going to see it. I slid into depression for about three hours, then went with AJ to gallop around for a bit so our legs weren’t going to get all locked in one position and all that. Now, as I see it and feel its coldness and the wind hitting my skin through my fur, I can say that it isn’t really pleasurable. It’s a pain, really, and I have no idea how other animals survive with it on their manes. Ugh, disgusting.
“Pyro?” I neigh as silently as I can while I slide downhill through the snow and try not to break a leg by falling. “Pyro, you there?”
There’s a rather loud chirp and the bird hits me in the face; I, of course, lean on my hinds and kick at the air, screaming like an idiot, before I stumble over and fall into the snow. Pyro chirps once more, indignant and annoying, and I snap my jaws so near his tail that he actually has to leap into the air to escape.
“You idiot!” I yell, frowning. “What the hell are you doing?”
“You called after me,” says the blue bird and jumps over to me on top of the snow. “It’s snowing!”
“Oh, really?” I ask him sarcastically as I flick one ear back and forth and get up from the snow, shaking myself. Though the sun isn’t shining, I can see stuff pretty well and I glare at Pyro, who’s staring at me like I’m some kind of hyena who’s going to eat him. “What?”
“Your—your stripes!” gasps the bird, and his beck hangs open. I raise my eyebrows—well, what I think that are my eyebrows—and then laugh.
“Didn’t you see my stripes before? Are they really that hard to see?” I ask him mockingly, turn my head, and blink. “What the—“
They’re gone.
My precious little stripes, gone! I’m white as a freaking … as a freaking … hell, I don’t know how white are other zebras, but I know I’m not a zebra anymore without my stripes. Shock rises up in me and I can’t stop staring at my side—in a sudden moment of inspiration, I jerk my head to the side to look at the opposite part of my body and I’m greeted by the same whitenes. Then, as I turn to stare at the snow, I see them: dark stripes sliding down the snow, wetting it and making it slowly and evenly of a dark color. I blink. Again. And again. And again.
“Oh, God,” I neigh rather loudly as I turn around over and over again, my eyes wide in shock. “I’m white! My stripes! My stripes!” I scream, before I start kicking at the black snow and pat it with my hooves until it is white again.
I’m too shocked to say anything and I simply let myself fall on top of the snow and I stare at Pyro, the blue parrot, and I see my reflection in his brown eyes: even there the stripes are gone. I shake my head in disbelief. It can’t happen! It can’t happen, because I was born with the stripes, I’m sure of that. It rained so many times on me and they didn’t go away at all, but … but what if the snow had something which made the stripes go away? What if I won’t have any stripes again?
But then, as I throw my head back and try to locate the stripes again, I see them. They’re slowly drifting through the air, floating, carried by no one … with a neigh and a scared chirp from Pyro, who ducks and covers his head with his wings, I leap at my hooves and begin galloping to the floating stripes. I halt right besides them and look back at the bird, who’s just staring, shocked, then I lower myself and slide in between the stripes.
They stick to my skin immediately and I breathe in, relief washing over me. I have my stripes again. I have my stripes again! My mane shakes as the wind blows, and I slowly press my hoove down and through the snow, to the knee, take it up and … the stripes are still there. I neigh happily and trot over to Pyro, who grins toothlessly at me.
“Nice job, Akanai,” he says and I nod. “You look good.”
“Thanks, Pyro,” I say and smile. “Now, let’s find mommy.”
Pyro nods and takes flight. I glance back at the lions staring hungrily over to me after having slid out of their shelter, stick my tongue out, and break into a run after the blue bird, neighing happily. I don’t care if I’m going to be eaten or not or if I’m going to freeze to death. I have my stripes and that’s all I need, for I cannot be a zebra without black stripes covering the rest of my white fur.
And that’s the story of a zebra, Akanai, who lost his stripes and found them seconds later, floating in the air. That’s the story of me, and I’m going to pass it on until it becomes a legend.
That’s the story of a zebra who wasn’t a zebra anymore, then became one again.
That’s my story.
