The grazers had finally returned to the watering plains after a long day of munching, yet Soffiz the Kudu was still bursting with energy. While the rest of the herd eased into their usual evening calm, she adjusted her ballet skirt — a treasured accessory she insisted improved her balance — and prepared to perform her inimitable routine: the Kudu Prance.

Kudu are famously sociable, happiest in small herds, though they remain shy toward most outsiders. Especially lions.

Soffiz, however, had spent the entire afternoon practising her grace between mouthfuls of grass, keeping one eye on her footwork and the other on the scrub for hyenas. Tonight she intended to finish with a flourish: a brand-new move she called the Manbat Position.

A few days earlier, she had watched a creature leap from a high ravine, plunging into the valley at a speed no sane animal would attempt. In broad daylight, Soffiz was quite certain it was a real “manbat”. Just when it seemed he was about to have a disagreement with the ridge, he unfurled a strange contraption shaped like enormous elephant ears. With a whoosh, he drifted gently to the ground.

“Jumping over dry riverbeds is daring enough for me,” Soffiz muttered as she stretched, “Manbats think they’re vultures soaring through the sky.”

“They are vultures,” Schrodyn piped, her best friend forever.

“Vultures flap..” Soffiz replied, pleased by her own analogy, “..Manbats just stiffen their arm-wings and freefall like boulders. Maddest creatures on the planet — excluding honey badgers, obviously.”

Schrodyn nodded with absolute seriousness, “There can be no disagreement on honey badgers. Ever!”