Watching a Lion Kill on Safari: Blood, Dust, and the Weight of the Wild

The scraggly-maned lion with flies on his face

Watching a lion kill on safari is something that many hope to see. We got to witness it. But it wasn't easy.

NOTE: this post contains a story of death and includes some graphic photos. Don't scroll down if you don't want to see blood.

The Most Unfortunate Lion

Lions were a frequent encounter on our safari in Kenya's Masai Mara. But one group of lions was … an interesting bunch. A handful of females. No cubs. And the male? Let’s just say he wasn’t exactly the poster cat for the studly lion archetype. His mane was patchy—scraggly, really. Less “majestic king” and more “guy who might one day be able to grow a mane. Maybe.” You could tell he was male, but barely.

To make matters worse, his face was absolutely covered in flies.

Look, every animal we saw in the Masai Mara had flies on it. I spent more time in Photoshop editing flies off the faces of otherwise noble creatures than I care to admit. But this lion… this lion had reached another level. His face was crawling. The other lions in the pride had a fly here, a fly there. Nothing out of the ordinary. But this guy? He was face was ground zero for the party of the century for flies.

This was not the lion that sat at the cool kids’ table.

As I was reflecting on the tragic dignity of the fly-magnet lion, one of the females stood up.

It wasn’t casual. Not a stretch-your-legs kind of moment. There was purpose in her motion. A tension in her frame. I didn’t know it yet, but she was about to take a life.

The lion stalks off, camouflaged in the dry grass

A small herd of zebra was grazing nearby, with the occasional wildebeest woven in, as always. The lioness zeroed in and slunk off. I mean it—she slunk. Low, slow, deliberate. The grass swallowed her.

There was a flash of movement.

The zebras exploded into a stampede.

Our driver hit the gas.

Watching a Lion Kill on Safari 

By the time we arrived, the zebra was down. The lion had it pinned, her jaws locked tight around its throat.

But it wasn’t dead.

Lions kill large prey by strangling them, using their jaws to close the windpipe

Lions kill large prey by strangulation. It’s not an event—it’s a process. A slow, physical, merciless process. And it’s hard to watch.

The zebra cried out. Its hind legs kicked violently. It was dying, and it knew it.

There was something deeply emotional—disturbingly emotional—about standing just a few meters away, watching a creature utterly incapable of pity or remorse take a life with mechanical precision.

The zebra, sensing its time was short, launched one final, desperate thrash. But the lioness responded with ferocity. She adjusted her grip—quick, brutal, practiced—and clamped her jaws tighter.

The zebra fell silent.

Its kicking slowed.

Then stopped.

My wife had already turned away. She wiped tears from her cheeks.

I just stood there. Stunned. I’d seen scenes like this in documentaries, countless times. But watching it unfold in front of me—so close I could see each drop of blood falling from the lion’s chin—was something else entirely.

The zebra’s eyes turned an opaque, milky black.

The lion didn’t immediately eat. She didn’t gloat. She didn’t pace. She just waited. And just like that, the shift was complete. From hunter to cat. From prey to kill.

We stood there, feeling the weight of it. The zebra felt nothing. The lion felt nothing. But we felt. Because we could. We must.

Because travel cracks you open. It stirs up your awe and your empathy and your discomfort all at once—and refuses to apologize for any of it. And there, on the plains of the Masai Mara, we were reminded that the circle of life and the circle of death are one and the same, and that both turn whether or not we’re ready.