Bashir the Baby Elephant and the Trunk That Would Not Listen

Bashir was a baby elephant with big round ears, soft grey skin, and a little tuft of hair on the top of his head. He lived with his family on a wide golden plain, where the grass grew tall and the acacia trees spread their branches like green umbrellas.

Bashir loved many things about being an elephant. He loved splashing in the muddy water hole. He loved walking right under his mother's tummy, where it was cool and shady. He loved the deep, rumbly songs the grown-up elephants hummed in the evening.

But there was one thing Bashir did not love at all. It was his trunk.

His trunk was long and floppy and wiggly. It swung to the left when he wanted it to go right. It curled up when he wanted it to stretch out. It flopped down when he wanted it to lift up high.

"It does not listen to me," Bashir told his mother one morning. He frowned at his trunk, and his trunk wobbled back at him.

His mother smiled her slow, kind smile. "Every baby elephant feels that way," she said. "A trunk is a very clever thing. It takes time to learn how to use it."

"But I want to use it now," said Bashir.

That morning, the family walked to the water hole. The big elephants dipped their trunks into the water, sucked it up, and squirted it neatly into their mouths. Slurp, swoosh, gulp.

Bashir tried too. He dipped his trunk into the water. He sucked as hard as he could. Then he lifted his trunk toward his mouth.

Splash! The water went all over his face, into his ears, and down his back.

His big cousins laughed, but it was a friendly laugh. "Try kneeling down," said one cousin. "Then you can drink with your mouth while you practice."

So Bashir knelt down in the cool mud and drank with his mouth. The water tasted sweet and fresh. But he still wished his trunk would listen.

Later, the elephants found a tree full of ripe yellow fruit. The grown-ups reached up with their trunks and picked the fruit one by one. Pluck, pluck, pluck. Bashir reached up too. His trunk waved and wiggled. It bumped a branch. It tickled a leaf. A fruit fell down and bonked him gently on the head.

"Oof," said Bashir. He sat down on the warm ground and sighed a long elephant sigh.

Aunt Zawadi came over. She was the oldest elephant in the family. Her skin had many wrinkles, and her eyes were wise and twinkly.

"Little one," she said, "would you like to play a game with me?"

Bashir looked up. "What kind of game?"

Aunt Zawadi picked up a small white feather from the grass. She held it out with the very tip of her trunk. "Can you take this feather from me without dropping it?"

Bashir stretched out his trunk. It wobbled. He tried to grab the feather, and the feather floated away on the breeze.

"Again," said Aunt Zawadi, and she found the feather and held it out once more.

Bashir tried again. And again. On the fifth try, the tip of his trunk curled around the feather. He held it. He did not drop it.

"I did it!" he cried.

"You did," said Aunt Zawadi. "Tomorrow, we will try something new."

The next day, she gave him a stick to carry. The day after that, it was a round stone. Then it was a small green melon, which was smooth and slippery and very hard to hold. Bashir dropped the melon many times. Once, it rolled all the way down a little hill, and he had to run after it with his ears flapping. But he kept trying.

Every evening, when the sky turned pink and orange, Bashir practiced by himself. He picked up leaves. He picked up twigs. He sprinkled dust on his back to keep the sun off, just like the grown-ups did. Little by little, his trunk began to listen.

One windy afternoon, the elephants rested under a big acacia tree. High in its branches, little weaver birds were busy and chirping. They had built round nests out of woven grass, and the nests hung from the branches like tiny baskets.

Suddenly, a strong gust of wind blew across the plain. Whoosh! One of the little nests swung, and swung, and then slipped off its branch. It fell softly into the tall grass below.

A small yellow weaver bird flew down, fluttering and chirping. "My nest! My nest!" she called. "My eggs are inside!"

The big elephants turned to help. But the grass was thick, and the nest was tucked between two thorny bushes. Their big feet were too heavy to step there. Their trunks were strong, but they were used to pulling down branches, not lifting tiny nests.

Bashir looked at the nest. He looked at his trunk. He remembered the feather.

"May I try?" he asked.

His mother nodded. "Gently," she said.

Bashir stepped carefully between the bushes. He stretched out his trunk, slowly, slowly. His trunk did not wobble. It did not flop. He curled the very tip of it around the top of the nest, just the way he had held the white feather.

Then he lifted. Up, up, up. The nest swayed a little, but it stayed safe and level. Bashir could hear tiny peeping sounds inside.

Aunt Zawadi lowered a branch toward him with her own trunk. Bashir reached up and hooked the woven loop of the nest back over the twig. It hung there, swinging softly, safe and sound.

The yellow weaver bird flew inside the nest. Then she popped her head out and sang the happiest song Bashir had ever heard.

"Thank you, little elephant!" she chirped. "You have the gentlest trunk on the whole plain."

Bashir felt warm all the way from his tufty head to his round toes. He looked at his trunk. His trunk looked back at him, and for the first time, it did not wobble at all.

That evening, at the water hole, Bashir dipped his trunk into the water. He sucked it up. He lifted it to his mouth.

Slurp, swoosh, gulp.

Not a single drop landed on his face.

Aunt Zawadi rumbled a happy rumble. And Bashir rumbled right back.