LEARNING TO LOVE HYENAS

The first time I heard hyenas properly, it wasn’t in the bush.

It was in the centre of Addis Ababa, the capital city of Ethiopia, walking back to our hotel at night. Their calls echoed somewhere close — too close for a capital city. I remember feeling confused more than afraid. Someone nearby must have kept them close, almost like dogs. It didn’t quite make sense, and I didn’t know what to think of it. But that moment stayed with me. It unsettled something I had assumed.

Until then, hyenas had only ever existed in one shape in my mind.

As a child, I watched The Lion King, where the hyenas lurked in the shadows, cackling and scheming. In documentaries, they were often framed as opportunists — scavengers, thieves, the animals that arrived once the hunt was over. Even the language used around them felt loaded.

Somewhere along the way, we decided they were the villains.

Most guests still don’t see them differently. When we encounter spotted hyenas on safari, the reaction is often immediate: discomfort, sometimes even disappointment. They aren’t the big cats people hope for. They aren’t sleek in the same way. Their gait is awkward, their laugh unsettling.

But the longer I’ve spent time around them in Africa, the more that narrative has quietly fallen apart.

Spotted hyenas are not chaotic. Their clans are among the most structured social systems in the wild — matriarchal, led by dominant females who pass status down through their daughters. Rank matters. Relationships matter. They recognise one another instantly and greet with ritualised behaviour that reinforces bonds within the clan.

I’ve watched cubs tumble and chase one another at den sites, all oversized paws and curiosity. They investigate everything — a camera lens, a vehicle tyre, a passing beetle — with wide, alert eyes. Their playfulness is constant, and it looks far more like puppies than villains.

Mothers are attentive and fiercely protective. Cubs are raised communally, often interacting with multiple adults within the clan. There is patience in the way they are tolerated, corrected, and guided.

They are intelligent — more so than many people realise. They hunt successfully in coordinated groups, communicate over long distances, and adapt easily to changing conditions. They are not merely scavengers, despite the reputation. In many ecosystems, they are among the most effective predators present.

The more I observed, the harder it became to reconcile the caricature with the animal in front of me.

And then there are the nights.

In camp, when the light has faded and the world has settled, the first calls often come from the hyenas. Not always loud — sometimes distant, sometimes layered with others answering back. It’s not laughter in the way films portray it. It’s communication. Location. Cohesion.

Now, when I hear them, I don’t feel unsettled. I feel grounded.

Their voices remind me that I’m not in a curated version of the wild. I’m in a functioning ecosystem — one that is complex, layered, and balanced in ways we don’t always see.

I sometimes wonder why we’re so quick to assign morality to wildlife. Why one predator earns admiration, while another is cast as suspicious or cruel. Hyenas have simply evolved to fill a role — an essential one.

Learning to love hyenas wasn’t a sudden shift. It happened slowly, through observation. Through watching cubs play. Through noticing how carefully adults interact within their clan. Through nights of listening instead of assuming.

And now, when their calls carry through the dark, they feel familiar. Steady. A reminder that the wild is not made up of heroes and villains — only animals, living as they are meant to.