On the Mount Mulanje of Malawi, in the shade of thorn trees, lived a honey badger named Kazi. Unlike lions roaring with power or elephants walking with careful force, Kazi was little-low to the ground, with a tough hide and hot eyes with a heart much bigger than his body.

All the animals knew him. The meerkats growled threats, the jackals kept their distance, and even the hyenas hesitated before they dared stir up his anger. Kazi was not without fear because he did not know fear, but because he did not allow it to govern him.

On a sweltering afternoon, when the wind carried the aroma of rain from faraway hills, Kazi trailed the buzz of bees. A jungle beehive was hidden high in a baobab tree, oozing with liquid gold honey. He moistened his parched lips, knowing the pain that came with the prize. The bees would strike and flood, but honey was worth it.

Climbing up the tree, claws digging deep into the bark, Kazi stood in the tempest of bees growling. They struck his eyes, his ears, his nose—but he continued. A lion would have turned back. A leopard would have bided his time. An elephant wouldn't climb a tree. Not Kazi. He tore through the hive, scooping out honey and fat. Honey filled his mouth, burning welts covered his skin—and he ate on.

A young jackal gazed in wide-eyed wonder beside him. "Why go through so much for a little honey?" he wanted to know.

Kazi glared down, honey dripping from his jaws. "Because the sweetest things in life are never served to you," he said. "You fight for them. You bleed for them. And in the end, they're sweeter because of it.".

The jackal never answered, but he never forgot the words. And from that moment, he carried with him the lesson of the honey badger: that courage is not the lack of pain, but the will to persevere through it.

Legends are not told in the wilderness of size, or beauty, or strength. They are told of spirit. And no spirit burned brighter than that of the honey badger.