The Okapi Calf and the Striped Legs
Deep in a rainforest where the leaves hung so thickly that noon looked like evening, a young okapi named Nyala was unhappy with her legs. Her body was a smooth, dark brown, which she liked, but her legs were banded in bold white stripes, as if some careless painter had added them as an afterthought, and every other forest animal wore a plain coat. Nyala wished desperately that she could blend in with them.
One morning she asked her mother why she was marked in such an unusual way, and her mother replied only that Nyala should walk behind her and find out. Nyala grumbled, but she followed her mother along the narrow trail. Whenever the forest grew dim, the pale stripes on her mother's hind legs flickered ahead of her like small lanterns, and Nyala kept her eyes on them and never lost her way.
A few weeks later, a heavy rain drove the herd toward higher ground, and Nyala was separated from her mother among the tangled trunks. Mist drifted between the trees, and the drumming rain swallowed her voice whenever she called out. She stood trembling, certain that she was lost.
Then she noticed a flicker of white between two ferns, followed by another. Her mother was moving carefully through the gloom, hoping that her stripes would be seen, and Nyala bounded toward them until the two were together again.
That evening, Nyala examined her own legs with new respect. She could not call them an embarrassment any longer, because they were a signal that a calf could follow, and she realized that the very feature she had been ashamed of might guide another lost calf someday.