Layla, Zibda, and the Lemon Hill
A basket of lemons, a closing shop, and a donkey with very firm opinions turn one small hill into a very big problem. A warm, gently funny story about discovering what a stubborn friend is trying to say.
✨ Make a Storybook FreeA MayaLili Original · ages 6-9 · free to read and print
The lemons were ready. The shop was open. Zibda was not interested. Layla settled two baskets across the donkey’s back. Beyond the village hill, Mr. Sami’s shop would close when the clock struck five. “Just one hill,” she said. Zibda flicked one long ear. He disliked the hill by the fountain. He disliked the hill by the bakery. Even the tiny slope outside Layla’s gate earned a snort. Unfortunately, today’s hill was a proper, puff-making hill.
The whole story
The lemons were ready. The shop was open. Zibda was not interested. Layla settled two baskets across the donkey’s back. Beyond the village hill, Mr. Sami’s shop would close when the clock struck five. “Just one hill,” she said. Zibda flicked one long ear. He disliked the hill by the fountain. He disliked the hill by the bakery. Even the tiny slope outside Layla’s gate earned a snort. Unfortunately, today’s hill was a proper, puff-making hill.
They climbed past the bakery, where warm sesame smells floated through the window. Halfway up, Zibda stopped. Then he folded himself onto the grass beside the path. “Zibda. We have a delivery.” Zibda looked at a beetle. Layla gave the lead a gentle tug. Nothing. She planted her red shoes and tried again. Still nothing. The beetle climbed over a pebble. “Even he’s going uphill,” Layla pointed out. Zibda closed his eyes.
“Please?” said Layla. She promised a long rest. She offered a carrot from her pocket. She even explained how disappointing a lemonless shop would be. Zibda accepted none of these arguments, including the crunchy one. The village clock chimed a quarter to five. Layla opened her mouth for a very large sigh. Then Zibda shifted. His left front hoof hovered above the ground. Layla shut her mouth. “Oh,” she whispered. “Show me.”
First, Layla lifted down the baskets. Then she waited beside him, her hand resting on his shoulder. Zibda stood and let her look. A thorn stuck out at the edge of his hoof: tiny, crooked, and thoroughly troublesome. Layla gently eased it free with her clean handkerchief. Zibda put his foot down. He tested it once. Twice. Then he nudged her pocket. “The carrot?” Layla laughed. “Now you’d like to discuss the carrot?”
With the lemons loaded again, Zibda took the hill at a cheerful trot. Layla trotted beside him, braids bouncing. They reached the shop with three minutes to spare. Soon the lemons shone in the window, and Zibda crunched his carrot outside. On the way home, Layla left the lead loose. At the bakery slope, Zibda stopped. Layla stopped too. “Something hurting?” Two ears pointed toward the warm window. “Ah,” said Layla. “A different sort of problem.”