IN the early light at Senegal’s Niokolo-Koba National Park, rangers move in single file through the rugged brush, their eyes scanning for signs of poachers. Sgt. Abdou Diouf and his team, with guns at the ready, are not searching for human hunters today—they’re tracking the silent footsteps of lions. This iconic park, spanning over 9,000 square kilometres and the last refuge for West Africa’s critically endangered lions, now finds itself at a crossroads between tradition and survival.
A sanctuary under siege
Niokolo-Koba National Park, which has doubled its lion population to nearly 35 since 2017, remains one of the last strongholds in Senegal for these majestic cats. Despite recent improvements that helped delist the park from UNESCO’s ‘in danger’ list, the threat of poaching remains acute. Every year, an unsustainable average of two lions falls victim to illegal hunters, undermining conservation efforts and pushing these animals closer to extinction.
According to the Associated Press (AP), the pressure on these lions is compounded by the illegal trade in animal parts. Wild cat conservation group Panthera’s recent report highlights a disturbing trend: lion and leopard parts are found in 80 percent of the markets surveyed, with 63 percent of local artisans reporting a surge in sales over recent years.
The gris-gris connection
At the heart of the crisis is the mystical trade in gris-gris—amulets believed to possess protective powers. Crafted from various animal skins and inscribed with prayers and Quranic verses, these talismans hold deep cultural significance in Senegal. Influential marabouts prescribe gris-gris for everything from protection against curses to ensuring personal success.
‘People believe that lion skin can unlock powerful forces,’ explains Dr Daouda Ngom, Senegal’s Minister of Environment and Ecological Transition. ‘The lion is our national symbol, featured on our coat of arms and even inspiring our national soccer team, the Lions of Teranga.’ For many, the allure of these talismans is irresistible. At a bustling market in Tambacounda, one buyer—who preferred to remain anonymous—admitted that even a small piece of lion skin can fetch over $3, while an entire skin may sell for as much as $1,900.
A web of smuggling and enforcement challenges
Panthera’s report, as cited by AP, also reveals the scale of smuggling networks that supply the gris-gris trade. Sourced from East and Southern Africa, lion skins travel clandestinely through the Sahel region, evading border controls on public buses and trucks. ‘These networks are well-established,’ says Paul Diedhiou, director of Niokolo-Koba National Park. ‘Disrupting them requires time, strategy, and professionalism.’
Between 2019 and 2024, Senegalese authorities confiscated around 40 lion and leopard skins, while 40 individuals were arrested for trafficking animal parts, according to the Eco Activists for Governance and Law Enforcement (EAGLE) Network. However, critics argue that penalties remain too lenient. ‘The sentences are far too short,’ notes Ndeye Seck, head of litigation for the parks department. ‘Our wildlife laws, dating back to 1986, urgently need an update.’
Cultural roots and the road ahead
The battle to protect Senegal’s lions extends beyond poachers and smugglers—it is also a cultural challenge. Traditional beliefs in the power of gris-gris, deeply embedded in local society, complicate enforcement efforts. Dr Cheikh Babou, a history professor at the University of Pennsylvania, explains that these talismans blend ancient African practices with Islamic influences, creating a potent symbol that many are reluctant to abandon.
Efforts to strengthen conservation have seen some success. Since partnering with Niokolo-Koba in 2016, Panthera has tripled the park’s anti-poaching force, investing over $7 million in infrastructure enhancements. Yet, as AP reports, the future of Senegal’s lions may ultimately depend on convincing communities and marabouts alike to embrace new methods of protection that do not rely on the trade of these sacred animal parts.
In the shadow of towering trees and the early morning sun, the fate of Senegal’s lions hangs in the balance—caught between ancient tradition and the urgent need for modern conservation.
