The Fence That Couldn’t Hold Water

The Fence That Couldn’t Hold Water

A Spiritual Parable from the Heart of the Village

By Baba Kateb Nuri-Alim Shunnar

There was once a village named Uhuru a name that meant “freedom” and carried the sound of wind moving through open fields. It was cradled between the River of Mercy and the Mountains of Purpose, two places that didn’t just shape the land but shaped the people too.

Now, in this village lived an old herdsman named Baba Imara, which means “steadfast” and believe me, the name fit him like a favorite walking stick. He had the kind of laugh that made tree branches shiver and a wisdom that ran deeper than any well dug in those parts.

But what truly stirred up the village dust wasn’t Baba Imara himself it was his goat. Roho, they called him, meaning “spirit.” Not your everyday goat, no sir. This one had the look of a poet and the mind of a wanderer. While the other goats chomped on grass and chewed their thoughts slow, Roho’s eyes seemed to gaze past the fence and into something unseen like he heard music the rest of us missed.

Roho had a gift for escaping. One day he’d pop up near the yam patch. Another, he’d be standing proud on the old prayer rock by the river, like he was waiting for a sermon. Every time Baba Imara patched the fence, Roho found a way out quiet, clever, always one step ahead.

One moon-brushed evening, tired and a bit embarrassed, Baba Imara muttered to his young apprentice, Tumaini whose name means “hope” “We’re gonna build a fence so strong, so tight, it could hold water. And if it can hold water, surely it can hold Roho.”

Now Tumaini, eager and full of that youthful spark that hadn’t yet been worn down by life, grinned. “Let’s do it.”

So, they patched every nook and sealed every cranny. They mixed clay with sweat and prayer, whispering ancient words as they worked. The whole village showed up to watch the effort. Even Bibi Neema, the elder mystic wrapped in a shawl of stars her name meant “grace” stood quietly at the edge of the field, eyes half closed, listening not with ears, but with spirit.

The fence rose like a fortress bold, proud, unbreakable. Baba Imara folded his arms. “Let’s see Roho get past this.”

Roho, as usual, took his time. He sniffed the earth. Walked the perimeter. Looked up at Baba Imara like he was reading a scripture written in laughter. Then poof just like that, he was gone again.

Gone.

No sound. No struggle. Just... gone.

Gasps filled the air. A child cried, “Is he magic?” An elder mumbled, “That goat must be blessed or cursed.”

Baba Imara dropped to his knees, staring at the fence like it had betrayed him. “How can a fence strong enough to hold water fail to hold one stubborn goat?”

That’s when Bibi Neema stepped forward. Her voice? Soft as sunrise. “You tried to hold the body, Baba. But you didn’t see the spirit.”

The villagers leaned in.

“Roho wasn’t running from your hands,” she said. “He was running toward something. Toward purpose. Toward what called him from the inside out.”

Everything went still like the wind itself was listening.

She went on, “We do the same, don’t we? Build fences around our hearts. Around people. Around our dreams. Try to trap the wild parts of life with rules and fear. But spirit,” she paused and smiled gently, “spirit is like water. Try to cage it, and it’ll find a way out. A crack, a hole, a whisper of space and it’ll move.”

Tumaini scratched his head. “So… we shouldn’t build fences?”

Bibi Neema chuckled, the sound like chimes in the breeze. “Oh no, child. We build. But not to trap. We build to guide. To nurture. To honor the space between freedom and care. A good fence doesn’t imprison it protects without smothering.”

She looked toward the mountain. “When you understand spirit, you stop trying to cage it. You help it express. You make room for it to breathe.”

Baba Imara wiped his eyes, not from sadness, but from a truth that hit so deep, it brought water to the surface.

From that day on, the fence stayed where it was but the gate was always open. Roho still wandered, but now with blessing. And funny enough, the other goats stopped trying to follow him. Seems even they knew, deep down, that not every path was meant for everyone.

But Roho? Roho just kept walking toward the invisible and somehow, that helped the whole village learn to see what they’d been blind to all along.