The Lion and the Fleas: A Parable of Power and Peace

The Lion and the Fleas: A Parable of Power and Peace

By Kateb Nuri-Alim Shunnar

In the cradle of the Great Rift Valley, where the bones of humanity lie buried beneath red clay and memory, there lived a lion named Baraka. His name meant blessing, and it was not given lightly. He was born during a season of drought, when rivers shrank into thirsty dust, and yet his arrival brought rain and abundance. The old women of the village, who watched the animals as much as the stars, said, “This one walks with spirit in his paws.”

Baraka grew strong, not only in body but in mind. He learned early that strength without stillness is like thunder with no rain. From the elephants, he learned patience. From the crocodile, strategy. From his grandmother lioness, he learned that silence often answers louder than a roar. He did not boast, for the sun never has to declare it shines.

And because he walked upright in his being his power grounded in peace many followed him, even those who could not understand him. Some followed out of admiration. Others, out of envy.

As he rose, so did the whispers.

“They say Baraka eats first and forgets the pride.”

“I heard he lets the antelope flee on purpose.”

“Some say he was born of hyena blood.”

The jackals sharpened their tongues under moonlight. The vultures circled not for flesh, but for fault. Even the ants carried stories underground.

Baraka first dismissed it. “Flies do not land on a hot pot,” he said, echoing the wisdom of his grandmother. But the whispers became a daily wind. He heard them while he hunted, felt them in the eyes of those he loved, and began to question the very silence he once trusted.

Like many men of purpose, Baraka fell into the trap of defending what needed no defense.

He began to track the whispers.

He called meetings under the fig tree, demanding truth. He confronted the baboons for their gossip, the mongoose for their mutterings. He wasted his strength explaining himself, justifying himself, proving his truth to ears that had already chosen blindness.

He forgot that when a drum beats in the forest, not every ear listens with the heart.

And so, the fleas began to feast not on his body, but on his energy. He scratched at every lie, nipped at every insult, until his once-glorious mane was thinned and ragged. The pride began to murmur not about the whispers but about the lion who let the whispers become his master.

One evening, while chasing yet another tale, Baraka collapsed under the shade of a mighty baobab the tree of ancestors.

There, the tortoise Mzee appeared, moving with the grace of timelessness.

“Why do you chase shadows, mighty one?” Mzee asked, his voice like wind through hollow logs.

“They speak lies,” Baraka growled. “They twist my name like dry grass in the wind.”

“And has your name changed?” the tortoise asked. “Or only your attention?”

Baraka was silent.

Mzee continued, “The lion who fights every flea never rests. The spirit that reacts to every word loses its way. What are fleas to a lion, if he remembers he is a lion?”

Baraka closed his eyes. He remembered his grandmother’s voice:

"Even the moon is gossiped about by stars too dim to shine."

"Do not waste your roar where your silence is your power."

He saw himself not as a victim, but as a vessel. Not as a king of beasts, but as a child of the Creator, born to walk in divine purpose, not distraction.

And in that moment, Baraka stood not to chase, but to rise.

He walked away from the whispers. He returned to the high rocks where the sun first blessed his mane. He began to lead again not with explanation, but with presence. His peace became his protection. His stillness, his shield.

Some still whispered. Some even shouted. But Baraka did not scratch. He knew now what all wise spirits know:

“A lion does not turn around when a small dog barks.”

“When the roots are deep, there is no reason to fear the wind.”

“The rain will fall whether the frog croaks or not.”

And so, the parable speaks even now:

Life will tempt you to chase every false word, every misrepresentation, every crooked tongue. But the man who runs after every flea will never build a house. The woman who fights every lie will never grow her garden. The soul that bends to every insult will never stand tall in divine purpose.

Let the fleas buzz. Let the rumors echo in empty spaces. You are not what they say you are what you live, what you carry, and what you leave behind.

Baraka did not change the savanna. He simply remembered he was its king.

And so must we.