When the Soul Runs a Fever

When the Soul Runs a Fever

A Reflection on Ego, Whispers, and Remembering Who Got Us Here.

By Kateb Shunnar

I still see it clear as a summer mirage on Claiborne. That old 1989 Chevrolet Vandura G-Series, G30 to be exact, sitting there like it had stories it wasn’t done telling yet. Sun beating down, cicadas hollering like they paying rent, and me eleven years old, skinny as a question mark standing next to my Paw Paw Wallace while he leaned over that engine like it owed him money.

Grease on his hands. Wisdom in his voice.

Out the blue, like he was commenting on the weather, he said, “Man is surely inordinate… ‘cause soon as he think he self-sufficient, that’s when trouble clock in.”

Didn’t quote no chapter or verse. Didn’t need to. He said it the way New Orleans elders do like a warning wrapped in a joke you don’t laugh at till years later.

At eleven, I nodded. At forty-seven, I understand.

What Paw Paw was talking about wasn’t just pride. It was infection. A slow one. The kind that don’t smell bad at first. The kind that make you say, “I’m good,” while something inside you already running a temperature.

See, ego don’t bust in your life like the police with sirens. Ego slide in smooth. Polite. Smelling like success and sounding like confidence. Ego whisper. Soft. Familiar. It sound like you on your own side.

“Go ‘head, you earned this.”

“Ain’t nobody gonna help you like you help yourself.”

“You don’t need to ask—just take it.”

“Prayer can wait. Opportunity don’t.”

That whisper got rhythm. Got timing. Know exactly when you tired, frustrated, or hungry for more. And that’s the trick. Ego always show up dressed like something you been wanting.

That’s why I compare it to them dangerous plants folks plant just ‘cause they pretty. Oleander shining like a float on Mardi Gras day, all pink and confident, whole time toxic as a bad relationship. Lily of the Valley looking innocent, delicate, smelling sweet enough to make you forget it’ll shut your whole system down if you ain’t careful.

Ego work the same way. It don’t warn you. It woos you.

And once you start listening, once you start believing you don’t need guidance, correction, or grace… the soul start getting septic.

Spiritually septic don’t mean you evil. It mean you disconnected. It mean something that was meant to protect you done turned on you. Just like sepsis in the body. Your own defense system wilding out, attacking healthy tissue, confused about what’s enemy and what’s home.

That’s when you get defensive over nothing. Somebody ask a simple question and you puff up like they insulted your mama. Somebody offer feedback and you hear disrespect. You start arguing just to win, not to understand. Peace become negotiable, but pride? Oh, pride got tenure.

You compare yourself to everybody. Up, down, sideways. One minute you feel like king of the block, next minute you feel like you ain’t did nothing with your life. Emotional whiplash. Exhausting. But you keep going ‘cause ego say stopping look like weakness.

And don’t let me forget validation. Lord have mercy. When your worth start depending on applause, likes, titles, handshakes, or who say your name loudest, your soul already coughing. Ego feed off outside noise. Quiet scare it.

I know this ‘cause I lived it.

I had seasons where I wanted what I wanted on my timeline. Creator’s pace felt slow. Boring. Like watching paint dry in August humidity. I told myself, “I’ll check in later.” Later turned into longer than I wanna admit.

I made moves that looked strong but felt hollow. Won debates and lost sleep. Got blessings early and realized I wasn’t ready to hold ‘em. I let impatience drive, and faith sat in the backseat buckled up, watching me miss exits.

I ain’t proud of it. But I ain’t hiding it either.

I’m no saint.

I ain’t no monster.

Just human. Real human. The kind that trip over their own shoelaces then blame the sidewalk.

I fought whispers. Still do. Sometimes I jab back. Sometimes I get jabbed. And yeah, sometimes I fail. But quitting? Nah. That ain’t in me.

Somebody wiser than me once told me, “Failure ain’t the opposite of success. It’s the rough draft.” I took that to heart. I ain’t fail—I just found a whole lotta ways that won’t work.

When I was about twenty-six, an elder sat me down. Didn’t raise his voice. Didn’t dramatize nothing. Just said, “Decide what you want, then stay with it. Even when it get boring. Even when it get slow.”

Then he said, “Sabali yonkontê.”

Patience. Is Worth Everything.

And patience, I learned, is spiritual antibiotics. It don’t work instantly, but it save lives.

Down here in New Orleans, we know rot. Humidity teach you that early. Leave anything unattended too long, it’ll start breaking down. Shoes. Houses. Relationships. Souls.

We also know how to dress things up. Put sequins on sadness. Brass bands over heartbreak. Laugh loud so nobody notice you tired. But even here, you can’t out-celebrate neglect forever.

A soul ignored long enough start acting up. Headaches you can’t explain. Fatigue sleep don’t fix. A short fuse. A critical spirit. A hunger that food don’t touch.

That’s when you gotta ask yourself some real uncomfortable questions. What am I feeding? What am I avoiding? Who am I trying to impress? And why?

Old folks in Bayou Rouge tell this story about a drummer who could make the swamp listen. They say his rhythm could calm storms, could heal tired hearts. Folks came from everywhere to hear him play. At first, he thanked the swamp. Thanked the source. Stayed humble.

But applause loud. Ego louder.

He started believing the beat came from him. Played harder. Faster. Louder. Stopped listening. Drum cracked. Rhythm fell apart. Swamp went quiet.

An old woman passed by one night and told him, “You ain’t lose the rhythm. You forgot who lent it to you.”

He sat in silence seven days. On the eighth, he played again soft. Patient. Listening more than performing.

The swamp answered.

That story ain’t about drums. It’s about us.

Healing start when you stop pretending you self-made. When you admit you need guidance. When you stop answering every tempting call just ‘cause it sound sweet.

Sepsis in the body need immediate care. Spiritually, same rule apply. You don’t wait till collapse. You pause. You pray. You cut off what poisoning you. You set boundaries folks call rude ‘cause they benefited from your sickness.

You reconnect. With the Creator. With community. With yourself.

And listen… healing ain’t glamorous. It ain’t loud. Sometimes it look like doing less. Saying no. Sitting still. Trusting timing you don’t control.

But the same hands that formed you still holding you. The same Creator you ignored still listening. Ain’t keeping score. Just waiting on you to come home to yourself.

Ego shout.

Truth whisper.

Choose wisely who you give the mic to.

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