the loin and cat story

In the heart of the Serengeti, where the sun burned bright and shadows stretched long across the golden grasses, lived a lion named Baraka. He was the undisputed ruler of the savannah. His roar could silence thunderstorms, and his claws had carved his name into legend.

Baraka wasn’t just feared — he was revered. The elephants trumpeted his praises, the zebras never crossed his path, and even the crocodiles in the distant river watched him from the corners of their ancient eyes.

And yet, despite his power and pride, Baraka was... lonely.

Each morning he climbed to the top of Pride Rock — a jagged cliff that pierced the sky — and looked out over his kingdom. He saw everything and everyone, but no one stood beside him.

One day, as Baraka was enjoying a nap under the shade of a baobab tree, he heard something strange. It wasn’t a roar or a trumpet or a screech. It was a soft, barely audible sound — like a whisper wrapped in fur.

“Is this your tree?” a voice asked.

Baraka opened one eye and blinked. Sitting just a few feet away, cleaning her paw as if nothing in the world concerned her, was a tiny gray cat.

She was small. So small, in fact, that Baraka could have swatted her like a fly. But she looked at him with bold, curious eyes — not a hint of fear.

“This is my tree,” he rumbled. “Everything under this sky is mine.”

The cat licked her paw again and yawned. “Is that so? That must be exhausting. Owning the sky and all.”

Baraka blinked in disbelief. “Who are you?”

“My name is Nia,” she said. “I live near the old termite mound by the river. You don’t come around there much. Too many mosquitoes, I suppose.”

“I don’t concern myself with insects,” Baraka said with disdain.

“Pity,” said Nia. “They have fascinating conversations.”

Baraka stared at her, unsure if she was mocking him or simply mad. Most animals grovelled or fled at the sight of him. But this cat — this tiny, ordinary-looking cat — seemed utterly unimpressed.

And for reasons he couldn’t understand, Baraka didn’t chase her off. He just watched her as she stretched out on a warm stone and dozed.

The days passed. Nia appeared again the next morning, and the next. She came and went as she pleased. She talked — a lot — about things Baraka never bothered to think about. The patterns of starlings in flight. The changing moods of the wind. The difference between a nap in the morning sun and one in the afternoon.

Baraka listened, sometimes silently, sometimes grumbling. But he didn’t stop her. In fact, he began to enjoy her company.

One day, as the dry season deepened and the rivers shrank into muddy veins, Baraka found Nia sitting on a high branch of an acacia tree, staring up at the stars.

“Strange,” she murmured. “The stars look... restless tonight.”

Baraka lay beneath her. “They’re just balls of fire. What could they possibly be restless about?”

Nia shrugged. “Even fire wants something, sometimes.”

Baraka didn’t know how to respond. Instead, he lay in the cool dust and looked up at the sky with her. For the first time in years, he didn’t feel like a king. He felt... like something smaller. But not weaker.

---

Then came the drought.

The rains didn’t return. The riverbeds cracked. The watering holes became bitter, stagnant puddles. Herds began to migrate. Trees dropped their leaves like forgotten promises. Even the wind stopped singing.

Baraka grew hungry. His ribs pressed against his skin. The prey vanished, and the few that remained were too weak or too desperate to fear him.

He roamed farther than ever before, searching for water, for food, for answers.

One evening, he returned to the baobab tree, dragging his feet. He was tired. Not just physically — but tired in his bones, in his pride.

Nia was there, waiting.

“You look terrible,” she said bluntly.

“I feel worse.”

She studied him with her calm, unreadable eyes. “You should rest. You’ve been chasing shadows.”

“There’s no water,” he growled. “My kingdom is dying.”

“And what will you do when it does?” she asked softly.

Baraka didn’t answer. For the first time in his life, he had no answer.

“I know a place,” she said after a moment. “It’s not much, but there’s water. Clean water. Cool.”

Baraka lifted his heavy head. “Where?”

Nia flicked her tail. “Follow me.”

---

He didn’t ask questions. He followed her — this tiny cat with no roar, no claws, no throne — through dry brush and under ghostly trees. She moved silently, confidently. Baraka stumbled behind, his paws cracking the earth.

They traveled for hours, until the moon was high and silver.

Finally, Nia led him to a crevice at the base of a rocky hill. Inside, beneath tangled roots, there was a hidden spring. Water trickled from the stone, pure and sweet.

Baraka drank like a starving beast. The water was cold, like melted stars. When he was done, he lay beside the spring, too tired to speak.

Nia sat beside him.

“I found this place years ago,” she said. “It’s not on any map, not known by the herds or the hunters.”

“Why didn’t you tell anyone?” he asked.

She shrugged. “Most wouldn’t have listened. Or they’d try to claim it.”

Baraka closed his eyes. “Like me.”

Nia said nothing. The silence stretched.

“I thought being king meant knowing everything. Controlling everything,” he murmured.

“You thought wrong,” Nia said, curling beside him. “Being king means knowing when to listen.”

The drought passed. Slowly, the rains returned. The grasses grew tall again, and the rivers sang. Life returned to the savannah like music to a long-forgotten melody.

Baraka changed too.

He no longer roared just to remind others he ruled. He no longer hunted just to prove he could. He watched more. Listened more.

And beside him, often unseen but never far, was a gray cat with quiet eyes and a clever mind.

The other animals began to notice. The lion no longer ruled with fear, but with wisdom. He shared stories, asked questions, and even laughed — a strange, rumbling sound that startled the trees.

One morning, as the sun painted the horizon in fire and gold, Baraka stood on Pride Rock. Nia sat beside him, her tail twitching.

“Do you miss being feared?” she asked.

“No,” he said. “I prefer being respected. Even liked, sometimes.”

“Even by small cats?”

He smiled. “Especially by small cats.”

Nia purred, satisfied. “Good. Because I’ve decided to stay.”

Baraka looked at her, amused. “I don’t recall inviting you.”

“You didn’t. I invited myself.”

He laughed, a full, deep sound.

And so the lion and the cat ruled the savannah — not side by side as king and queen, but as something better: as friends.

the end