The King Who Forgot to Listen

In the heart of the vast savannah, under skies painted gold by the sun, ruled a lion named Baraka. He was strong, brave, and known by every animal as “The King.” With a single roar, he could quiet a crowd or stop a fight. His name meant “blessing,” but over time, Baraka forgot what it truly meant to be one.

Baraka believed that a good king should always speak, always decide, and never be questioned. “A leader leads,” he would say, “and the rest must follow.” Every morning, he sat tall on his throne rock, and the animals came to report their problems—though most did so quickly and nervously.

Few animals ever stayed long. They bowed, they spoke, and they left. Baraka thought this meant he was respected. But he didn’t notice that many of them walked away with their ears down, their tails low, or their hearts heavy.

Then one morning, something changed.

A soft clopping of hooves echoed across the grass. Baraka looked up to see a young donkey approaching. She wasn’t bowing. She wasn’t rushing. She walked slowly, a flower tucked behind her ear, humming a tune.

“What do you want?” Baraka asked, raising an eyebrow.

“I’m Amani,” said the donkey. “And I want to talk.”

“Talk? About what?”

“Well,” Amani said, sitting down without permission, “about how your kingdom is doing. And how you are doing.”

Baraka blinked. “No one asks me that.”

“That’s why I’m here.”

Baraka cleared his throat. “Very well. Speak.”

Amani smiled kindly. “Actually, I was hoping… you’d listen.”

Baraka’s tail flicked. “Listen? I am the king. I give answers. I don’t ask questions.”

Amani looked around the open savannah. “Then how do you learn?”

Baraka opened his mouth to reply but paused. The question, simple as it was, caught him off guard.

“No one ever said that to me before,” he admitted.

Amani chuckled. “That’s the problem, Your Majesty. No one can. You talk too much. You roar too loud. You decide too quickly. Sometimes the best answers come from silence, not sound.”

The lion huffed, a little embarrassed. “So you’ve come to teach the king?”

“No,” she said. “I’ve come to remind him. Because I think he already knows—he just forgot.”

From that day on, Amani visited Baraka each morning. She didn’t lecture him. She told him stories. Stories of ants building cities underground, of turtles carrying wisdom in their shells, of elephants that grieve and monkeys that laugh.

Baraka began to listen—not just to Amani, but to the world around him.

He noticed how the zebra mother kept glancing over her shoulder during meetings, worried about her hidden foal. He saw how the meerkats whispered to each other instead of speaking aloud. He even noticed how the birds stopped singing when he walked by—and how they resumed only when he was gone.

He realised his kingdom wasn’t peaceful. It was quiet. And there’s a big difference between peace and silence.

So he changed.

He stopped roaring during meetings. He asked questions. He listened to long stories and slow complaints. Sometimes, he said nothing at all, letting others speak first.

The animals noticed. One by one, they returned—not just to report, but to talk.

The turtle came to share advice. The monkeys brought bananas and jokes. Even the owls, who rarely left the trees, flew down one evening to share a song.

And always, Amani sat beside him, smiling. She didn’t lead. She didn’t rule. But in her quiet way, she helped the king become better.

Months passed, and the savannah changed.

Where there had once been fear, there was now laughter. Where animals had kept secrets, they now shared ideas. And Baraka—once feared for his roar—became known for something else entirely.

He became known for listening.

One evening, as the stars blinked into the sky and the wind whispered through the grass, Baraka and Amani sat together on the rock, watching the animals gather below.

“You’ve done well, Baraka,” Amani said softly.

“I didn’t do it alone,” the lion replied.

“No,” she agreed. “You did it by doing something kings often forget to do. You listened.”

Baraka looked up at the stars. “Funny, isn’t it? I ruled for years thinking I was the only voice that mattered. And yet, the greatest strength I ever found… came from being quiet.”

Amani nudged him gently with her nose. “That’s the magic of paying attention. It makes others feel they matter.”

Baraka smiled. “And they do.”

From that day on, Baraka taught his cubs and future leaders not just how to roar, but how to wait. Not just how to speak, but how to hear.

And in the land where once only a king’s voice echoed, now many voices were heard. Loud ones. Quiet ones. Old ones. Young ones.

All because one donkey reminded a lion of something so small, and yet so powerful:

That even a king must listen.