"The lion does not turn around when a small dog barks." – African Proverb
The battlefield stretched beneath Sundiata Keita's feet, a graveyard of blood and steel. His armor clung to him like lead, each step dragging him deeper into the earth, the weight unbearable. Blood, thick and drying, caked his hands, stiffening on his skin like shackles. Every motion sent a dull ache through his joints, the familiar burn of battle now a betrayal. Even standing felt like a strain, as though the ground itself wanted to pull him down, to bury him where he stood.
His war hammer, once an extension of his arm, now felt like a burden. The handle, slick with blood and sweat, slid slightly in his grasp, his fingers raw and trembling. Every breath he drew tasted of iron and decay, and his chest tightened with every inhale. The sounds of war—the clash of steel and the dying cries—faded into distant echoes, drowned by the relentless pounding in his head.
The lion does not turn when a small dog barks.
He had told himself those words countless times, clung to them like armor. But now, the barking was growing louder. It no longer sounded like distant noise—it was closing in, snapping at his heels, relentless. His body, once the vessel of his strength, was betraying him. The ground beneath him felt unsteady, shifting like sand. Every movement betrayed a weakness he could no longer ignore.
He blinked, but the edges of the battlefield blurred, the fallen men fading into the earth. He wiped his brow, smearing grime across his face. His muscles, once a source of his power, now screamed with every movement. The tremor in his arms was persistent, refusing to relent. How long had it been since he felt truly invincible?
His soldiers stood around him, their faces taut, their eyes watching him with a mixture of fear and uncertainty. He could feel their gazes linger on his trembling hands, darting away when he caught them looking. One soldier shifted nervously, his foot slipping on the blood-slick ground. Another seemed to hesitate before sheathing his blade, as if waiting for Sundiata's next command. But no one spoke. No one challenged him. Yet.
He had once stood unchallenged. The battlefield had been his domain. He could still see it clearly—the day Kankan Musa had knelt before him. The enemy had fallen, and Sundiata's army had looked upon him with awe, their eyes wide with both fear and admiration. Back then, his war hammer had felt light in his grip, every swing a declaration of his power. Musa had looked up at him not just in fear but in awe. Sundiata had been invincible.
They will speak of me for generations. He had thought it then, certain of his legacy. The unshakable king, the lion who could not be felled.
But what would they say now?
He turned his gaze back to his soldiers. Their expressions were tight, their fear palpable but brittle. They weren't loyal to him out of belief anymore. It was duty, obligation. The loyalty that had once been built on respect had crumbled. They feared the ghost of what he had been, not the man who stood before them now.
The murmurings had started long ago, whispers carried on the wind. Is the lion still as strong? Can he still protect us? He could feel it slipping away, his grip on them loosening with each passing day.
The lion does not turn when a small dog barks.
He had clung to that proverb for years, a shield against doubt. But now, it felt hollow. The barking was growing louder, closer. Was he still the lion? Or had the dogs finally caught up with him?
A wounded soldier crawled at his feet, groaning softly as he dragged himself through the mud. Sundiata raised his hammer to end the man's suffering, but his arm faltered. His muscles spasmed, pain shooting through his shoulder, and his grip on the hammer slipped. His fingers twitched uncontrollably, barely able to hold on to the weapon.
The blow landed with a dull thud, the sound of bone cracking lost in the distance. The satisfaction that had once followed such acts—the grim power—was gone. His breath quickened, his chest tightening as the weight of his own body pressed down on him. His body—once the vessel of his strength—was betraying him. And with that betrayal came a deeper fear: What will they say of me when I'm gone? Will my name be whispered in fear, or will it fade into nothing, like dust swept away by the wind?
The streets of the capital buzzed with celebration, but the noise felt distant, like a hollow echo. His horse, Mfalme, moved slowly through the crowd, the flowers thrown at his feet crushed beneath its hooves, ground into the dirt. The people chanted his name—"Sundiata! Sundiata!"—but their faces held only hollow fear.
There had been a time when that fear had been tempered with respect. He could still recall it clearly: the way his people had once looked at him with awe, their fear softened by belief in his strength. Back then, his power had been more than a weapon—it had been a shield. His people had followed him not just because they feared him, but because they trusted him. They believed in the lion.
But now, that respect was gone. The fear that remained was thin, fragile, like glass ready to shatter. They trembled at the sight of him, but it wasn't the man they feared—it was the shadow of his former self. What will they do when they see me falter? When they see how brittle their fear has become?
Dismounting from his horse, his knees buckled slightly, pain shooting through his legs. His armor, once a second skin, felt too heavy, pressing down on his chest and shoulders. The cold sweat clinging to his skin made every movement feel like a battle, suffocating him under the weight of his own body.
Inside the palace, his women awaited him. They bowed as he entered, their heads low, their movements careful, precise. But the room felt colder than it should. The eldest among them stepped forward, her face calm, her eyes sharp, as though she could see through the armor to the man beneath.
"My lord," she said softly, her voice calm but cutting. "Everything is prepared for your return."
Sundiata nodded, but even that small motion sent pain shooting through his neck. His muscles were stiff, unresponsive. He flexed his hands, trying to work out the tightness in his knuckles, but the stiffness refused to ease. The eldest woman's gaze lingered on him, and irritation flickered in his chest. But beneath the irritation was something darker—something he didn't want to acknowledge.
"You fight like a lion," she said, stepping closer, her voice too calm. "But even lions tire."
Her words struck deeper than any blade. Sundiata rolled his shoulders, trying to shake off the tension, but his muscles resisted. Pain flared through his neck and back, every movement a reminder of his growing weakness. He tried to stretch, to push the ache away, but the weight of his own body refused to yield. How much longer could he pretend? The bark of doubt gnawed at him. How long before the barking dogs became more than just noise?
The other women moved in the background, their eyes lowered, but Sundiata could feel them glancing toward him, exchanging whispers that barely reached his ears. They too had begun to notice. His authority, once unquestioned, now stirred doubt in even the quietest corners of his kingdom. Their eyes lingered longer now, on his stiff movements, on the tremor in his hands.
"You think I'm weak?" His voice was sharp, but beneath it, there was something else—an edge of desperation. He needed her to deny it, to say that he was still strong, still the lion.
The woman didn't flinch. "I think you are strong," she said quietly, "but strength becomes a burden. I have seen kings fall under its weight."
Sundiata's fists clenched at his sides, the tremors in his hands worsening. She had seen this before—kings who had ruled with fear, who had believed themselves invincible, only to be crushed by the weight of their own power. Was that what she saw in him now? A king on the verge of collapse?
The lion does not turn when a small dog barks.
He had repeated those words to himself for so long, but now, the barking was all he could hear.
In his chambers, the scent of sandalwood and jasmine filled the air, but it did nothing to ease the tightness in his chest. The women moved around him, removing his armor piece by piece, but even their gentle touch couldn't soothe the deep ache in his bones. His muscles twitched, spasming uncontrollably. Every time he tried to still them, the tremors grew stronger.
A young woman approached with a goblet of wine, her hands trembling as she held it out to him. Sundiata took it, but his fingers shook as he grasped the cup, slick with sweat. For a moment, he thought he might drop it. He tightened his hold, trying to steady his hand, but the tremor persisted.
"You fear me," Sundiata said quietly, his voice rough, barely audible.
The girl nodded quickly, backing away, her eyes wide. But her fear offered no comfort. It was hollow, meaningless—just like the brittle fear he had seen in his soldiers, in the crowd. What happens when that fear breaks? What happens when they stop fearing him?
They fear me, but they do not believe in me.
The door creaked open, and a young man entered, his movements slow, hesitant, like prey stepping into the lair of a wounded predator. Sundiata's gaze fixed on him, his pulse quickening despite the exhaustion weighing him down. The young man—barely 23, his frame slim, still boyish in its awkwardness—had fear in his eyes, but there was something else just beneath it—a flicker of uncertainty, a crack in his submission.
Sundiata's chest tightened. It was the first time he had seen hesitation in someone so low, a servant meant to kneel, obey, and offer himself without question. That hesitation, that flicker of defiance, sent a wave of panic through the king. Was this how it began? With one small act of doubt? A young man like him, untouched by battle but drawn into the power games of kings, now standing before him, vulnerable yet not entirely powerless.
The young man knelt before his king, hands trembling as they reached toward Sundiata's waist. His touch was hesitant, almost reluctant, as his fingers brushed the leather of Sundiata's armor, before dipping lower. The weight of this act—one that had been performed countless times—now felt different, suffused with tension.
Sundiata's breath hitched, raw and unrelenting, as his thoughts spiraled. His fingers twitched involuntarily, a betrayal of the control he had once held so tightly. The young man's reluctance mirrored something deep within Sundiata—the same gnawing uncertainty that had been plaguing him since the battlefield. His grip tightened around the arm of his chair, trying to summon the strength he once wielded, but the shaking wouldn't stop.
"Come closer," Sundiata commanded, his voice rougher than he intended, an edge of need clinging to his words. The tremor in his legs worsened as the boy's hands now rested on his thighs, brushing against the fabric of his garments.
The young man hesitated, his hands pausing just above Sundiata's manhood, trembling slightly as if the weight of the moment pressed against him. The air between them thickened, Sundiata's breath quickened with something unfamiliar—fear, longing, vulnerability. His heart pounded as the room seemed to constrict around him, the walls of the palace closing in.
He looks at me as I once looked at the old kings. Young, full of fire, questioning... waiting.
Sundiata shifted, his own body betraying the remnants of his desire for control. The young man's fingers wrapped around his king's manhood, a ritual of power and submission. His touch, hesitant at first, grew firmer as he began to clean the king, each movement a reminder of the fragile hold Sundiata now had over his kingdom—and himself.
"Look at me," Sundiata growled, though his voice trembled, betraying the fragility he could no longer hide. His hands, still trembling uncontrollably, reached out for the dominance that was slipping away, as if commanding the boy's gaze would restore his fading strength.
The young man lifted his eyes—wide, hesitant, but unyielding—and in that moment, Sundiata saw it: the defiance, the reluctance. Not just in the boy, but reflected in his own spirit. His power, once absolute, now slipping like water through his fingers.
The lion does not turn...
But now, the barking was all he could hear.
Sundiata's vision blurred, his breath coming in short, ragged bursts. He tried to summon the authority to command the room, to reassert his place as the unchallenged ruler. But his body refused him, the tremors worsening, his chest tightening as panic seized him. For the first time, Sundiata felt it: the weight of his collapse, the slow, inevitable unraveling of everything he had once been.
The lion had turned.