When Power Falls: Lessons from the Baobab on Strength, Vulnerability, and True Leadership
PositiveMinds | Positive Stories | Edition 066
“When the baobab falls, the goats feast on its leaves.”
Illustration by A. Coulibaly with canva.com
Power protects. Fall exposes.
When we are strong, upright, and steady, we radiate authority. People keep their distance. Our words carry weight, and our decisions ripple far and wide. We cast long shadows. The presence of power draws admiration and caution. Respect sometimes comes not from who we are but from how high we stand.
But when that stature collapses — whether by exhaustion, error, or sheer fate — the air shifts. Suddenly, hands that once stayed away inch closer. But not always to lift. Sometimes, to pick at what’s left. To feed on the fallen leaves. To take what they couldn’t reach before.
It’s a pattern we’ve seen time and again. Leaders once admired reduced to footnotes. Institutions once revered brought to trial. Icons undone by a single event. And yet, what’s striking isn’t that these falls happen. It’s how often those in power live as if they never will.
Despite the visible trail of fallen giants, many still behave as if power is a permanent shield. They surround themselves with yeses, build distance into their relationships, and rise so high that they forget the ground beneath them. They act as if the laws of gravity do not apply to them — as if they are unreachable, invincible.
But power is never permanent. It’s a temporary assignment, a rotating spotlight. And the higher we climb without humility, the louder the sound when we fall. What protects us in moments of strength is not just our might—it’s our mindset, the roots we grow, the trust we nurture, and the respect we earn, not command.
This is what the Bambara proverb teaches. The baobab doesn't fall every day. It stands for years, centuries, even. But when it falls, it doesn’t fall alone. Its fall reveals the ecosystem around it: those who depended on it, those who waited for it, and those who only came once it was down.
So, this isn’t a call to fear. It’s not a warning to hoard or hide. It’s an invitation to live wisely. We need to use our seasons of strength, not to dominate or isolate, but to deepen our roots. To nourish those around us. We need to sow trust, even when we don’t feel we need it. Because eventually, we will.
And when that season of vulnerability comes — as it always does — what we planted in strength may be what shields us in weakness. Not the echo of our past titles, but the memory of how we led. Not our name on a door, but the way we opened it for others.
Let us never confuse height with security. A tall tree still needs deep roots. And the strongest baobab still bows to time.
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