By: Chioma Madonna Ndukwu
Africa’s Talking Drum: The Day the Hyena Began Guarding the Goat Pen
In the forest of Nkoku, trouble never arrived shouting. It came softly, like termites inside wood. At first, the animals barely noticed.
Goats began disappearing at night, not many. One here, another there. Just enough to make people whisper but not enough to cause alarm.
Every morning, Goat Mother Ada stood near the grazing field counting nervously. “One… two… three…” Then silence, always silence after counting. Because one goat was always missing.
The forest council held meetings beneath the old baobab tree. Monkey shouted. Parrot repeated everybody’s anger louder than necessary.
Even Tortoise, who rarely wasted words, cleared his throat. “This matter smells bad,” he muttered.
But Lion the King had grown tired. Too tired for quarrels. Too fond of comfort. “Enough meetings,” Lion grumbled one hot afternoon. “We need action.”
Then Hyena stepped forward. Smooth voice. Calm face. The kind of smile that enters before suspicion.“My King,” Hyena said, bowing slightly, “allow me guard the goat pen.”
The forest fell quiet. Some animals shifted uneasily. Goat Mother Ada nearly coughed from shock. Hyena? Guard goats? It sounded like rain promising not to wet the ground.
But Hyena spoke beautifully. “I understand danger,” he said. “Who better to stop thieves than one who understands their tricks?”
Lion nodded slowly. The council agreed. Mostly because tired people often mistake confidence for wisdom.
And so it began. Hyena became Chief Protector of the Goat Pen. At first, everything looked better.
Hyena walked proudly at night. Inspected fences. Held long meetings about “security improvements. Even speeches increased. “The forest is safer!” he announced often.
But somehow… Goats still disappeared. Only now, questions became dangerous. Whenever anyone complained, Hyena frowned deeply. “You doubt my efforts?” he asked.
Monkey grew afraid, antelope stopped talking. Even Goat Mother Ada learned to whisper.
One evening, after yet another missing goat, old Tortoise walked slowly to the pen. He said nothing for a long time. Just watched. Listened. Then he bent near the fence and sighed.
Tiny goat hairs clung to Hyena’s sleeping corner. The old creature shook his head sadly.
By sunrise, the whole forest had gathered. Tortoise spoke quietly: “When hunger wears the cloth of protection,” he said, “the village sleeps while danger eats comfortably.”
Nobody breathed, not even Hyena smiled. Goat Mother Ada wiped tears angrily. Monkey slapped his forehead. Even Lion lowered his eyes.
Because suddenly, what everybody feared to say became obvious: They had handed trust to appetite. That season, the forest changed its ways. Not quickly, not perfectly, but carefully.
And from then on, whenever smooth talk arrived carrying too much confidence, old animals in Nkoku would whisper: “Before you hire a guard, first ask what keeps him awake at night.”
Because in life, they learned, not every protector arrives to protect. Some simply arrive hungry.
Moral: A society suffers deeply when those meant to protect public trust quietly feed on it.
Comment Hook:
Why do people sometimes place trust in those who later become part of the problem they promised to solve?
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