By: Chioma Madonna Ndukwu
The Day the Monkeys Began Counting the Bananas
In the forest of Ezi Grove, hunger had started wearing new clothes. Not the loud kind of hunger that makes stomachs cry in public.
No. This one moved quietly. The wells still stood. The trees still swayed. The council still gave speeches.
But ordinary animals had begun noticing something strange. Food no longer stretched the way it used to.
Goat traders returned from market grumbling. Squirrels hid smaller portions for dry season. Even hardworking Antelope, who feared nobody except laziness, had begun skipping meals.
Yet at the center of the forest, beside the royal hill, stood the Great Banana Barn. Huge, heavy, and always guarded.
It had been built many seasons ago so no animal would starve when hard times arrived.
“Our stomachs may quarrel,” the elders used to say, “but the barn must never become empty.”
Watching over it were the Monkeys. Quick hands and quicker smiles.
Every season they stood before the animals and reassured the. “All is well,” they said. “Bananas are plenty.” “Do not listen to rumours.”
And because speeches are cheaper than food, life dragged on. Still, whispers grew.
Why were ordinary animals hungry while the Monkeys suddenly looked healthier? Why were their children round-faced while others chewed dry leaves pretending not to mind?
One afternoon, old Tortoise passed behind the Banana Barn and paused. Something smelled wrong. Not rotten, but suspicious.
Like soup trying too hard to hide salt. He stood quietly behind a fence and watched.
At sunset, carts rolled out silently.Bananas, crates and crates of bananas. Not toward hungry villages, but toward private compounds.
Tortoise blinked slowly. Then muttered: “Ah… so the stomach has started voting for itself.”
The next market day, he said nothing dramatic. No shouting. No noise.
He simply stood beneath the market tree and asked one question: “If the barn is full, why are stomachs behaving like abandoned children?”
Silence dropped heavily, the dangerous kind. Even gossip paused to listen.
Monkey leaders became angry. “You spread confusion!” they barked. “You want unrest!”
But something had shifted. Animals started counting,
counting deliveries, counting, shortages, and counting promises. And strange things happen when hungry people begin counting carefully.
One evening, old Goat Mother Ada spoke softly before the crowd: “A hand that measures food for others must first learn shame.”
Heads nodded. Because many now understood what had happened. The Monkeys had mistaken public trust for private appetite.
That season, records were opened. The Banana Barn inspected. And for the first time, ordinary animals began asking difficult questions before applause.
In Ezi Grove, elders still tell the story whenever leaders begin smiling too much around public food. And they always end with the same warning: “When the keeper of the basket grows too fat, count the fruits.”
Moral: A society suffers when those trusted with common resources begin treating them like personal property.
Comment Hook:
Why do people sometimes ignore small signs of misuse until the problem becomes too big to hide?
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