Long ago, in the village of Elugwu, the earth smelled of roasted yam, the skies sang with weaver birds, and the people lived in peace beneath the wide arms of the iroko trees. The houses were built from clay and straw, their roofs tied tightly to withstand the storms that sometimes rolled in from the east. Life was simple, but it was strong like a well-planted cassava root.
But peace can be fragile, and the day the fire came, everything changed.
It started in the dry season, when even the river held its breath. One hot evening, as the sun was melting into the horizon, a shout rang through the village.
“Fire!”
People ran. Children cried. Mothers grabbed pots of water. The flames leapt from hut to hut, eating roofs and licking walls. Smoke curled into the sky like a wounded spirit. The villagers fought as best they could, throwing sand and shouting prayers, but by the time the fire died, five huts were gone including the shrine of the ancestors.
People stood in silence, covered in ash.
Chief Anyika arrived, his walking staff still in hand from evening rounds. He surveyed the damage, his face heavy.
“Something must have caused this,” he said.
And in the silence that followed, a single voice broke through.
“It was the snake.”
All eyes turned.
A small boy, no more than ten, pointed a trembling finger. “I saw it. A green snake. It slithered into Mama Ijeoma’s roof, just before the fire started.”
Gasps followed. Murmurs filled the air.
A snake.
The villagers believed snakes brought omens—some good, some terrible. And this fire? It had the feel of punishment.
Soon the cries turned into a chorus.
“The snake brought a curse!”
“It burned our shrine!”
“Where is it now?”
A few men ran toward the edge of the village where the forest began. And there, curled near a small rock under a mango tree, lay Mba, the green tree snake.
Mba wasn’t like other snakes. He didn’t hide in holes or strike without reason. He was calm. He had lived near the village for many years. Most days, he was seen lying in the sun, watching the birds fly past. He never bothered anyone.
But that didn’t matter now.
The men shouted. They raised sticks.
Mba didn’t move.
Then one of the elders arrived—Nwoke, a man too old to run but too wise to stay silent.
“Wait,” he said, holding out his hand.
The men lowered their sticks, confused.
“Let him speak.”
Some laughed. Others frowned. But Nwoke stepped forward and looked the snake in the eye.
And Mba spoke.
“I saw the fire,” he said. His voice was quiet, steady. “But I did not start it.”
“Lies!” someone shouted. “You were seen!”
Mba’s tongue flicked once. “I was in the roof because I saw smoke. I wanted to warn the birds who nest there. I hissed to wake them. Then I left. The fire was already growing.”
“Why would you warn the birds?” another asked. “What do you care?”
“Because once, many seasons ago,” Mba replied, “a bird saved me. When I was young and caught in a hunter’s trap, a mother hornbill pecked the string loose. I owe her kind a debt.”
Some murmured. Others rolled their eyes.
“That’s not proof,” a man spat.
“But it is truth,” Mba said.
The chief arrived. He had heard everything.
“There is no witness,” he said. “And yet… something in this feels right.”
Mba looked around.
“I know you don’t trust my kind. I know my body slithers and my eyes frighten you. But truth doesn’t need beauty. It only needs courage.”
The villagers were silent.
Then Nwoke stepped forward again.
“Let me speak,” he said. “This snake has lived among us peacefully. That fire—yes, it may have begun in Mama Ijeoma’s roof. But has anyone asked if there were coals left from her cooking? Has anyone considered the children who play with fire sticks?”
Heads turned. Whispers followed.
Mama Ijeoma stepped forward, her face pale. “My son… he was playing behind the hut. With a lantern. I told him not to, but…”
The truth dropped into the silence like a stone in still water.
No one spoke.
The chief raised his staff.
“The snake warned. The boy lit. The flames spread.”
He looked at the crowd.
“Will we punish one who tried to protect us?”
The people lowered their heads.
Mba looked at the boy. “You are young. But remember—truth runs faster than fear. Speak it, even when it shakes your voice.”
The boy nodded, eyes full of tears.
That evening, the villagers gathered again. Not to rebuild. Not yet. But to sit. Together. And they asked the snake to stay nearby—not as a guard, not as a hero, but as a reminder.
A reminder that truth can come from unlikely mouths. That sometimes, the ugliest forms carry the clearest wisdom.
And from that day on, when a child in Elugwu was caught in a lie, their mother would say, “Remember the snake who told the truth about the fire.”
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Moral Lessons:
1. Telling the truth matters—even when no one wants to hear it.
2. Judging by appearances often blinds us to the truth.
3. Real courage is standing up for what’s right, especially when you’re alone.
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