The village of Ndimo was a place where stories lived longer than people. Elders would say that if you stood still enough in the wind, you could hear old secrets brushing past your ears. It was a place where the trees remembered your name, and the animals watched you with knowing eyes.
In the center of that village lived a cat named Obi.
Obi was not feared like the leopard, nor praised like the eagle. He was just… there. Quiet. Watchful. A streak of grey and black fur that moved like thought. He slept on rooftops and walked the narrow ledges of clay walls without disturbing a single pot. People respected him, but they didn’t really speak to him. That suited Obi just fine.
He didn’t hunt for praise. He didn’t hunger for attention.
But he did hunger for mice, for fish, and for anything that moved.
One morning, just before the cock crowed and the sun broke the darkness apart, Obi was sitting under the guava tree near Mama Adaeze’s hut. He blinked slowly at the golden horizon when he heard the tiniest chirp above his head.
He looked up.
There, tucked into a crooked corner of the tree, was a nest. A soft bundle of dry grass and feathers. Inside were three chicks tiny, pink, trembling things, their mouths wide open, waiting for breakfast.
Their mother, a yellow-breasted weaver named Chidi, had flown off moments earlier in search of food.
Obi’s tail twitched.
He could’ve leapt. One jump, one swipe. He would’ve had a full belly before the sun touched the earth. No one would’ve seen. No one would’ve known.
But he didn’t move.
He sat.
He watched.
The chicks chirped again, louder this time. Still, Obi didn’t pounce.
He looked away.
Chidi returned moments later, worms dangling from her beak. She froze when she saw Obi beneath the tree.
Her feathers fluffed. She dropped the worms. She let out a sharp warning cry.
Obi turned his head slowly and looked at her. Then back at the rising sun.
He yawned.
And walked away.
The next morning, the same thing happened. Obi returned to his spot beneath the tree. The chicks chirped. Chidi panicked. Obi sat still. Then left.
By the third day, the story had spread.
The parrots whispered it through the mango grove. The lizards clicked it over rooftops. Even the goats by the well heard it.
“The cat who didn’t eat the chicks.”
Some said he was cursed. Others said he was sick. A few believed he had gone mad.
But an old tortoise named Amaka had a different thought.
“He’s waiting,” she said. “Not for food. For peace.”
No one understood.
But the story continued.
Days turned to weeks. The chicks grew feathers. They no longer trembled. They chirped with strength. Chidi still watched Obi carefully, but her fear softened.
One evening, when the air was thick with the smell of roasted maize and the stars blinked awake, Chidi flew down.
She perched on a low branch, just above Obi’s head.
“Why?” she asked.
Obi didn’t open his eyes.
“Why did you leave them alone?”
He stretched lazily, his voice low and calm. “Because I could.”
“That’s not an answer,” she said.
He opened one eye. “Isn’t it?”
Chidi tilted her head.
“I was taught,” Obi continued, “that hunger makes you strong, but restraint makes you wise.”
Chidi sat in silence.
“I’ve eaten many things in my time,” Obi added. “But it was the things I didn’t eat that made the most difference.”
Chidi blinked. “You could’ve killed them.”
“I know.”
“But you didn’t.”
“I know.”
That night, she flew back to her nest, unsure of what to feel.
The next morning, Obi didn’t come to the tree.
Nor the next.
Chidi searched for him through alleyways, rooftops, markets.
She found him finally, curled beside an empty clay bowl behind the herbalist’s hut.
He was old. Tired.
His breathing was shallow.
She perched beside him.
“I brought worms,” she said awkwardly. “Not much else I can carry.”
Obi chuckled weakly. “No appetite today.”
They sat in silence.
The chicks, now nearly grown, came fluttering beside her. They looked at Obi with wide, curious eyes.
“He’s the reason you’re alive,” Chidi whispered to them.
They chirped, as if understanding.
When Obi’s eyes closed for the last time, it wasn’t alone.
That season, Chidi built a new nest near the spot where Obi used to sit. And every time her young ones asked why a bird would mourn a cat, she’d say, “Because sometimes, the strongest thing you can do… is nothing.”
⸻
Moral Lessons:
1. True strength lies in choosing not to cause harm when you have the power to.
2. Restraint is a quiet form of wisdom that echoes far beyond the moment.
3. Sometimes, the gentlest choices carry the loudest legacy.
⸻
