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Story
Kpétou
The elders of the southern villages say that, long ago, the toad wasn't as we know it today. It didn't live hidden among puddles or spend its nights repeating its hoarse croak. On the contrary: the toad was a respected animal, invited to all gatherings and ceremonies because it possessed a unique privilege.
The toad could speak with the rain.
When the sky darkened and the clouds gathered, it would climb onto a high rock and converse with them. Sometimes it asked for water for the crops; other times, it asked for the sun to return and dry the roads. And the rain listened.
But one day, the toad made a mistake that changed its destiny.
In the village of Kpétou, the Feast of the Ancestors was being celebrated. All the animals were invited to share ancient stories. The toad, proud of its gift, decided to tell how it spoke with the rain. But he wasn't content with just telling the story... he mocked the other animals, saying that none of them had a talent as important as his.
"What good is it for the rooster to crow?" he said, laughing. "Or for the chameleon to change color? I'm the one who decides when it rains and when it doesn't."
The animals looked at each other uncomfortably. The rooster lowered his head. The chameleon hid behind a leaf. The tortoise, the oldest, spoke slowly:
"Toad, your gift is great, but your tongue is bigger than your wisdom. The rain listens to those who respect the earth, not to those who boast."
The toad, instead of apologizing, let out a laugh so loud it made the gourds hanging in the hut tremble.
That very night, the clouds gathered over the village. The rain, which had heard everything, descended in the form of a tall woman, wrapped in a gray cloak.
"Toad," the rain said in a deep voice, "your disrespect has sullied the gift I gave you. I cannot allow a proud heart to speak in the name of heaven."
The toad wanted to reply, but the rain raised a hand.
"From this day forward, you will lose your clear voice. You will no longer be able to speak to me or anyone else. I will leave you only a harsh sound, so that you will always remember the humility you forgot."
The rain touched the toad's throat. His voice cracked like a dry twig. He tried to speak, but only a hoarse, repetitive, mournful sound came out:
"Croak… croak… croak…"
"Since then, the toad has lived near the water, trying every night to recover his former voice. But he only manages that croak we all know. And the elders say that when we hear it, it is not a song… it is a reminder that pride can steal even the most precious gifts."
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