In the land of Rats, as in the land of humans, there are those who boast about small victories, those who boast about painted victories, and those who boast about impossible victories.
Echoes from the Great Grainlands
By M C FOLO The Independentist contributor.
Long ago, so long that even the young Baobabs still wore the freshness of new bark, an ancient barn stood at the edge of the Great Grainlands. This barn creaked with secrets. Its roof sagged like an old chief’s hat, and its timber bones moaned whenever the wind slipped through.
In this barn lived three Rats, each with a tongue sharper than acacia thorns. And as everyone knows, Rats fear only one creature: the Cat. Yet these three had something stronger than fear—boasting. Ah! They could brag until even the sun grew weary.
One bright evening, when the moon shone like a polished calabash, the three Rats gathered beneath a broken grinding stone to tell stories of their greatness.
The First Rat: “The Human Confuser”
The first Rat, slim as a dried millet stalk, lifted his voice proudly. “Hear me, my brothers!” he squeaked. “There is no human alive who can outsmart me. They set traps—big traps, small traps, iron, wooden, all with sweet-smelling groundnuts inside, thinking I will fall like a foolish rat. But me? I take the bait gently, so gently that even the wind cannot hear.”
He raised his nose high. “They scratch their heads. They blame their ancestors. They say, ‘Who steals our bait? A spirit? A wizard?’ But no—it is I, the Master of Escape!”
He thumped his chest like a chief reciting his lineage. The others nodded… politely, not admiringly.
The Second Rat: “The Warrior of Press-Ups”
The second Rat—round, strong, and rumbling like a well-fed drum—burst out laughing. “Small boy tricks!” he scoffed. “You think stealing bait is greatness? You think confusing humans is a mighty tale?”
He flexed his tiny paws with pride. “I take the bait too. But before I leave, I climb on the trap and do press-ups! One! Two! Three! I press my chest to the iron jaws of death and return untouched.”
He strutted like a tiny general. “When the humans find the trap empty, they also find my footprints on it! They say, ‘Ah! This rat is not ordinary. Perhaps he trains with spirits at night.’”
He laughed, deep and loud. The First Rat shrank a little. But the Third Rat… he had not spoken at all. In fact, he began to walk away. The Third Rat: “The Braggart of the Impossible” “Ei! Ei! Ei!” cried the first two. “Look at him running! He has no tale. No bravery, no skill, no legend!”
But the Third Rat stopped and turned. A slow smile sat on his whiskers—an old, knowing smile. “My brothers,” he said calmly, “I am not running. I simply have things to do. Time is short, and I cannot waste it listening to small dreamers.”
“Small what?” the others gasped. “You boast of traps,” said the Third Rat. “Traps! Mere child’s play. As for me…” He dusted his paws with an air of importance. “I am on my way to impregnate the Cat.” The barn froze. Even the wind held its breath.
The Cat? The great Cat of Thunder? The one with charcoal eyes? The one whose breath smells of crushed bones? The one whose paws have sent whole rat families into exile?
“Yes,” said the Third Rat, stretching proudly. “Some of us do not fear the Cat. Some of us seize destiny with both hands. Some of us make the impossible possible.”
The other two trembled so hard that the grinding stone quivered. And before they could utter another word, the Third Rat swaggered into the night—toward the darkest corner of the barn where the Cat slept, dreaming fierce dreams.
THE MORAL OF THE TALE
In the land of Rats, as in the land of humans, there are those who boast about small victories, those who boast about painted victories, and those who boast about impossible victories.
Boasting thrives where power shines like a trap—
bright on the outside, dangerous on the inside. Some politicians boast like the First Rat,
turning ordinary tasks into legendary achievements. Some boast like the Second Rat, turning simple duties into spectacles, giving speeches like dancers, doing press-ups on promises.
But some boast like the Third Rat— promising miracles so wild even the ancestors would blink. They promise to end hunger with one decree, build paradise in one season, and wrestle danger with bare hands.
Yet beware: boasting does not build barns. Bravado does not fill granaries. And no rat—no matter how clever— has ever impregnated the Cat of Thunder.
M C FOLO
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