<h1><strong>Such Is Life.</strong></h1><p><strong><br></strong></p><p><strong>Long ago, when the moon still came close enough to whisper and the wind carried the names of those who listened, there lived a boy named Chuka in the red-soiled village of Oduma.</strong></p><p><strong><br></strong></p><p><strong>Chuka was strong like the iroko tree but careless like a chick chasing shadows. He could climb palm trees faster than you could blink, but ah! His mind danced like a goat on market day.</strong></p><p><strong><br></strong></p><p><strong>One dry season morning, Chuka’s uncle, a quiet man with eyes like storm clouds, called to him.</strong></p><p><strong><br></strong></p><p><strong>“Take this goat to the market,” he said, tying a rope to the goat’s neck. “Sell it well. Bring back money for kerosene. And do not let the goat go.”</strong></p><p><strong><br></strong></p><p><strong>“I hear you, Uncle,” Chuka said, chest proud, feet dusty. “I will not fail!”</strong></p><p><strong><br></strong></p><p><strong>And off he went—whistling, skipping, dreaming.</strong></p><p><strong><br></strong></p><p><strong>But as tales often go, trouble came with the breeze.</strong></p><p><strong><br></strong></p><p><strong>Chuka reached the market. It was noisy. It was busy. It smelled of pepper, dried crayfish, and sun-sweat. He stopped to talk to a girl with bright eyes and sharper words. Just for a moment. Just one.</strong></p><p><strong><br></strong></p><p><strong>And in that moment—the goat disappeared.</strong></p><p><strong><br></strong></p><p><strong>Chuka searched. He ran. He begged. He asked the pepper sellers, the yam women, even the palm wine man.</strong></p><p><strong><br></strong></p><p><strong>“Have you seen a goat?”</strong></p><p><strong>“No.”</strong></p><p><strong>“Have you seen a brown goat?”</strong></p><p><strong>“No.”</strong></p><p><strong>“Please, have you seen a goat that looks... regretful?”</strong></p><p><strong>“Ha! Go home, boy.”</strong></p><p><strong><br></strong></p><p><strong>Ashamed, Chuka returned. His uncle said nothing. Not that day. Not the next. But silence can be heavier than a drumbeat.</strong></p><p><strong><br></strong></p><p><strong>So Chuka began to rise before the sun. He swept. He fetched water. He helped his aunt without being asked. He kept quiet. He carried his mistake like a calabash of hot soup—carefully, humbly.</strong></p><p><strong><br></strong></p><p><strong>One week passed.</strong></p><p><strong><br></strong></p><p><strong>Then Ikenna, the neighbor’s son with eyes too quick, came crying.</strong></p><p><strong><br></strong></p><p><strong>“I—I took the goat,” he stammered. “I thought it was alone. I sold it. Mama found out.”</strong></p><p><strong><br></strong></p><p><strong>Chuka’s uncle looked at the sky. Then at Ikenna. Then at Chuka.</strong></p><p><strong><br></strong></p><p><strong>And he laughed.</strong></p><p><strong><br></strong></p><p><strong>“A goat may stray,” he said, “but truth always finds its rope.”</strong></p><p><strong><br></strong></p><p><strong>He gave Chuka the coins Ikenna returned.</strong></p><p><strong><br></strong></p><p><strong>Not as a punishment.</strong></p><p><strong><br></strong></p><p><strong>But as a seed of trust.</strong></p><p><strong><br></strong></p><p><strong>From that day, Chuka never lost another goat. And children in Oduma say: when you tie your rope well and own your mistakes, even the lost goat may return.</strong></p><p><strong><br></strong></p><p><strong>Moral:</strong></p><p><strong>Responsibility waters the tree of trust. And sometimes, the goat that is yours will find its way back home.</strong></p><p><strong><br></strong></p><p><strong><br></strong></p>
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