Come closer, my people. Do not say this story happened in the forest, because it did not. Do not say it happened beside a village fire, because it did not. This one happened in a small office where papers slept on desks, files leaned against walls, and secrets woke up easily whenever someone knocked on the door.
I was sitting there with Tom that afternoon. The day was slow. Very slow. Slow like a goat chewing cud under a tree after finding no reason to hurry. Outside, the sun was tired. Inside, the office fan turned lazily, pushing warm air from one corner to another.
Tom sat across from me, pretending to work. But I knew him. A man may hide his face behind papers, but his thoughts will still peep through his eyes. For many weeks, Tom’s mind had not been at peace.
There was a woman called Maureen. Ah, Maureen! Whenever she passed near the office, Tom’s neck became longer than a giraffe’s. He would pretend to search for a pen. He would pretend to check his phone. He would pretend to stretch. But all of us knew his eyes were following Maureen like chicks following scattered maize. The elders say, "The mouth may deny hunger, but the eyes will still look at the cooking pot." That was Tom. His mouth was quiet. His eyes were speaking loudly.
Then, as we sat there in the heavy afternoon, we heard it. Ko ko ko! A knock landed on the door. Before we answered, the door opened slightly and Grace entered. Grace had not come to see us. She had only passed by to greet Ken, our colleague. Now Ken was not in the room at that moment, but his name was always present whenever Grace appeared.
For Grace and Ken had history. Yes, my people, history. The kind that does not die quickly. They had once walked together. They had once laughed together. They had once shared plans. Then the road between them broke. But even when a road breaks, the footprints do not disappear immediately. The elders say, "A river may bend, but it still knows its old path." That was Grace and Ken. They were no longer together, yet when they met, their eyes greeted each other before their mouths did.
Grace stood in the doorway smiling. She greeted us politely. We greeted her back. The room was calm. Too calm. Then Tom, who had been quiet like a hunter crouching in tall grass, suddenly lifted his head. He looked at Grace. Then he asked, “Grace, tell me… does your friend Maureen have a boyfriend?” Eh! The room shifted. Even the air stopped moving. The office fan seemed to slow down so it could hear better.
I looked at Tom. Tom looked at Grace. Grace looked at both of us. For a moment nobody spoke. Then Grace laughed. Not loudly. Not foolishly. She laughed the laughter of a woman who knows more than she plans to say. Then she answered, “Maureen is Ken’s girlfriend.” Tom’s face changed. But Grace was not finished. She added, “But she is only eaten when Ken has no new catch.” Silence. My people, silence fell into that office like a stone dropped into a deep well. Even the papers on the desk seemed ashamed.
Tom leaned back slowly. The hunger in his eyes disappeared for a moment, replaced by calculation. I said nothing. Because some statements do not need help. They arrive fully grown. Grace stood there smiling slightly, then left as calmly as she had entered. But her words remained behind. They sat with us. They leaned against the wall. They walked around the office. Maureen is Ken’s girlfriend. But only when Ken has no new catch. Ah!
In that moment, my mind traveled backward into memory. I remembered an old man who once told me a story. He had said, “Even the lion, king of meat, will sometimes eat grass.” We children laughed when he said it. A lion eating grass? Impossible! But the old man raised his finger and continued. “Not because the lion loves grass,” he said, “but because meat is not available.” That day in the office, I understood him.
Some people do not come to you because they value you. They come because the person they wanted was not available. Some people do not call because they miss you. They call because loneliness has entered their house. Some people do not return because they have changed. They return because their new road has closed. The elders say, "Do not confuse being remembered with being valued." There is a difference. A big difference.
Maureen, according to Grace, had become grass for a lion. Not the meal of honor. Not the chosen one. Not the one protected and respected. Only the one remembered when the hunt failed. And my people, that is a dangerous place to live. Because a person who accepts to be used only when others are unavailable slowly forgets their own worth. At first, they say, “At least he came.” Then they say, “At least she called.” Then they say, “At least I was remembered.” But being remembered last is not the same as being loved first.
The office that afternoon became a classroom. Tom had asked a small question. Grace had opened a large door. And through that door walked wisdom. For this story is not only about Maureen. It is not only about Ken. It is not only about Tom. It is about all of us.
Some people are kept like spare keys. Only searched for when the main key is lost. Some are treated like old shoes. Ignored until the new ones begin to hurt. Some are called only when money is needed. Some are visited only when comfort is needed. Some are loved only between disappointments. The elders say, "A mat kept outside is remembered only when visitors arrive." Do not become that mat. Do not become someone’s emergency meal. Do not become the grass a lion eats when meat is missing.
If someone values you, they will not hide you in the corner of their life. They will not come only when other doors close. They will not treat your heart like a waiting room. Love must have dignity. Friendship must have respect. And companionship must not be built on leftovers.
That afternoon, Tom did not ask more questions. He returned to his papers, but now his hands moved slowly. Perhaps he was thinking. Perhaps he was wounded. Perhaps he was disappointed. Or perhaps he was learning that every beautiful thing has a story, and not every story is safe to enter. As for me, I carried Grace’s words with me. I carried them because they were not gossip alone. They were a mirror. And every good story must eventually turn into a mirror.
So now I turn to you, as storytellers must and ask, “Are you like Maureen?” Called only when no one else is available? Visited only when the hunt has failed? Remembered only when loneliness becomes loud? Or are you the one who has learned to wait with dignity? The one who knows your worth? The one who refuses to become grass for a lion that only visits when starving?
I was sitting there with Tom that afternoon. The day was slow. Very slow. Slow like a goat chewing cud under a tree after finding no reason to hurry. Outside, the sun was tired. Inside, the office fan turned lazily, pushing warm air from one corner to another.
Tom sat across from me, pretending to work. But I knew him. A man may hide his face behind papers, but his thoughts will still peep through his eyes. For many weeks, Tom’s mind had not been at peace.
There was a woman called Maureen. Ah, Maureen! Whenever she passed near the office, Tom’s neck became longer than a giraffe’s. He would pretend to search for a pen. He would pretend to check his phone. He would pretend to stretch. But all of us knew his eyes were following Maureen like chicks following scattered maize. The elders say, "The mouth may deny hunger, but the eyes will still look at the cooking pot." That was Tom. His mouth was quiet. His eyes were speaking loudly.
Then, as we sat there in the heavy afternoon, we heard it. Ko ko ko! A knock landed on the door. Before we answered, the door opened slightly and Grace entered. Grace had not come to see us. She had only passed by to greet Ken, our colleague. Now Ken was not in the room at that moment, but his name was always present whenever Grace appeared.
For Grace and Ken had history. Yes, my people, history. The kind that does not die quickly. They had once walked together. They had once laughed together. They had once shared plans. Then the road between them broke. But even when a road breaks, the footprints do not disappear immediately. The elders say, "A river may bend, but it still knows its old path." That was Grace and Ken. They were no longer together, yet when they met, their eyes greeted each other before their mouths did.
Grace stood in the doorway smiling. She greeted us politely. We greeted her back. The room was calm. Too calm. Then Tom, who had been quiet like a hunter crouching in tall grass, suddenly lifted his head. He looked at Grace. Then he asked, “Grace, tell me… does your friend Maureen have a boyfriend?” Eh! The room shifted. Even the air stopped moving. The office fan seemed to slow down so it could hear better.
I looked at Tom. Tom looked at Grace. Grace looked at both of us. For a moment nobody spoke. Then Grace laughed. Not loudly. Not foolishly. She laughed the laughter of a woman who knows more than she plans to say. Then she answered, “Maureen is Ken’s girlfriend.” Tom’s face changed. But Grace was not finished. She added, “But she is only eaten when Ken has no new catch.” Silence. My people, silence fell into that office like a stone dropped into a deep well. Even the papers on the desk seemed ashamed.
Tom leaned back slowly. The hunger in his eyes disappeared for a moment, replaced by calculation. I said nothing. Because some statements do not need help. They arrive fully grown. Grace stood there smiling slightly, then left as calmly as she had entered. But her words remained behind. They sat with us. They leaned against the wall. They walked around the office. Maureen is Ken’s girlfriend. But only when Ken has no new catch. Ah!
In that moment, my mind traveled backward into memory. I remembered an old man who once told me a story. He had said, “Even the lion, king of meat, will sometimes eat grass.” We children laughed when he said it. A lion eating grass? Impossible! But the old man raised his finger and continued. “Not because the lion loves grass,” he said, “but because meat is not available.” That day in the office, I understood him.
Some people do not come to you because they value you. They come because the person they wanted was not available. Some people do not call because they miss you. They call because loneliness has entered their house. Some people do not return because they have changed. They return because their new road has closed. The elders say, "Do not confuse being remembered with being valued." There is a difference. A big difference.
Maureen, according to Grace, had become grass for a lion. Not the meal of honor. Not the chosen one. Not the one protected and respected. Only the one remembered when the hunt failed. And my people, that is a dangerous place to live. Because a person who accepts to be used only when others are unavailable slowly forgets their own worth. At first, they say, “At least he came.” Then they say, “At least she called.” Then they say, “At least I was remembered.” But being remembered last is not the same as being loved first.
The office that afternoon became a classroom. Tom had asked a small question. Grace had opened a large door. And through that door walked wisdom. For this story is not only about Maureen. It is not only about Ken. It is not only about Tom. It is about all of us.
Some people are kept like spare keys. Only searched for when the main key is lost. Some are treated like old shoes. Ignored until the new ones begin to hurt. Some are called only when money is needed. Some are visited only when comfort is needed. Some are loved only between disappointments. The elders say, "A mat kept outside is remembered only when visitors arrive." Do not become that mat. Do not become someone’s emergency meal. Do not become the grass a lion eats when meat is missing.
If someone values you, they will not hide you in the corner of their life. They will not come only when other doors close. They will not treat your heart like a waiting room. Love must have dignity. Friendship must have respect. And companionship must not be built on leftovers.
That afternoon, Tom did not ask more questions. He returned to his papers, but now his hands moved slowly. Perhaps he was thinking. Perhaps he was wounded. Perhaps he was disappointed. Or perhaps he was learning that every beautiful thing has a story, and not every story is safe to enter. As for me, I carried Grace’s words with me. I carried them because they were not gossip alone. They were a mirror. And every good story must eventually turn into a mirror.
So now I turn to you, as storytellers must and ask, “Are you like Maureen?” Called only when no one else is available? Visited only when the hunt has failed? Remembered only when loneliness becomes loud? Or are you the one who has learned to wait with dignity? The one who knows your worth? The one who refuses to become grass for a lion that only visits when starving?
Think carefully. Because this story is not finished. It is walking with you. And when the lion comes near, licking its lips and pretending to admire the grass, may wisdom stand beside you and whisper, “You were not born to be leftovers.” That is the story. I have spoken.
