By Pinocchio Kombamwiko
The forest held its breath as the hare, sleek and silver-tongued, gestured toward the TukTuk perched precariously on the ridge. “Why plod?” he declared, ears twitching with theatrical flair. “Why sweat beneath this cruel sun? Behold! The chariot of the modern age! Swift as an eagle’s dive, smooth as a moonlit glide.
We shall descend like kings!” His words, honeyed and urgent, dripped with the promise of effortless speed. The sceptical tortoise, the weary warthog, the wide-eyed bushbaby, even the usually stoic rhino lured by visions of cool wind and vanishing distance found themselves clambering into the rickety cabin. The hare, grinning like a rogue moonbeam, squeezed behind the steering bar, a self-crowned captain of dubious destiny.
The initial lurch was exhilarating. Wind tore through fur and feathers as the TukTuk rattled down the slope, the hare whooping with glee. The bushbaby squeaked in terrified delight, the tortoise clamped his eyes shut, and the warthog gripped the splintered bench until his knuckles turned pale. The rhino merely grunted, shifting his immense weight uneasily. They were flying! Freedom tasted like dust and speed. The hare, intoxicated by the rush and his own audacity, pushed the groaning vehicle faster, ignoring the protesting squeal of ancient bearings and the ominous shimmy in the wheels. The path narrowed, twisting like a wounded serpent. Stones skittered away from their reckless wheels.
Then came the bend. Too sharp. Too fast. The hare’s confident grin vanished, replaced by a mask of pure terror.
Silence descended, heavy and thick as jungle mist, broken only by pained whimpers and the creak of settling wreckage. Dust motes danced in the shafts of sunlight spearing through the torn canopy. The hare, miraculously thrown clear onto a cushion of thick ferns, staggered to his feet, fur matted with dirt and blood. His ears, usually proud and erect, drooped limply.
Former DP Rigathi Gachagua with visitors at his Wamunyoro home. Photo:Courtesy
The scene before him was a tableau of ruin. The tortoise lay on his back, legs waving feebly, a hairline fracture visible on his ancient shell. The warthog nursed a badly gashed flank, tusks chipped. The tiny bushbaby, cradled in the rhino’s gentle trunk, trembled uncontrollably, one arm bent at an unnatural angle. The rhino himself bore deep scrapes along his side where the wood had gouged him, his breath coming in laboured snorts, a look of profound betrayal in his small, dark eyes that cut the hare deeper than any thorn.
Shame, thick and acrid, flooded the hare. His boastful speed, his glib promises – they lay shattered amidst the wreckage, more broken than the TukTuk itself. He approached slowly, his usual bounce gone, replaced by a leaden tread. “I… I…” he stammered, his voice a ragged whisper. Words failed him. He saw not anger in their eyes, but a crushing disappointment, a silent accusation more potent than any roar. He had traded camaraderie for cheap thrills, trust for a fleeting rush.
The tortoise, still aching but upright, met his gaze. “Speed,” he rasped slowly, “is a tool, Hare. Not a destination. And trust,” he added, his old eyes holding the hare’s, “is the most fragile cargo of all. Easier shattered than carried safely home.”
The hare bowed his head, the lesson etched not just in his mind, but also in the ache of his muscles and the weight of his shame. True wisdom, he understood amidst the wreckage of his ambition, wasn’t found in the reckless downhill rush, but in the careful, uphill journey of repair, responsibility, and the slow, hard-earned regaining of trust. The ridge-top wind carried not the thrill of speed anymore, but the sobering scent of dust, blood, and humility.
Next time beware what you board and who the driver is!
Kombamwiko is a star storyteller
