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Poor and Humiliated, They Were Kicked Out—Years Later, They Owned the Whole Village!#tales
Jul 26, 2025
Poor and Humiliated, They Were Kicked Out—Years Later, They Owned the Whole Village!#tales
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They were banished from their village,
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but returned years later more powerful
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than anyone ever imagined.
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Zuba and Cojo were mocked, lied on, and
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kicked out of their own village by the
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very people they once called family. All
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because they were poor. All because they
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loved each other too loudly.
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All because one bitter woman couldn't
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stand their happiness. But guess what?
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The same villagers who laughed at their
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tears ended up begging for their help
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when fate flipped. You won't believe how
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this tale of betrayal, resilience, and
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sweet revenge ends. Welcome back to
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Whisper Root Tales.
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The only place where African wisdom
0:44
slaps harder than your auntie's Sunday
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stew. Today, we're diving deep into a
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story so spicy even Jolof Rice would
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sweat. Grab your chin because here comes
0:55
asterisk even in the brightest sun. A
0:58
poor man casts the longest shadow. The
1:02
village of Embali rested like a sleeping
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giant beneath the open African sky. A
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place of cracked earth, rustling
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plantain trees and songs carried on the
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wind from distant farms. It was a place
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where every rooster had a name, every
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child a nickname, and every secret. A
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listener dot. In the heart of this
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village, just beyond the fading
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footprints of fortune, lived Kojo and
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Zuba, two souls stitched together by
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hardship and held firm by love. Kojo had
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been born under a troubled moon. Mother,
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a wandering traitor, died bringing him
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into the world, and no one ever saw his
1:40
father. He grew up sleeping under mango
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trees and hurting goats for food. The
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villagers pied him, but never embraced
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him. To them, Kojo was the goat boy, the
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silent one, the shadow of misfortune.
1:55
Zuba, on the other hand, had once been
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the pride of the village. She was
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sharp-witted, quick to smile, and
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beautiful in a way that made even older
2:04
women mutter prayers. Her late father
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had been a respected teacher, and her
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mother a midwife with healing hands. But
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after they both died of fever within
2:13
weeks of each other, Zuba's light began
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to dim. She was forced to live with
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distant relatives who treated her like a
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burden. The village watched in silence
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as the girl who once danced in the
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festival square became the girl who
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swept others floors and then as if fate
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had finally decided to correct its own
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cruelty. She met Kojo. They crossed
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paths one early morning at the village.
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Well, Zuba was struggling with a heavy
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clay pot and Kojo without a word took it
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from her and placed it gently on her
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head. That silent act began a bond that
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no gossip, poverty, or ridicule could
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break. Each day they'd meet under the
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oldest mango tree in Embali, the one by
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the abandoned well. They shared roasted
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groundnuts, scraps of bread, and dreams.
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"I want to be a builder," Kojo said one
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day. "To build a house for you where no
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one can tell you to leave." Zuba smiled,
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resting, her head on his shoulder. "And
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I want to be your peace. Even if the
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world gives us nothing, I will be
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enough. But not everyone celebrated
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their love. Madame Alaki,
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the village chief's younger sister had
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always walked with her nose in the air
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and her eyes on everything that
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glittered.
3:30
Years ago, she tried to arrange a union
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between Kojo and her daughter. Amara,
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thinking his quiet strength and handsome
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face would make a fine match, but Kojo
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refused. Politely but firmly. His heart
3:43
already belonged to Zuba. Alaki never
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forgot the slight now. Every time she
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saw Zuba and Cojo laughing beneath the
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mango tree, something inside her boiled.
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What is this nonsense?
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She hissed to her brother one day. A
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goat boy and a house girl playing prince
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and princess in our village. It's an
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insult. The chief only shrugged. They
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are harmless. A key wasn't satisfied.
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She didn't want harmless. She wanted
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humiliated. Soon she began whispering
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into ears, starting with the elders,
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then the market women, then the board
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men who gathered near the palm wine
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shack. Did you hear Zuba has started
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mixing roots behind people's huts? That
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boy Cojo, he stares at goats too long.
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Strange things happen. Why does the
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village well taste funny lately? M.
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Rumors spread like wildfire in dry
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season. And when gossip rolls through a
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village, truth is the first casualty.
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Cojo notice the stairs first. Long,
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cold, judgmental. Zuba noticed how
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suddenly no one greeted her anymore.
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Even the children, once playful, now
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avoided her path. Still, it clung to
4:58
each other. "They'll forget soon," Zuba
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whispered. "Villagers are like the wind.
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They change." But Kojo felt the shift
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deep in his bones.
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Something dark was coming. Something
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bigger than rumors. Something they might
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not walk away from. A lie repeated by
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many becomes a rope strong enough to
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hang the truth. The early morning sun
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had barely kissed the clay roofs of
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Imbali. When the news spread, a meeting
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has been called. Zuba and Cojo must
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appear before the elders.
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The village square buzzed like a
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disturbed hornet's nest.
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From behind woven mats and bamboo
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fences, villagers whispered and peeked.
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The air was thick with a strange
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excitement, the kind that arrives when
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something shameful is about to unfold.
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And everyone wants a front row seat.
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Zuba woke to the sound of pounding on
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the door. Her aunt's voice sharp and
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panicked. They've summoned you too. The
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elders, the whole council,
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dress quickly. She looked at Kojo. His
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face was unreadable, but his eyes
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betrayed a silent storm. Word had been
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spreading like wildfire for days now
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that Zuba had cursed the village well
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with charms and whispers.
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And Cojo had been seen stealing a goat
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belonging to the chief. Absurd,
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baseless, but inali.
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Truth was never the loudest voice in the
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room. Fear was. They walked to the
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square hand in hand, dusty but unshaken.
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Zuba wore a faded wrapper tied tightly
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around her waist. And Cojo's once white
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shirt was now a tired brown from years
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of wear.
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Their steps were heavy, not with guilt,
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but with the weight of betrayal.
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The same people they'd lived beside.
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Their whole lives now watched them like
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strangers. At the center of the
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gathering stood Madame Alaki, radiant in
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a loud yellow dress patterned with blue
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floral designs. her matching gel tied
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like a crown on her head.
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She held her chin high eyes, scanning
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the crowd like a hunter sizing up prey.
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Beside her stood Amara, her daughter,
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younger, prettier perhaps, but with a
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face carved from envy and spite. Between
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them stood Chief Aaka, the elder brother
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of Alaki, dressed in a regal green
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Agbata and cap. His staff of office
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gleamed in the morning light. Let us
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begin, Alaki called. Her voice slicing
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through the murmurss like a sharp blade.
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She stepped forward dramatically,
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pointing at Cojo. This boy, this
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vagabond was seen sneaking around the
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chief's compound. Three nights ago, the
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next morning, a goat was missing. The
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chief's goat. Is this who we allow to
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live among us? Before Kojo could speak,
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another voice from the crowd shouted, "I
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heard it, too." And the well, it smells
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strange these days since Zuba began
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fetching water. The taste has changed.
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Lucky turned sharply toward Zuba, eyes
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blazing. And this girl, she walks alone
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at night, humming songs. Who knows what
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spirit she calls? Women say their crops
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are failing. Babies cry in their sleep.
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Ever since she came back into our midst,
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Zuba stepped forward, voice trembling,
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but firm. I fetch water. I sweep floors.
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I mind my business. I have no charms, no
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spirits, only sweat and survival, Cojo
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added. And I have never stolen. I would
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sooner starve than take what is not
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mine. Ask the goats I heard. The
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children I help, but truth is a quiet
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bird, and gossip is a roaring lion.
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Alaki turned to the elders and
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villagers.
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Shall we wait until their darkness
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swallows us all?
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Will we risk more missing livestock,
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poisoned wells, curses upon our heads?
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The chief struck the ground once with
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his staff. The crowd fell silent. After
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a moment, he said, "Sometimes the peace
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of the many must come before the story
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of the few." Kojo's jaw tightened.
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Zuba's lips parted in disbelief. Another
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elder stood.
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In the name of unity and protection of
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Umbali, I say they must go. The words
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fell like stones. Zuba clutched Kojo's
9:27
hand tighter. "They want to erase us,"
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she whispered. Kojo nodded slowly, eyes
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misting with pain. "But never fear. Then
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we will walk away with our truth and let
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them choke on their lies." The
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villagers, once neighbors and friends,
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now erupted into murmurss and nods of
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agreement.
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Some even clapped. Madame's laughter
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rang like a bell. Pack your rags, cursed
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lovers, and Bali will sleep better
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tonight. With the hot sun above and the
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vill's laughter behind, Zuba lifted a
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worn duffel bag onto her head. Another
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gripped tightly in her hand, Kojo walked
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beside her, silent, his shirt full of
10:12
holes his dignity even more torn. Dot.
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Children giggled. Elders turned away.
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and Alaki. She laughed the loudest,
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waving them off like flies. Beg on the
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streets, cursed lovers.
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She called Zuba's tears mixed with
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sweat.
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Her back achd, but her heart achd more.
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Still, they kept walking miles away.
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From Embali with blistered feet and
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empty stomachs, Zuba and Kojo collapsed
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beneath a dying tree. Just then, a
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silver pickup truck stopped. outstepped
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Uncle Bako, a kind, wealthy farmer known
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across the region. He looked at them,
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tired, dusty, and broken, and asked,
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"Where are you headed?" Cojo answered
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with heavy words. "Anywhere we're not
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hated." Bako offered them water, then
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food, then work. "You've been hurt," he
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said. "But you still stand. That's the
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kind of strength I invest in." Years
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passed. Zuba and Kojo didn't just work.
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They thrived. They planted crops, ran a
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store, and learned to lead. Bako gave
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them land. They built a house, then a
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farm. Their names once whispered in
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shame, were now sung in neighboring
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villages. And with time they remembered
11:31
in Bali. They remembered the mango tree,
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the dusty road, the mocking laughter.
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And they decided to return, not for
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revenge, but for renewal. Dual.
#Discrimination & Identity Relations
#Human Rights & Liberties