One bright morning along the winding river that threaded through the Gambian plains, the fox approached the rabbit with a smile that did not reach his eyes. The reedbeds swayed in a warm breeze, insects drummed over the muddy bank and distant birds called from the trees. For a moment the scene seemed ordinary, yet the fox’s thoughts moved elsewhere, where hunger and cunning braided like vines along the shore. “Friend Rabbit,” he said, drawing close and speaking in a voice soft as the shadows.
The rabbit, whose heart tended toward trust, blinked and raised his ears. He liked the idea of a calm day by the bank, the sun warming his fur and the prospect of a simple meal, and so without suspicion he answered, “I agree,” and together they padded down to the river’s edge where the water flowed thick and muddy, hiding shapes beneath its brown surface. The fox’s tail flicked once, twice; he measured the moment and prepared to make the day bend to his appetite.
They stepped into the shallows and began to fish by feel, palms probing the cloudy water with blind patience. Around them the river breathed, an occasional snap of a twig, the rustle of a bank rat, the low croak of a frog, but the muddiness made all things uncertain. The rabbit groped with eager, anxious paws, hopeful to find the smooth flank of a fish or the slick body of a frog. The fox, however, waited less for prey than for the moment his plan would fall easy as ripe fruit.
As they fished in silence, the common fate of the moment closed the distance between them. By chance the fox’s paw brushed the rabbit’s flank beneath the surface. It was a small, accidental touch, but the fox seized upon it instantly, shaping that touch into the trap he had been waiting to spring. He turned as if startled and, with practiced innocence in his voice, asked, “Who is it?”
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“It is me,” replied the rabbit at once, still groping and clumsy, not perceiving danger in the simple answer. The fox’s lips drew back in a smile that was all teeth. “It is precisely ‘Me’ that I have been seeking today,” he announced with feigned triumph. His tone was cunning rather than honest, as if he had discovered fortune in the water.
Confusion flared across the rabbit’s face. “But it is me, me, me!” the rabbit cried, repeating himself as his mind tried to catch up with the fox’s words. For a razor-thin moment the rabbit hesitated, trying to find meaning in what the fox declared. Then the cruel truth landed, swift and terrible. The fox sprang.
In a flurry of motion carved against the muddy water, sharp teeth found soft flesh. The rabbit had no time to plead or to scramble away; the fox’s jaws closed with the ruthless finality of a snare sprung. The bank, which a breath earlier had been filled with the small, ordinary sounds of life, hushed at once. Birds quieted in the trees; a distant heron froze on one leg, sensing the sudden, violent closing of a life.
The fox did what foxes have long done in stories and in the wild. He fed. The taste of triumph settled into him, bitter and raw, mingled with the hunger that had first bent his wit toward cruelty. He had turned a single casual syllable, “Me”, into a noose and used language as a tool to sever trust. The river, once a place of livelihood, held now the memory of betrayal in its reeds.
After his grim meal, the fox left the bank as if nothing untoward had happened. He walked with a steady, satisfied step, the mud soft under his paws, and the sun slid toward noon. Yet the riverbank carried a silence of a different kind, the low, remembering hush that follows a small and terrible event. The reeds resumed their whispering, but the air felt altered, as if the very place had learned something hard.
That afternoon and for many days beyond, the tale of the fox and the rabbit drifted along the water and through the fields. Mothers warned their young to be cautious of honeyed words; elders repeated the story at dusk, voices measured. In gatherings around embers, the animals would murmur of how easily a friend’s invitation could become a trap when cunning was armed with appetite. The rabbit’s brief faith and the fox’s cold wit stitched themselves into the small laws that governed life beside the river.
This story settled among the folk around that river, teaching a caution that was practical as well as moral: when you are asked to reveal yourself in uncertain places, be slow to answer; examine the motive behind the words. Trust is precious, and a single careless assent can undo a life. Thus, the memory of the rabbit endured not as a tale of blame but as counsel to the living.
Even as seasons changed and the river washed new silt to the bank, the lesson remained where it mattered, deep in the bones of those who listened. The fox, sleek and sated, might meet other days and other risks, for cunning invites consequence, and hunger seldom sleeps. The rabbit’s trust was gone, but his story persisted, a quiet lamp against gullibility. And so, the river kept flowing under the same sun, its waters carrying memory onward to those who would listen and learn.
Moral Lesson
This Gambian folktale warns that words can be shaped into traps by those whose cleverness serves appetite rather than honesty. Blind trust in flattering or casual speech can lead to sudden harm.
True wisdom is a blend of openness and discernment: remain compassionate, but test claims that ask you to expose yourself where uncertainty hides. Trust, once given, should be guarded with care.
Knowledge Check
1. Who are the two central characters in the story?
The Fox (cunning predator) and the Rabbit (trusting prey).
2. What setting opens the tale?
A muddy riverbank in the Gambian plains where animals fish by feel.
3. What verbal trick does the fox use to ensnare the rabbit?
The fox coaxes the rabbit into revealing himself by claiming he is searching for “Me,” then twists that word into a trap.
4. What broader warning does the story convey about language?
That ambiguous or flattering language can conceal malicious intent; listen and consider motives before answering.
5. How do the animals respond after the event?
They pass the tale downstream as a cautionary lesson; elders warn young not to trust every invitation.
6. Which cultural values are reflected in the folktale?
Respect for prudence, the community’s role in memory and teaching, and caution against naiveté in social relations.
Folktale Origin
Source: Gambian folktale, The Gambia.
