The Elders of Nunyãdume tell of a season when the forest ceased debating ideas and began debating animals.

The Leopard had been appointed by the King to oversee the healing wells of the forest.
Not everyone was pleased.
Some believed another animal should have been chosen.
Others felt the Leopard belonged to the wrong clan.
Others felt he had arrived at the wrong time.
Still others simply believed that if they could not sit on the stool, then the stool itself should be broken.

Soon whispers began:
At first, they were small.
Then they became stories.
Then they became accusations.
And before long, the forest was no longer asking whether the accusations were true. The forest was asking only how many animals had repeated them.

One evening, the Owl asked: “When did repetition become evidence?”
No one answered.
The Monkey said:
“If enough animals speak, surely there must be fire.”

The Owl replied: “Perhaps. But sometimes there is only smoke blown by many mouths.”

As the days passed, emissaries were sent throughout the forest.
Animals who had worked with the Leopard years before were approached.
Former teachers were approached.
Former chiefs were approached.
Former hunting companions were approached.
The question was always the same: “What do you know about the Leopard?”

The Owl watched silently.
Then he asked another question. “What are we trying to discover?
The truth, or confirmation?”
Again, the forest fell silent.

One day, an old Tortoise rose and spoke.
“I do not know whether the Leopard is innocent or guilty.”
“But I know that justice dies the moment we decide the verdict before hearing the evidence.”
The animals looked away.
For many had already chosen their side.
Not because they knew.
But because they preferred one outcome to another.

The Tortoise then told them of a Queen from a distant kingdom.
Her name was Esther.
When danger threatened her people, she hesitated.
The task before her was difficult. The consequences were uncertain.
Then her uncle reminded her:
‘If you remain silent at this time, help and deliverance will arise from elsewhere, but you and your household will perish.
And who knows whether you have come to your position for such a time as this?’
The Tortoise paused.
Then he asked:
“Why are positions of leadership given to us?”
“To protect ourselves?”
“To protect our friends?”
“Or to protect what is right?”

The animals remained silent.
Then the Owl spoke again.

“There was once a wise cleric who said that if you are neutral in situations of injustice, you have chosen the side of the oppressor.”
The forest nodded.

Many had heard those words. But few had applied them when the accused was someone they disliked.

The Owl continued:
“And there was once another man who said: “First they came for others, and I did not speak because I was not one of them.
Then they came for me.
And there was no one left to speak for me.”

The forest became uncomfortable.
For every animal could remember a time when another animal had been isolated, criticised, abandoned, or condemned while everyone else watched.

The Owl then reminded the forest of an ancient king.
Not a perfect king.
Not a king without faults.
But a king who once fled from his own son, while many who had eaten at his table joined the rebellion.

As he fled, the voices grew louder.
“There is no help for him.”
“His time is over.”
“He has been abandoned.”

The Owl paused.
“Yet history remembers not the noise of the crowd, but the words the king spoke that night.”

And the Owl recited:
“But Thou, O Lord, art a shield for me; my glory, and the lifter up of mine head.”

The Owl looked around the forest.
“Notice what the king did not pray for.”
“He did not ask for the crowd to love him.”
“He did not ask for every accusation to disappear.”
“He did not ask for every enemy to become a friend.”
“He asked only that truth would survive the noise.”

The forest became still.
Then he asked:
“How many good men have been destroyed not by proven wrongdoing, but by the silence of those who knew them best?”
The forest became quiet.

Finally, the Lion, who had remained silent throughout, stood and declared:
“In Nunyãdume, we shall not decide guilt by rumour.”
“We shall not decide innocence by friendship.”
“We shall not decide truth by faction.”
“We shall not decide justice by tribe.”
“We shall not decide facts by politics.”
“We shall wait for evidence.”
“And when the evidence speaks, we shall follow it wherever it leads.”

The Owl smiled.
For that, the Elders say:
“Se wotwa dua a, hwɛ baabi a ɛrebɛhwe.”

“If you cut down a tree, first look at where it will fall.”

For when a profession abandons fairness to destroy one of its own, it rarely notices that the falling tree may crush the forest itself.

That is why the difference between a mob and a profession is simple:
A mob seeks agreement.
A profession seeks truth.

And in Nunyãdume, truth remains truth even when it stands alone.

By Papa Dee,
The Stammering Linguist of Nunyadume