The Curse of the Cat’s Dropping – A Retold African Folktale
In the heart of what is now known as Côte d’Ivoire, long before the arrival of modern maps and foreign tongues, there thrived a peaceful tribe called the Beng. Nestled amidst thick green forests and warm golden earth, the Beng people lived simple lives—tending to their crops, raising families, and honoring the spirits of nature.
They welcomed all creatures into their world, respecting even the smallest ant and the loudest monkey. All, that is, except the cat.
To the Beng, the cat was no ordinary animal. It was a symbol of misfortune, a vessel of chaos. This particular cat was no graceful house pet, no agile hunter of mice. It was a creature of nightmares—with twisted claws like hooked talons, bulging yellow eyes, and sharp front teeth that jutted out even when its mouth was closed.
The villagers feared it for good reason. The cat would hiss, scratch, bite, and vanish into the underbrush—only to return again, more vicious than before. No matter how often they drove it away, it always came back, as if drawn by some dark force.
One ominous morning, the cat slinked into the center of the village. The villagers froze. With a defiant flick of its tail and a chilling growl, the beast defecated right in the heart of the village square. The waste was unlike anything they had seen—a deep, tar-like black, thick and steaming. The elders gasped. The Chief, a wise man with years etched into his face, stepped forward, his eyes narrowing.
“This,” he declared, “is a sign. A terrible omen. A shadow of death.”
In Beng tradition, a black dropping left by such a cursed creature was considered a mark of doom, a message from dark spirits. Acting swiftly, the Chief ordered an immediate evacuation. Every villager—man, woman, and child—was told to leave their homes, taking only what they could carry.
They camped just beyond the village’s boundaries, creating a sacred ring of distance where the curse could not reach. For days—three, maybe four—they remained there, watching from afar, waiting for the land to cleanse itself.
When it was finally safe to return, the Chief made a decision: this curse would not threaten them again.
He called upon his son, a young warrior strong in body and wise beyond his years.
“You must find the beast,” the Chief said. “And rid us of its evil forever.”
Armed with only a sharpened axe and his courage, the Chief’s son tracked the creature. It hadn’t wandered far—it was hiding near the forest’s edge, as if watching the village, waiting.
The battle was short, but fierce. The young man faced the cat and struck it down, his blade flashing in the midday sun. He returned home carrying its lifeless body, the villagers cheering his bravery.
To honor the end of the curse, the Chief’s family held a sacred feast. The cat’s meat was cooked over an open flame—smoky, bitter, but symbolic. Its fur was stretched and laid at the Chief’s doorstep as a rug—a reminder of their triumph over darkness.
From that day onward, the village took special care to protect themselves. No cat was ever allowed to enter again.
Whether the beast was a cursed spirit, a messenger of ill fate, or simply an unlucky animal no one could say. But its dropping had almost brought doom—and the memory of it remained burned in the hearts of the Beng for generations.
Moral of the Story
Superstition often arises from fear, but in some cultures, omens and signs serve as protection. Sometimes, the strongest communities are those that listen to their ancestors—even when the danger comes in the form of something small and strange.
