How the Antelope Got His Horns

Agoo! my brave children, gather close as the evening fire sends shadows dancing across our compound. Tonight I shall tell you of Ɔtwi the antelope, whose swift legs and gentle heart earned him the crown of horns he wears to this day, and of the great danger that threatened all the forest animals until one small creature chose courage over safety. Listen well, for this is a story about how true strength comes not from size or power, but from the willingness to stand up for those who cannot stand up for themselves.

In the time when the forest was younger and the animals lived together in greater harmony, when the lion did not yet rule with tooth and claw, when all creatures great and small shared the woodland as equals, there lived an antelope named Ɔtwi whose grace was matched only by his kindness.

Ɔtwi was not the largest animal in the forest—far from it. He was slender as a young sapling, quick as morning mist, and gentle as the breeze that whispers through the palm fronds. But what Ɔtwi lacked in size, he made up for in heart. No creature in distress ever called for help without Ɔtwi bounding to their aid. No lost animal wandered the forest without Ɔtwi offering to guide them home.

“You spend too much time helping others,” his friend Adowa the duiker would say as they grazed together in the morning meadows. “What about your own needs? What about your own safety?”

But Ɔtwi would only smile, his large brown eyes reflecting the wisdom of a soul that understood something deeper than self-preservation. “My safety means nothing if my friends are in danger,” he would say. “My needs are met when I see others free from fear.”

In those days, all the animals of the forest lived under the protection of Sasabonsam, the great forest spirit whose wisdom had maintained peace among the creatures for countless generations. But as with all times of peace, there were those who grew restless with harmony, who found tranquility boring and sought to stir up trouble for their own amusement.

One of these troublemakers was Asanbosam, Sasabonsam’s twisted brother, whose heart had grown dark with jealousy and whose mind delighted in chaos and fear. While Sasabonsam used his power to protect and nurture, Asanbosam used his strength to terrorize and destroy.

For years, Asanbosam had been content to cause minor mischief—turning fresh water bitter, making paths lead in circles, causing harmless creatures to lose their way in familiar places. But as time passed, his pranks grew more dangerous, his heart more cruel, and his appetite for suffering more insatiable.

The trouble began on a morning when the sun rose red as palm oil and the forest felt charged with an electricity that made every animal nervous. Small creatures huddled in their burrows, birds flew in confused circles, and even the mighty elephant trumpeted uneasily from his place by the river.

“Something is wrong,” Ɔtwi said to his companions as they attempted to graze in their usual meadow. “The very air tastes of danger.”

His words proved prophetic. By midday, a shadow fell across the forest—not the shadow of clouds, but something darker and more menacing. Trees began to wither at their edges, streams ran backward, and the temperature dropped as if the sun itself were afraid to shine.

From the darkest part of the woodland came Asanbosam, his form more terrible than any nightmare. He was tall as the tallest tree, dark as the deepest cave, with eyes that burned like red coals and a voice that rumbled like thunder mixed with screams. Iron teeth gleamed in his massive jaws, and his breath turned flowers to ash.

“I am tired of peace!” he roared, his voice shaking leaves from the trees. “I am weary of harmony! From this day forward, this forest will know only fear. Every creature will live in terror of my wrath, and the strongest among you will serve as my hunters, bringing the weak to feed my hunger for suffering!”

The animals fled in all directions—elephants crashing through the undergrowth, monkeys swinging frantically through the canopy, small creatures diving into any hole or burrow they could find. But flight was useless, for Asanbosam’s power seemed to fill every corner of the forest, making escape impossible.

Within hours, the woodland that had been a paradise of cooperation became a realm of terror. Asanbosam’s influence corrupted the strongest animals, turning them into his servants. The lion became a ruthless predator, hunting not just for food but for the joy of causing fear. The leopard learned to enjoy the chase more than the catch. Even some of the larger birds began to swoop down on smaller creatures just to hear them cry out in alarm.

For three days and three nights, this terror reigned. The smaller animals huddled together in whatever shelter they could find, too frightened to search for food, too scared to drink from streams where predators might be waiting. Mothers clutched their young and wept for the peaceful world they had lost.

Ɔtwi watched this transformation with a heart that broke a little more each day. He saw old Nkuku the rabbit trembling in a hollow log, too afraid to search for the tender shoots his family needed. He witnessed Akrantie the rat’s children growing thin because their father dared not venture out to find grain. He watched the forest community that had been his whole world crumble into isolated pockets of fear and despair.

On the fourth morning, as Ɔtwi sat hidden in a thicket listening to the distant roars of Asanbosam’s corrupted servants, he made a decision that surprised even himself. He stood up on his slender legs, shook the morning dew from his spotted coat, and began walking toward the heart of the forest where the evil spirit held court.

“Ɔtwi!” called Adowa the duiker from her hiding place. “Where are you going? It’s not safe!”

“No,” Ɔtwi replied quietly, “it’s not safe. That’s exactly why I have to go.”

As he made his way deeper into the corrupted woodland, Ɔtwi passed scenes of desolation that made his gentle heart ache. Trees stood leafless and gray, flowers had withered to brown stalks, and the very ground seemed to crack with drought despite the recent rains. But with each step, his resolve grew stronger rather than weaker.

At last, he reached the clearing where Asanbosam had made his throne—a twisted seat carved from the death of a mighty iroko tree. The evil spirit lounged upon it, his red eyes glowing with satisfaction as his corrupted servants brought him reports of the fear they had spread.

“What is this?” Asanbosam laughed when he saw the small antelope standing at the edge of his clearing. “A little grass-eater comes to visit me? Have you come to beg for mercy, small one? Have you come to offer yourself as entertainment for my hunters?”

Ɔtwi’s legs trembled, but his voice remained steady. “I have come to ask you to stop,” he said simply. “The forest was peaceful before you came. The animals were happy. There was no need for this suffering.”

Asanbosam’s laughter shook the remaining leaves from the trees. “Peaceful? Boring! Happy? Disgusting! Suffering is far more interesting than contentment, little antelope. Fear is much more entertaining than trust.”

“You are wrong,” Ɔtwi said, taking a step closer despite every instinct screaming at him to run. “Peace takes more strength than war. Building trust requires more courage than spreading fear. You choose chaos not because you are strong, but because you are too weak to create anything beautiful.”

The evil spirit’s eyes blazed with rage. “How dare you!” he roared, rising from his throne. “You insignificant little creature! You dare to lecture me about strength? I’ll show you strength!”

Asanbosam raised his massive hand to strike down the impertinent antelope, but at that moment, something extraordinary happened. The earth beneath the clearing began to glow with a soft, golden light, and Sasabonsam, the good forest spirit, materialized between his brother and the brave little antelope.

“Brother,” Sasabonsam said, his voice carrying the authority of ancient wisdom, “your time of mischief is over. This small creature has shown more courage than all your terrible servants combined. In the face of your power, he chose to stand up for others rather than hide for himself. Such bravery deserves recognition, not destruction.”

“Bah!” snarled Asanbosam. “What can one small antelope do against my power? What difference can one creature make?”

Sasabonsam smiled, and his smile was like sunrise after the longest night. “Watch and learn, brother. Watch and learn what real strength looks like.”

The good spirit turned to Ɔtwi, who stood trembling but determined in the shadow of the two mighty beings. “Noble antelope,” Sasabonsam said, “your courage has broken the spell of fear that held this forest. When one creature chooses bravery over safety, it reminds all others that they too can be brave. Your example will spread through the woodland like ripples on a pond.”

And indeed, as Sasabonsam spoke these words, other animals began to emerge from their hiding places. First came Adowa the duiker, then Nkuku the rabbit, then Akrantie the rat with his family. One by one, inspired by Ɔtwi’s courage, they stepped into the clearing to stand beside their friend.

“You see,” Sasabonsam continued, “evil power depends on isolation, on keeping the good creatures separated and afraid. But when one brave soul stands up, others remember their own strength. Your brother’s power is broken.”

Asanbosam looked around at the growing crowd of animals, his face twisted with rage and disbelief. “This is impossible! They were terrified! They were helpless!”

“They were never helpless,” Sasabonsam replied. “They simply needed someone to remind them that courage is contagious, that standing together makes everyone stronger. You fed on their fear, brother, but Ɔtwi has shown them that fear can be overcome.”

As the evil spirit’s power waned, the corrupted animals began to shake their heads as if waking from bad dreams. The lion looked around in confusion, wondering why he had been hunting creatures he had once considered friends. The leopard felt ashamed of the terror he had caused. Even the birds seemed puzzled by their recent cruel behavior.

With his influence broken and his servants restored to their true natures, Asanbosam began to fade like morning mist touched by sunlight. “This isn’t over,” he snarled as his form grew transparent. “Someday, somewhere, I will find creatures weak enough to serve my will again.”

“Perhaps,” Sasabonsam said sadly, for even evil spirits were his family. “But wherever you go, remember this day. Remember that true power comes not from the ability to destroy, but from the courage to protect. And remember that heroes can come in any size, any shape, any form—for heroism lives in the heart, not in the body.”

As Asanbosam disappeared completely, leaving only the faint smell of sulfur and regret, Sasabonsam turned to Ɔtwi with eyes full of pride and affection.

“Small brave one,” he said, “you have earned a reward that will mark you and your descendants forever as protectors of the innocent. You shall carry the sign of your courage for all to see.”

Sasabonsam reached out and touched Ɔtwi’s head, and where his fingers made contact, magnificent horns began to grow—not weapons of aggression, but symbols of protection, curved like crescents, strong as the roots of mountains, beautiful as the arch of the rainbow after storms.

“These horns,” Sasabonsam explained as they grew to their full glory, “will serve to defend the defenseless, to stand against those who would harm the innocent, to remind all who see them that courage can grow from the gentlest heart. And they will ensure that no one ever again makes the mistake of thinking that size determines strength or that gentleness means weakness.”

From that day forward, Ɔtwi wore his horns with pride—not the pride of vanity, but the pride of purpose. He used them to protect smaller animals from predators, to clear paths through thorny undergrowth for creatures less able to navigate obstacles, and to remind all the forest animals that true strength always serves others.

The forest returned to its former peace, but it was a deeper peace now, seasoned by the knowledge that harmony must sometimes be defended, that courage can emerge from the most unexpected sources, and that standing up for what is right is always worth the risk.

Years passed, and Ɔtwi grew old, his once-bright coat becoming silver with age, but his horns remained as magnificent as ever. Young antelopes would gather around him to hear the story of how he had faced down the greatest evil the forest had ever known.

“Were you afraid, grandfather?” they would always ask.

“Terrified,” Ɔtwi would answer honestly. “Fear is natural when facing danger. But I learned that courage doesn’t mean not being afraid—courage means doing what’s right even when you are afraid.”

“But what if you had failed? What if Asanbosam had destroyed you?”

Ɔtwi would touch his horns thoughtfully, feeling their solid weight and remembering the moment they had first appeared. “Then at least I would have failed while trying to help others,” he would say. “Some things are worth the risk, my young ones. Protecting the innocent is always worth the risk.”

And so the antelope’s horns became a symbol recognized throughout the forest and beyond—a reminder that heroism comes in many forms, that the smallest act of courage can change the world, and that true strength is always used in service of others, never for oneself alone.

Agoo! my courageous children, the fire burns bright and the story finds its end. Remember that you too carry the potential for horns—not horns of bone and keratin, but horns of courage and compassion that grow from the choices you make each day. When you stand up for others, when you choose bravery over safety, when you protect those who cannot protect themselves, you honor the memory of Ɔtwi and earn your own invisible crown of courage.

Amee!