Why the Rabbit Has Long Ears

Agoo! my little ones, gather close to the fire as the evening shadows dance around our compound. Tonight I shall tell you of Adanko the rabbit, whose ears were once as small and neat as any other animal’s, and how his great love of other people’s secrets led to a change that all rabbits carry to this very day. It is a story about curiosity, my children, and the difference between wanting to learn and wanting to know what is not your business to know.

Long, long ago, when the world was younger and the animals lived more closely with humans than they do today, there was a rabbit named Adanko who lived at the edge of the great forest near the village of Aboakyir. Now, Adanko was not a bad rabbit—no, not at all. He was clever and quick, helpful to his neighbors and kind to the smaller animals. But he had one weakness that would prove to be his undoing: he loved to know everything about everyone.

If two birds were whispering in the baobab tree, Adanko would creep close to listen. If the market women were talking quietly while they sorted their yams, he would hide behind the baskets to hear every word. If the village elders held serious discussions about matters of importance, there would be Adanko, his small ears pressed against the wall of the meeting house, trying to catch every syllable.

“Why must you know everyone’s business?” asked his friend Kweku the squirrel one morning as they sat sharing palm nuts under the shade of a great mahogany tree.

Adanko twitched his nose thoughtfully. “Knowledge is power, my friend,” he said with the air of someone sharing great wisdom. “The more I know about what is happening in the village and the forest, the better I can help everyone.”

But Kweku, who was wise despite his youth, shook his bushy tail. “There is a difference between knowledge that helps and knowledge that harms, brother rabbit. Some things are meant to be private, and some conversations are not for our ears.”

Adanko laughed, a sound like rain pattering on leaves. “You worry too much, Kweku. I never use what I hear to hurt anyone. I simply like to… understand what is happening around me.”

What Adanko did not realize, my children, was that his constant listening and questioning was beginning to cause problems in the village. People grew uncomfortable when they saw the rabbit’s small form lurking near their conversations. Friends stopped confiding in each other, afraid that their words would somehow reach the wrong ears. The easy flow of communication that had always been the village’s strength began to dry up like a stream in the dry season.

One day, as Adanko was hopping through the forest on his way to the village market, he heard the most interesting sound coming from a grove of ancient iroko trees. It was the sound of voices—but not ordinary voices. These voices hummed with power, carrying words in the old language that only the spirits remembered.

Adanko’s ears perked up immediately. “Spirit voices!” he whispered to himself, his heart beating fast with excitement. “Think of what I might learn from the ancestors themselves!”

Without a moment’s hesitation, he crept toward the grove, moving as silently as morning mist through the undergrowth. There, in a clearing surrounded by trees so old they remembered the first humans, sat a circle of ancestral spirits, their forms shimmering like heat waves over sun-baked earth.

The spirits were discussing the affairs of both the living and the dead, sharing news from the realm beyond the sky, making decisions about the fate of various humans and animals. It was the most private conversation imaginable—a meeting never meant for mortal ears.

But Adanko, caught up in his fascination, crept closer and closer, straining to catch every word. He pressed himself against the base of the largest iroko tree, his small ears stretched forward as far as they would go, trying to hear the spirit language that danced just at the edge of understanding.

“The young chief in Kumasi shows promise,” said one spirit, her voice like wind through dry leaves. “But he must learn patience, or his kingdom will fall to chaos.”

“And what of the harvest this year?” asked another, his words rumbling like distant thunder. “The farmers in the eastern villages have been faithful in their offerings.”

Adanko stretched his ears even further, desperate not to miss a single syllable of this incredible conversation. He pressed harder against the tree trunk, willing his ears to grow longer, to hear better, to catch every precious word that fell from the spirits’ lips.

Suddenly, the eldest of the ancestral spirits—a presence so ancient that she remembered the first word ever spoken—turned her ethereal gaze directly toward Adanko’s hiding place.

“Little rabbit,” she said, her voice carrying the authority of all the ages, “why do you press your ears so hard against our sacred iroko tree? Why do you strain so desperately to hear words that were never meant for mortal listening?”

Adanko froze like a stone, his heart hammering against his ribs like a woodpecker against bark. He had been discovered by the ancestors themselves! Every instinct told him to run, but his legs felt rooted to the earth like the great tree itself.

“Come forward, small one,” commanded the ancient spirit. “If you are so eager to listen to our words, then come and face us properly.”

On trembling legs, Adanko stepped into the clearing. The spirits’ forms became clearer as he approached—beings of light and shadow, wisdom and power, their eyes holding the depth of eternity itself.

“Great ancestors,” Adanko stammered, his voice barely a whisper, “I meant no disrespect. I was simply… curious.”

“Curious,” repeated the eldest spirit, and her laughter was like the sound of all the streams in the world flowing together. “Yes, we know of your curiosity, little rabbit. Your name has been spoken in the spirit realm more than once.”

“My name?” Adanko’s eyes widened in surprise.

“Oh yes,” said another spirit, his form flickering like candlelight. “We hear many complaints from the living about a certain rabbit who listens where he should not listen, who hears what he should not hear, who makes people afraid to speak freely even in their own homes.”

The eldest spirit nodded gravely. “Your curiosity has crossed the line from innocent interest to harmful intrusion, small one. The people of the village no longer trust each other because they fear their words will reach unwelcome ears. Children hesitate to share their dreams with their parents, wives fear to speak their hearts to their husbands, and friends grow distant from each other.”

Adanko felt his small heart sink like a stone in deep water. “I… I never meant to cause such problems. I thought I was just being interested in the world around me.”

“Intentions matter, little rabbit,” said the spirit kindly, “but so do consequences. Your love of other people’s secrets has disrupted the harmony of your community. Something must be done to restore the balance.”

The ancient spirit rose from her place in the circle, her form growing brighter until she seemed made of starlight itself. “You have stretched your ears so far in your eagerness to hear what you should not hear,” she said, her voice carrying the weight of divine judgment. “Very well. Let them remain stretched, as a reminder to you and to all who see you of the importance of knowing when to listen and when to turn away.”

With those words, she reached out with hands made of moonbeams and took hold of Adanko’s small, neat ears. As she touched them, they began to grow—slowly at first, then faster, stretching longer and longer until they were three times their original size.

Adanko gasped as he felt the change, his paws flying up to touch his transformed ears. They were indeed very long now, standing up from his head like palm fronds reaching toward the sky.

“These ears,” continued the ancient spirit, “will indeed help you hear better than any other creature in the forest. But they will also serve as a warning to others about your nature. When people see your long ears, they will know to guard their words around you. And you, little rabbit, will remember always that some conversations are not meant for your listening.”

“But,” she added, her voice growing warmer, “this is not only a punishment. Your enhanced hearing will also allow you to serve your community in new ways. You will be able to hear the approach of danger long before others, to detect the calls of lost children from great distances, to know when help is needed even when no one calls for it. Use this gift wisely, and your curse may become a blessing.”

With that, the spirits began to fade like morning mist touched by sunlight, their forms growing thinner and more transparent until only their voices remained on the wind.

“Remember, Adanko,” came the eldest spirit’s final words, “true wisdom lies not in knowing everything, but in knowing what you need to know and respecting what you do not.”

When the spirits had gone completely, leaving only the normal sounds of the forest—birds calling, insects humming, leaves rustling in the breeze—Adanko sat alone in the clearing, his new long ears drooping with shame and confusion.

The journey back to the village was the longest of his life. Every animal he passed stopped and stared at his transformed appearance. Some laughed, some whispered among themselves, and some simply shook their heads in knowing disapproval.

When he reached the village, the reaction was even stronger. Children pointed and giggled, adults murmured about the rabbit who had finally gotten what he deserved, and the village elders nodded with grim satisfaction.

But as the days passed, Adanko began to discover the truth of the ancient spirit’s words. His long ears did indeed allow him to hear things that helped his community. He was the first to hear the distant cries of a child who had wandered too far into the forest. His sensitive hearing detected the approaching footsteps of raiders while they were still miles away, giving the village time to prepare defenses.

When the rains were late one season, Adanko’s ears caught the faint sound of water flowing deep underground, leading the village diggers to a new well that saved them from drought. When old Nana Yaa fell ill and could only whisper her symptoms, Adanko’s enhanced hearing allowed the medicine man to diagnose her condition correctly.

Slowly, the villagers began to see that the rabbit’s transformation had indeed been both punishment and gift. They learned to trust him with emergencies and calls for help, while still being careful about their private conversations when he was near.

Adanko himself learned the hardest lesson of all: that being helpful to the community was far more satisfying than being privy to everyone’s secrets. He discovered that the respect earned through service was worth much more than the temporary thrill of knowing forbidden information.

Years passed, and Adanko grew old and wise, his long ears now silver with age but still sharp as ever. Young rabbits would come to him asking about their own oversized ears—for the spirits had decreed that all of Adanko’s descendants would carry the same reminder of the importance of respectful listening.

“Why must we look different from other animals?” the young rabbits would ask.

“Because,” Adanko would answer gently, his voice full of hard-won wisdom, “we carry a responsibility. Our ears remind us and everyone around us that hearing is a privilege, not a right. They teach us to listen when we should listen and to turn away when we should not. They help us serve our community while respecting its privacy.”

“But don’t you sometimes wish you had normal ears like the squirrels or the mice?” a particularly young rabbit once asked.

Adanko smiled, his whiskers twitching with gentle humor. “Sometimes, little one. But then I remember all the good these ears have allowed me to do, all the people I have been able to help, all the dangers I have been able to warn against. And I realize that the spirits gave me exactly what I needed—not necessarily what I wanted, but what would make me the most useful to those around me.”

And so, my children, when you see a rabbit with long ears hopping through the forest or the farmland, remember the story of Adanko. Remember that curiosity is a wonderful thing when it leads us to learn about the world and how to help others. But remember too that some things are meant to be private, that trust is a precious gift that must not be broken, and that the most important knowledge is knowing when to listen and when to respect the silence.

The rabbit’s long ears are a reminder that our actions have consequences, that gifts can come disguised as punishments, and that the greatest service we can perform for our community is not to know all its secrets, but to use our abilities to protect and help its members.

Agoo! The fire burns low, and the story draws to its close. May you always listen with wisdom, speak with kindness, and remember that the most beautiful music comes not from hearing everything, but from knowing when to tune your ears to what truly matters.

Amee!