The Lion Who Missed A Chocolate Treat

The year was AD 2014. The day started like any other, which is to say, it started with a tiny, unstoppable force of nature declaring her intentions. “Daddy! Let me tell you a story! Story-Story!” my three-year-old announced, planting herself squarely in front of the TV, clearly indicating my animal kingdom documentary could wait. “Story!” I dutifully replied, settling in for what I expected to be a short, slightly disjointed narrative involving princesses and maybe a friendly dinosaur.

She took a deep breath, the mark of a serious artist. “Once upon a time, there lived Kofi and the lion,” she said. Simple, classic, I thought. “Kofi was walking in the forest and came upon lion, and the lion said... Haarrrr!” (Her “Haarrrr!” was less a mighty roar and more a determined, high-pitched squeak, but the fierce intent was clear.)

“Then Kofi ran away,” she continued, with a serious little nod. Good move, Kofi. My natural instinct. “The lion caught Kofi and ate Kofi's head,” she said. My jaw dropped. “Oh dear,” I said, genuinely feeling for poor Kofi, who had just experienced the most permanent kind of narrative ending.

But before I could process the sudden, gory turn, she continued, “Then Kofi ran away again!”

I blinked. Kofi ran away again? This story had clearly transcended the physical realm into the spiritual. I gripped the arm of the couch, hesitant to cheer for a headless, resurrected hero. Hmm…I was on an emotional rollercoaster, and the ride operator was about three feet tall.

Then, just as quickly as his head had been consumed, Kofi was back on solid ground. “Kofi ran fast and climbed a tree!” Relief washed over me. Yes! Survival!

She leaned in close, her eyes wide with dramatic effect, and asked the pivotal question. “Daddy, do you know something?”

“No, sweetie. What is it?”

“Lion is a very bad lion! If I get chocolate, I will not give him!”

Wait. I paused. Did I just witness the emotional trajectory of a fantasy epic turn into a personal grudge? My pity immediately shifted to the poor, head-eating lion.

It was only then, as she stared at me with unblinking, expectant intensity, that the true master plan unfolded. The whole saga, the forest walk, the chase, the decapitation, the (im)possible resurrection, the tree climbing was all a setup. It was a parable; a chocolate parable.

“Daddy, do you like the story?” she asked. I swallowed the confusion and the realization that I had just been tricked into a chocolate deal. “Yes, my dear,” I said proudly. “It was a wonderful story.” I clapped for the sheer, ruthless genius of a three-year-old.

For me, the moral of the story was straight forward, ‘don't be a bad lion else you will not get chocolate.’

But since that day, anytime I hear the phrase, “Story-Story,” I prepare myself for the unexpected.

 

Gameli Kormla Agboada

© October 2025