In the village of Sikakrom, nothing ever truly happened in silence. Even when the wind blew gently through the baobab trees, you could hear Auntie Akos shout, "Ei! Wind paa nie? Someone is sweeping the ancestors' courtyard!"
It was a small village with big mouths, bigger dreams, and the biggest appetite for gossip this side of the Pra River.
On a Tuesday morning market day, mind you Kwadwo Kabelɛ, the local radio operator, decided to share some "very important news." He climbed on top of the broken community centre roof with his megaphone.
"Testing one-two, testing one-two! Good people of Sikakrom, listen well o!"
As usual, nobody listened.
They were too busy bargaining over kontomire, accusing market women of putting stones in tomatoes, and pretending not to see their debtors.
"I said!" Kabelɛ shouted again, adjusting his faded Manchester United jersey. "The gods have spoken! A prophecy has returned!"
At that, Madam Mansa the fishmonger dropped her tilapia like it had come alive.
"A prophecy?" she gasped. "Like, doom or blessing?"
Kabelɛ puffed out his chest. "A great one! The old scrolls from Nana Badu's time. I found them under my bed, wrapped in newspapers from 1974."
"You mean the same bed your goat sleeps under?" asked Kweku "Google," the schoolboy who knew everything.
Kabelɛ ignored him.
"The prophecy says this: When the talking snail appears, Sikakrom shall rise or perish depending on the colour of the wind."
Everyone paused. A snail that talks?
"Twei!" hissed Auntie Akos. "Is it by force to be wise? Talking snail kwa? What next dancing lizard?"
But the damage was done. The rumour took flight like a mosquito in a hot room.