INNOCENT SOLDIER

In the days of yore, when news traveled no faster than the village’s slowest goat, a band of insurgents would occasionally roll through town like an ill wind. These were not the kind of visitors who came bearing gifts or sweet stories from the city; no, these were the types who arrived with stern faces, dusty boots, and an agenda that included one thing: forcefully recruiting the village’s young lads into their ranks to "serve the nation." Of course, the nature of this service was as vague as the exact location of their headquarters, but who were the villagers to question such official-sounding business?

One bright afternoon, just as the village was enjoying the lull after the midday meal, the insurgents made their entrance. It wasn’t a subtle arrival; chickens squawked, children scattered, and the village dogs, who usually slept more than they barked, suddenly found themselves full of indignation and noise. The insurgent soldiers, unimpressed by the cacophony, marched straight to the village square where they eyed the gathering of curious and somewhat anxious villagers.

Among the crowd, two young men stood out—not because of any remarkable features, but simply because they were the only ones not attempting to hide behind their grandmother’s aprons. The first was Bobo, a strapping young man whose strength was matched only by his innocence. The second was Dudu, a lean, quick-witted fellow with a perpetual grin, as if he were in on a joke the rest of the world didn’t quite get.

The insurgents, led by a commander with a mustache so grand it seemed to have its own rank, sized up the two boys and, with the flourish of someone who had done this a hundred times before, declared, “You, Bobo, are now Colonel Bobo! And you, Dudu, are Captain Dudu!” The commander slapped them on their backs, handed them oversized uniforms, and with a stern nod, left the village as abruptly as they had come.

The village erupted into a murmur of excitement. Colonel! Captain! These were titles that carried weight, even if no one, least of all Bobo and Dudu, knew exactly what they entailed. The boys stood in their new uniforms, which hung off them like bedsheets on a clothesline, and tried to make sense of it all.

Now, Bobo, bless his heart, was not the sharpest tool in the shed, but he was enthusiastic. He had vague memories of school days where the class captain was always the one in charge—handing out assignments, leading lines, and generally bossing everyone around. It made perfect sense to him, then, that Captain Dudu must be his superior. After all, wasn’t the captain always the leader?

Determined to fulfill his duties as Colonel—which he assumed involved assisting his “superior” Captain—Bobo set about serving Dudu with the dedication of a loyal servant. He began by taking over all of Dudu’s chores. If Dudu was supposed to plow the fields, Bobo did it. If the pigs needed feeding, Bobo was there, ladle in hand, ready to ensure that Captain Dudu’s pigs were the plumpest in the land. The villagers, who had never seen such dedication, whispered among themselves that Colonel Bobo was the hardest-working officer they’d ever seen—if only they knew what an officer was supposed to do!

Dudu, meanwhile, couldn’t believe his luck. Every task he was supposed to do was magically handled by Bobo. His house never looked tidier, his pigs never fatter, and his life never easier. The only thing left for Dudu to do was to nod approvingly every time Bobo completed a task, as if this was exactly how he would have done it.

Years passed, and Bobo never once questioned his role. He served diligently, believing that he was upholding the chain of command with every sack of grain he carried and every pig he fed. But one day, a traveling merchant passed through the village and, upon hearing the tale of the diligent Colonel Bobo, burst into laughter so hearty that it echoed off the hills.

“Don’t you know,” the merchant chortled, “that a Colonel is higher than a Captain? You’ve been the superior officer all along!”

Bobo’s jaw dropped. “You mean… I didn’t have to do all those chores?”

Dudu, trying hard to keep a straight face, finally lost it and joined the merchant in laughter. “Well, Colonel,” he said between giggles, “I suppose you just showed us what true leadership looks like—getting your hands dirty, even when you don’t have to!”

And so, the story of Colonel Bobo and Captain Dudu became the village’s favorite tale, a reminder that sometimes the titles don’t matter as much as the willingness to roll up your sleeves, even if it takes five years to realize you didn’t have to.