If gossip had a kingdom, Ochopolo and Jatelo would be its undisputed kings. In Shamakhokho village, they didn't just spread rumors—they delivered them with the speed and precision of a Maasai warrior's spear, leaving no ear untouched.

Whenever there was news—real or imagined—these two were the first to know, the first to exaggerate, and the first to spread it like wildfire.

One hot afternoon, as they sat under the big mango tree, picking their teeth after a borrowed meal (they never cooked their food, of course), Ochopolo tapped Jatelo on the shoulder.

"Eh, my friend, did you hear? The chief wants to marry a second wife—and she is not even from our village!"

Jatelo sat up so fast he nearly choked. "What? This is big news! Everyone must hear about it!"

Without wasting time, the two set off on their usual rounds, whispering the "news" from one ear to the next. By sunset, the village was in chaos. Women wailed in protest; older men shook their heads, and the chief's wife—well, no one dared go near her hut that night.

The next morning, the chief stood before the villagers, arms crossed, his face darker than last night's ugali.

"Who started this nonsense?" he demanded.

Ochopolo and Jatelo, suddenly very interested in the ground, shuffled their feet and said nothing.

Did they learn their lesson? Of course not!

A few days later, Jatelo whispered to Ochopolo, "Did you hear? Old Majanga was seen digging behind his hut at night. Maybe he buried stolen gold!"

Ochopolo gasped. "Then we must investigate—immediately!"

That evening, half the village stormed Majanga's compound, demanding to know what was hidden underground. The older man, gripping his walking stick, looked at them in disbelief.

"Fools! I was planting yams!"

Embarrassed, the villagers walked away, cursing the two troublemakers. But Ochopolo and Jatelo? They just laughed and went back to their favorite mango tree.

However, trouble was brewing.

One afternoon, just as they were preparing to spread another juicy tale, a young boy ran up, panting.

"The chief wants to see you. Now!"

Now, when the chief calls your name, even your knees start sweating.

Before the entire village, the chief stood tall, arms crossed. "Ochopolo and Jatelo, you have filled this village with lies. Today, you will learn a lesson."

He handed each of them a feather pillow and ordered, "Go to the top of the hill, tear these pillows open, and let the wind take the feathers. Then, come back to me."

Confused but happy to escape further punishment, the two men ran to the hill. With one great shake, they scattered the feathers into the wind, watching them dance away like gossip in a marketplace.

Feeling proud of their "important task," they hurried back to the chief.

"We are done!" Jatelo grinned.

The chief raised an eyebrow. "Good. Now, go and collect every single feather."

Ochopolo laughed nervously. "But… chief… that is impossible! The wind has taken them everywhere!"

The chief smiled—but not the kind of smile that brings comfort.

"Exactly. And so it is with words. Once you speak them, you can never take them back."

For the first time in their lives, Ochopolo and Jatelo were speechless.

From that day on, the village was quieter. And the mango tree? It still had shade, but it no longer had two gossiping men beneath it.

So, before you open your mouth, remember the lesson of Ochopolo and Jatelo. Words, once spoken, are like feathers in the wind. Speak wisely.