How the Frog Got Its Poison

He who makes ebó wins the war.

It was a hot summer night and the forest was sticky and humid. Any other night the snakes would have been sleeping, snuggled deep inside their bushes and burrows; but tonight the frogs were loud, and none of them could rest. Groggily they slithered across the damp forest floor, quietly so none could hear. Hundreds of them went to the riverbank, a great mass of coils so black that the frogs could not see them in the darkness. With no warning, not even a sound to betray them, the snakes lashed out at the frogs; death was painful, but quick.

The night was quiet again.

When morning came only one frog was left alive; from his hiding place in the reeds he watched as the snakes attacked his friends. Some were crushed in scaly coils before the snakes sucked them down while others were caught from behind, swallowed bit by bit while their eyes bulged in pain and fear. He trembled making no sounds; and as the morning sun slid up in the sky the snakes slithered away, their bellies full and bulging. Through the forest the frog hopped—away from the river, away from the place where the serpents massacred his friends. He hopped so hard and so long that he crashed into an old man who was out for a morning walk.

It was the diviner, Mofá.

Gently he lifted the frog in the palm of his hand. His skin was dry, his eyes distant. The little frog had hopped himself to exhaustion. “Watch where you run little friend,” he said. “I could have crushed you under my feet.”

The frog lay still in his hands.

“Why are you hopping so crazily?” he asked.

Slowly the frog’s eyes focused on Mofá. His voice was soft when he spoke, “The snakes attacked us last night. They ate everyone. Except me.”

“Since when do snakes eat frogs?” asked Mofá.

“Since they decided we were making too much noise.”

Mofá sighed deeply. Frogs were gentle creatures with no way to protect themselves: they had long tongues for swallowing flies, but no teeth; they had strong legs for hopping, but no speed; they had small claws for climbing trees, but useless for fighting. Their skin was soft offering no protection from predators. If the snakes continued to eat them they would be wiped off the earth in no time.

“There is a way to protect yourselves,” said Mofá. Still holding the frog, he walked off the path until they came to a thick bush laden with shiny black berries. He put the frog on the ground in front of the bush. “Eat these berries and the leaves,” said Mofá, “and in time the snakes will bother your kind no more.”

The frog recognized the bush; since he had been a young tadpole the other frogs told him never to touch it. “But those are poison! Any one of those berries or leaves will kill me.”

“Have a bit of faith in me,” the old man said. “Eat the berries and leaves from this bush. And no matter what happens, be humble. Neither boast nor brag about what you’ve done. You’ll overcome the snakes. They will leave you and your kind alone forever.”

Mofá left the frog alone with the bush. For quite some time he just eyed it.

As the sun set and darkness fell, the frog heard the snakes slithering in the forest. He trembled; and by accident he croaked. He went silent again, unmoving. “Just have faith,” he told himself as he bit into the berries. The taste was bitter, almost metallic, and his throat constricted as the foul fluid went down. He waited a few moments to see if sickness would come, and when he realized he felt fine he ate more. With his toothless mouth he chewed on the leaves. It was the same—bitterness, constriction, and then nothing. “Perhaps these berries are not poison after all?” he asked himself. And then he felt a rumbling in his belly like gas; the pressure grew until he let out a loud, echoing croak.

The snake was close, closer than the frog knew, and when he heard the frog he attacked. One swift strike: there was pain, there were fangs, and for the frog, there was only darkness.

Something happened inside the snake’s belly, something unfamiliar and fatal. At first there was the sour, metallic taste that the frog himself felt when he ate the berries; and then, his own throat constricted, much as the frog’s throat had. Then there was pain, hot and cramping, and the snake vomited the frog so violently that he flew into the bush with a crash and a thud. As the little frog lay on the forest floor, dazed and confused, the snake coiled in agony and died a slow, tortuous death.

For now poison oozed from the frog’s body, slime harmless to him but fatal to whatever living creature he touched. It became an ashé passed on through his generations, and his descendants were free to sing and croak all they wanted while the snakes kept their distance.

So afraid were the snakes that they never ate another frog, no matter how loudly they croaked.