When a clever monkey befriends a crocodile, a hidden appetite surfaces—forcing him to cross more than a river. This is the old tale retold as a reflection on trust and exit plans.
The river had been generous to both of them. The monkey lived in the fig tree that leaned over the water like a friendly shoulder, and the crocodile cruised below like a dark boat with patience for oars. They traded gifts—figs for stories; safe crossings for a view of the current only a river-born creature could interpret. It began as many friendships do: with small needs that fit neatly together. But one afternoon the crocodile went home carrying a handful of figs and a heavier secret. His mate had heard of the monkey’s sweetness and believed, in the way desires invent their own logic, that a heart fed on figs must itself be delicious. “Bring me the monkey,” she said, “and bring me his heart.” The crocodile argued as much as a loyal doubt could, then returned to the tree with a smile that hid a knife.
The ride began smoothly. The monkey straddled the crocodile’s back and watched the silver skin of the river gather into broader mirrors. Midstream, the crocodile confessed the plot the way a conscience sometimes does: too late for politeness, just in time for change. The monkey’s fear flickered into thought. “Oh, my foolishness,” he said, slapping his brow. “I left my heart in the fig tree. I never travel with it; thieves abound.” The crocodile, who knew the ache of gullibility, turned for shore to fetch the precious organ. The instant they reached the trunk, the monkey sprang to a branch and rained figs and truth. “Friends who ferry you while planning your drowning are still drowning inside,” he called. “And hearts seldom leave their homes.”
The crocodile lurked below for a while, ashamed and a little relieved, for he, too, had been spared. The river wore its same face, but both had learned to read a subtler current: that kindness needs a boundary, that trust is not blindness, and that the best exit plan is the one you hope never to use but keep sharpened anyway. In time, the monkey tossed a fig again—not as a treaty, but as a goodbye that tasted like wisdom.
