My grandfather had a dog called Conde. Conde was not blind, and he was not weak. His eyes were sharp, always watching. He could see strangers long before they reached the homestead, yet he never barked. He would lift his head, look at them carefully, and then lie back down as if nothing had happened.
Conde could also see wild animals. Hyenas, gazelles, waterbucks passed near the fence, and leopards moved silently in the night. Still, Conde made no sound. He did not growl, he did not chase, he did not warn anyone. He simply watched and returned to his sleep.
Even thieves did not disturb him. When they came quietly in the dark, Conde saw them clearly. He saw their hands reaching for what did not belong to them. Yet all he did was raise his head, stare for a moment, and then go back to sleep. Conde ate when food was given, slept when night came, and that was the whole of his work.
The elders began to talk among themselves. They asked what value a dog had if it could see danger but could not warn anyone. A guard who loves comfort more than responsibility, they said, is useless. Conde had eyes, but he had no voice.
That is when the story turns and looks at us. There are people who are like Conde. They see things going wrong, but they remain silent. They see other employees destroying their workplaces through corruption and carelessness, yet they say nothing. They see community resources being stolen, land grabbed, and opportunities wasted, but they do not blow the whistle.
Some see their own marriages walking on dusty paths, love drying up and trust fading, yet they choose silence instead of truth. Like Conde, they see clearly, but they sleep.
And so the storyteller raises his voice and calls out, not only to the dog of the homestead, but to every listening heart: “Conde, Conde, wake up!” For eyes without a voice are not wisdom, and silence in the face of wrong is not peace. When danger comes to your door, the question remains—will you bark, or will you sleep like Conde?
Conde could also see wild animals. Hyenas, gazelles, waterbucks passed near the fence, and leopards moved silently in the night. Still, Conde made no sound. He did not growl, he did not chase, he did not warn anyone. He simply watched and returned to his sleep.
Even thieves did not disturb him. When they came quietly in the dark, Conde saw them clearly. He saw their hands reaching for what did not belong to them. Yet all he did was raise his head, stare for a moment, and then go back to sleep. Conde ate when food was given, slept when night came, and that was the whole of his work.
The elders began to talk among themselves. They asked what value a dog had if it could see danger but could not warn anyone. A guard who loves comfort more than responsibility, they said, is useless. Conde had eyes, but he had no voice.
That is when the story turns and looks at us. There are people who are like Conde. They see things going wrong, but they remain silent. They see other employees destroying their workplaces through corruption and carelessness, yet they say nothing. They see community resources being stolen, land grabbed, and opportunities wasted, but they do not blow the whistle.
Some see their own marriages walking on dusty paths, love drying up and trust fading, yet they choose silence instead of truth. Like Conde, they see clearly, but they sleep.
And so the storyteller raises his voice and calls out, not only to the dog of the homestead, but to every listening heart: “Conde, Conde, wake up!” For eyes without a voice are not wisdom, and silence in the face of wrong is not peace. When danger comes to your door, the question remains—will you bark, or will you sleep like Conde?
