In the quiet town of Wembly Hills, every person knew George—loud, proud, and usually prepared to give orders like a everyday in a war. He wasn’t elected, chosen, or appointed to any leadership position, however George made himself one anyway. He strutted around like he owned the place, pointing out what others had been doing wrong, barking guidelines no one requested for, and usually pushing his opinions down everyone’s throat.
"Why are you planting maize there? Plant yams instead, they yield better!" he would shout at old Farmer Dada, without waiting for a reply.
"Your adolescents are too noisy," he would say to the girl promoting bread via the roadside. "If I were their father, they’d be quiet like statues!"
At first, humans tolerated him—after all, George wasn’t dangerous, just annoying. He ran a small provision keep close to the market and idea that gave him authority over town affairs. He would name conferences that no one requested for, take credit score for communal efforts, and even try to control nearby decisions.
Things started out to trade when the neighborhood determined to build a new health clinic. Everyone pitched in—donating money, labor, and time. George, of course, showed up late with a loud voice and zero contribution. He tried to lead the project, shouting at bricklayers and criticizing the carpenter’s work, even although he had no skill in either.
Fed up, the town elders met and made a decision: George was to be ignored. It wasn’t a formal punishment, just silent agreement. No extra answering his commands, no greater pretending he mattered. They called it the Quiet Rebellion.
Soon, George’s phrases started falling flat. He would shout, and no one responded. He would exhibit up at meetings, and chairs would be "suddenly unavailable." The chippie who used to nod at George’s pointers now walked past him like he was air.
Business at his shop started to dwindle. No one wanted to buy from someone who couldn’t admire others. Even kids mimicked the adults—when George yelled, they giggled and whispered, “There he goes again.”
George couldn’t recognize it. He blamed jealousy. He blamed witchcraft. But he in no way blamed himself.
Months passed, and George’s store closed down. He sat underneath the mango tree at the facet of town, as soon as his favorite place to shout from, now his place of silent reflection. People exceeded by, some providing a well mannered nod, others just silence.
One day, little Efe, the bread-seller’s son, passed by using and sat subsequent to him.
“Uncle George,” he said, “you used to discuss too much. Now you don’t speak at all. Why?”
George seemed at the boy, sighed, and replied, “Because I finally realized that no one listens to a man who by no means listens.”
The boy smiled, gave him a piece of bread, and ran off.
George sat there, chewing quietly, no longer the voice of the town—just a man learning, possibly too late, that recognize is earned, no longer commanded.
And so, Bossy George grew to become Useless George, now not because he had no competencies or knowledge, however due to the fact he misplaced the community’s trust—and except that, even the loudest voice becomes a whisper.
