The Case of the Grumpiest Monkey

In the golden light of another bright morning, Lou-Anne and her Savannah friends gathered under the spreading branches of the old baobab tree. M’Pofo the gentle elephant was munching leaves, Marmalade the ginger cat lounged in the shade, and even Ubejane, the famously grumpy but soft-hearted rhino, was in a surprisingly good mood.

That’s when Vakawu the vervet monkey came racing in, chattering with excitement. “Everyone! You have to see this! There’s a new animal by the river — and he’s the grumpiest monkey I’ve ever met!”

Batenga the baboon, always up for mischief, grinned. “Grumpier than Ubejane before breakfast?”

Vakawu nodded so hard he nearly fell from his branch. “Much grumpier!”

Curious, the friends set off towards the riverbank, Kiera the kangaroo leading the way with bounding hops and Nuru and Buhala the mongooses weaving between everyone’s feet. When they arrived, they saw him: a large, dark-furred monkey sitting on a fallen log, arms folded, eyebrows drawn so low they nearly hid his eyes.

His name, they soon learned, was Ganda. He scowled at the group as they approached.

“What do you want?” Ganda barked, his tail twitching irritably.

M’Pofo rumbled a gentle greeting. “We just wanted to say hello and welcome you to the Savannah.”

Ganda grunted. “Hmph. I don’t need welcoming. I just want some peace and quiet — and for nobody to touch my bananas.”

Ubejane actually smiled at this. “Now that’s a serious case of grumpiness,” he whispered to Lou-Anne, who stifled a giggle.

Lou-Anne stepped forward, her hands behind her back. “We’re having a picnic. Would you like to join us? There’s shade, cool water, and plenty to eat — even bananas.”

Ganda’s eyes narrowed. “Do you have exactly three bananas? I only eat bananas in threes. And they must be neither too green nor too spotty. And I don’t want any monkey business.”

Vakawu and Batenga exchanged a look. “No monkey business at all,” they promised, only half-seriously.

With a big sigh, Ganda shuffled after the group. At the picnic spot, the animals did their best to make Ganda comfortable. They offered him a perfect bunch of three just-ripe bananas, which he inspected carefully before eating, muttering about the “good old days when bananas grew properly.”

When the animals tried to play their favourite games, Ganda grumbled. When Marmalade purred in the sun, Ganda complained that the purring was “too loud.” When Batenga told a joke, Ganda barely blinked and said, “Not funny.”

But as the day wore on, something curious happened. The animals, instead of being annoyed, started to compete in silliness — Kiera bounced in circles, Batenga wore leaves as a moustache, and Marmalade did a slow, silly somersault. Even Ubejane got into the spirit, splashing the others with cool water from the stream.

At first, Ganda huffed and rolled his eyes. But then, very slowly, the corners of his mouth began to twitch. He tried to hide a smile, but Vakawu spotted it.

“Look! Ganda’s smiling!”

Ganda quickly scowled again, but the animals cheered and clapped anyway. Marmalade, always bold, hopped onto Ganda’s lap and looked up at him with wide, golden eyes. For a long moment, Ganda stared at Marmalade. Then, as if he couldn’t help himself, he gently scratched behind Marmalade’s ears.

“I suppose… not all company is bad,” Ganda muttered.

That afternoon, Ganda taught everyone the secret of making the best banana splits — his grumpiness slowly melting into gruff chuckles as he showed them how to peel and slice just right. He never admitted it out loud, but from that day, Ganda was seen more and more at the animals’ gatherings, always with his favourite bananas and always pretending to be just as grumpy as before.

But everyone knew: under those furrowed brows was a new friend, with a heart as big as the Savannah itself.

And whenever someone asked who was the grumpiest animal in the land, Ubejane would just smile and say, “Ask Ganda — but bring him three bananas if you want an answer.”