In the land where speech is not just sound, but spirit… where elders say that words walk ahead of a person like shadows at sunset… there lived a young man whose tongue asked questions the village had never heard before. His name was Oghenekaro. Among the Urhobo, speech carries weight. A spoken word can build a home, settle disputes, bless children, or break families. Words are not thrown carelessly — they are planted like seeds. And yet, one evening, as the sun folded itself behind the palm trees, Oghenekaro spoke a sentence that refused to stay still. He said: “What if a statement cannot decide whether it is true or false?” The elders paused. Children stopped playing. Even the wind seemed to lean closer. Because in a culture where truth is tied to honor, and honor tied to community, a question like this is not small. It is dangerous. But also… necessary. From childhood, Oghenekaro listened differently. Where others heard proverbs as answers, he heard them as doors. Where others saw truth as straight like the trunk of a palm tree, he saw it bending like grass in harmattan wind. One day, he stood before the village square and declared: “I will speak a sentence that defeats itself.” The people laughed. But their laughter carried unease. He continued: “This sentence is not true.” Silence followed. If the sentence was true, then it must be false. If it was false, then it must be true. The words folded into themselves like a snake biting its own tail. The elders exchanged glances. The youths whispered. And the old women shook their heads, saying, “This boy’s tongue is chasing spirits.” In Urhobo thought, truth is not only about correctness. Truth is harmony. Truth is alignment between word, intention, and consequence. So what happens when a sentence refuses harmony? When language turns against itself? The village gathered that night under moonlight to discuss. One man argued that the boy spoke nonsense. Another said he was merely clever. But the oldest elder remained quiet. He knew that sometimes confusion is the beginning of wisdom. As the night deepened, a masquerade appeared at the edge of the square. In Urhobo tradition, masquerades are not only dancers; they are voices of ancestors. They speak when ordinary speech reaches its limit. The masquerade asked: “Child, why do you twist truth?” Oghenekaro answered: “I do not twist it. I follow where it bends.” The masquerade paused. Because the boy had touched something ancient. Language gives humans power — but it also reveals our limits. When we try to trap truth inside a single sentence, sometimes the sentence breaks. The paradox spread through the village like fire through dry grass. People debated in compounds. Farmers argued in fields. Children repeated the strange statement until it became a game. “If I say I am lying, am I telling the truth?” Some laughed. Others felt discomfort. Because the paradox revealed something unsettling: Words are powerful… but not perfect. The elders called for a gathering. They asked Oghenekaro to speak again. He said: “Tomorrow I will lie.” The elders leaned forward. If tomorrow he lies, then today he spoke truth. If tomorrow he tells truth, then today he lied. Again, the words refused to settle. And suddenly, the village understood: The problem was not simply in the boy. It was in the nature of language itself. Among the Urhobo people, wisdom teaches that meaning does not live alone. Meaning lives in relationship — between speaker and listener, between past and future, between intention and context. The paradox revealed that truth cannot always be captured by logic alone. A sentence can turn endlessly in circles, but life continues moving forward. The masquerade spoke again: “A canoe cannot float on one drop of water. Truth cannot stand on one sentence alone.” The elders nodded. They realized that the boy’s paradox was not destroying truth. It was exposing the boundary of words. Humans long for certainty. We want statements to be clearly true or clearly false. But reality is sometimes wider than our categories. Sometimes language becomes a mirror that reflects itself endlessly. And in that mirror, we see our own limitations. The paradox does not mean truth disappears. It means truth is larger than speech. Oghenekaro knelt before the elders. He asked: “Have I broken truth?” The oldest elder smiled. “No,” he said gently. “You have only shown that truth is bigger than the mouth that speaks it.” The crowd relaxed. Because they understood something new: Wisdom is not always in having answers. Sometimes wisdom is knowing where certainty ends. From that day, the boy continued to ask questions. But the village changed too. They listened more carefully. They spoke more humbly. They remembered that language is a tool — not the master of reality. And when disagreements arose, they no longer fought only over words. They searched for intention. For context. For harmony. The paradox became a story told to children. Not as a warning against thinking… I but as a reminder that intelligence without humility can trap itself. The elders would say: “When a tongue fights itself, let the heart guide the way.” And so the village learned that truth is not always a straight road. Sometimes it bends. Sometimes it circles. Sometimes it refuses to choose between yes and no. But through community, reflection, and wisdom, meaning can still be found. Because in the end… truth is not only what is spoken. Truth is what lives.