The banana skin story

Suppose one day you are invited to a house.

The invitation is warm, almost ceremonial. The host smiles, bows slightly, and says, “Come in, you are most welcome.” Shoes are left at the door, respect is shown, and the guests step inside with goodwill in their hearts.

The moment your foot touches the floor, it happens.

A soft slip—too late to react. A banana skin slides under your heel like a mischievous spirit. You fall hard. There is a sharp crack, the kind that silence recognizes before pain does. Bones break. The room gasps.

The host rushes over, hands fluttering, face pale. After helping you to a mat, he asks the question that always follows disaster, spoken gently but with a hint of self-defense:

“Whose fault is it?”

The guests look around the room.

Banana skins are everywhere. Yellow, brown, fresh, old—some tucked into corners, some lying boldly in the open, some crushed into the floor by earlier falls. A few guests are already sitting stiffly, nursing arms or legs, victims of earlier slips. No one looks surprised anymore.

One elder clears his throat and speaks calmly.

“It is the fault of the host,” he says. “You invited us into your house. A host is responsible for the floor his guests must walk on. If the house is full of banana skins, how can people not fall?”

Another guest adds, “We came with trust. We did not come to test every step. A house should be safe before invitations are sent.”

The host lowers his eyes. He explains himself.

“These banana skins have always been here,” he says. “My father walked around them. His father did too. We learned to step carefully. If someone falls, it is because they were careless.”

A quiet woman near the window replies, “Carefulness is wisdom, yes. But wisdom does not excuse negligence. Tradition does not turn danger into safety.”

Then a child speaks, because children often do.

“If you know the floor is dangerous,” the child says, “why invite people before cleaning it?”

Silence spreads like evening light.

At last, someone begins picking up the banana skins. One by one. The work is slow. The floor underneath is revealed—solid, clean, trustworthy. Fewer people fall. The house becomes what it was always meant to be: a place of welcome, not injury.

And the lesson lingers in the air, unspoken but understood in every Eastern heart:

When you invite others to walk your floor, you are responsible for what lies beneath their feet. Tradition may explain the banana skins, but only humility removes them.