19/07/2025
The Calabash That Must Be Broken
by
Linda Somiari-Stewart
A tale from Somoré—the land where memory sits, and even the silence speaks.
In the days when our ancestors walked like shadows through the trees, there lived an elder named Makono.
Once, his name shook the grass.
Once, his footsteps made leopards turn aside.
But now, his back was bent like a yam vine after harvest. His days of thunder had passed.
Makono ruled Somoré for forty harvests. He was a man of iron laws and heavy hands. He kept the land from invaders, yes—but his own people feared his justice like a hungry river.
He did many things- some noble, some dark. He banished whole families. He spared none in his judgments. Yet, he also fed the hungry, kept peace with rival clans, and sang to the drums when the rains came. A man is never just one thing.
Then, one harmattan morning, news broke like a calabash dropped too soon:
Makono is dead.
A hush fell on Somoré.
Some wailed.
Some danced in secret.
Some stood in silence, unsure which face of Makono to remember.
But one creature did not keep silent - Adanko the Parrot, sharp-beaked and loud-hearted, perched atop the Iroko tree.
“Let his spirit wander!” she squawked. “Why should we honor the mouth that once cursed us?”
“Makono’s tongue cut deeper than any blade. Let his grave know no drumbeat!”
Her voice flew across the village like thorns in the wind, scratching every ear.
Now, in Somoré, when a soul returns to the ancestors, the final act is the Breaking of the Calabash- a ritual of release.
The elder’s gourd of life is smashed before burial. Not to glorify the dead, but to unburden the living. It is the last honor, the clearing of the path between the two worlds.
But this time, the calabash sat untouched. Days passed. The wind grew restless. Goats bleated at nothing. Babies cried in their sleep. The sky turned yellow with confusion.
“Why should we honor a man who showed no softness?”
“Let the calabash rot.”
“Let silence do what songs cannot.”
So said the disgruntled people.
But one woman - Amope, whose husband had once been imprisoned by Makono - came forward. Her wrapper was plain. Her voice, steady as the river at night.
She said:
“A tree that bore fruit and thorns is still a tree.
A man who ruled with iron fist may still deserve release.
To hold bitterness even to a man’s grave is to sip poison long after the snake has fled.”
She picked up the Calabash of Passage, Makono’s final vessel. It trembled in her hands.
“I do not break this for him,” she said. “I break it so our children do not inherit our grudges.”
The people of Somore’ watched. Even Adanko fell silent.
CRACK!
The gourd shattered on the earth.
And something shifted in the atmosphere.
That night, the drums returned - soft at first, like a memory. The children laughed again. The moon rose whole.
But some say that in the hour before dawn, a voice whispered through the rustling trees saying:
“When the living let go, the dead find peace.
And when the dead rest, the living rise.”
⸻
Wisdom:
*Releasing grudge is not weakness - it is the beginning of healing.
*Even those who harmed us have stories we do not know. Honor is not approval; it is a choice to unburden the heart.
*The last honor is not for the dead - it is for the dignity of the living.
