Merab Blog 9ja (2025)

23/07/2025

No matter how long the night, the day is sure to come.”

Interpretation:
No hardship lasts forever. This proverb gives hope and reminds us that even the darkest times eventually pass. Patience and faith will lead to brighter days.

21/07/2025

Fine Wine – A Parable About a Wise Tortoise Who Ages Like Sacred Palm Wine

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In the sun-dappled hills of Okpanachi, where palm trees stood like silent drummers and breezes carried the scent of ripe fruit, lived an old tortoise named Nwugwu. His shell was cracked in places, his steps slow, and his voice soft as the evening wind. Yet when he spoke, even the proudest animals leaned in to listen.

Nwugwu had lived through more seasons than anyone could count. He had seen three kings fall, five floods sweep the valleys, and two famines carve the land. But still, he never sought power, never raised his voice in counsel until one day when a quarrel broke out in the village square.

It started when a young ram named Obilo boasted loudly, “What use is the old? Let them sit in the shade and sleep. The world belongs to the strong, the quick, the new!”

Laughter followed him. The monkeys clapped. The birds chirped in agreement.

But Nwugwu, who had been sitting beneath the old palm wine tree, slowly rose and said nothing. He walked away. Quiet. Unbothered.

That same week, a traveler arrived with a cart of palm wine gourds. Among them was one dusty, unlabeled calabash wrapped in cloth.

“That one is from the time of my grandfather’s youth,” the traveler said. “Too old to drink, maybe even spoiled.”

But Nwugwu, with a glint in his eye, stepped forward.

“I’ll take it,” he said.

He brought the gourd to the center of the village and called for a tasting. Curiosity drew the crowd in. They expected sourness, mold, or nothing at all.

Instead, what poured out was thick, golden, and fragrant scented with memory and mellowed by time. One sip and the crowd went silent.

“It tastes like sunset and wisdom,” said the old goat.

“It warms the belly like truth,” whispered the heron.

Nwugwu smiled and looked at Obilo.

“Youth may run fast,” he said, “but age walks with knowing. Just as palm wine needs time to become fine, so does wisdom. What is old is not useless—it is fermented with experience.”

From that day forward, the animals came to Nwugwu for counsel. They brought questions about love, war, family, and fear. He answered not with thunder but with stories.

When Obilo grew older and faced his own mistakes, it was Nwugwu who sat beside him, offering warm yam slices and soft words.

And when Nwugwu finally closed his eyes beneath the same palm tree where he once listened to the wind, the entire forest gathered. They did not cry. They poured palm wine, raised their cups, and drank in silence.

Above his resting place, they carved:

“Like fine wine, he aged in grace.
Not loud. Not fast. But deep.”

⸻

Moral Lessons:
1. Wisdom grows with time, not noise.
2. The value of the old is not in their speed, but in the richness of their journey.
3. Like palm wine, some things must age to reveal their true worth.

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and

19/07/2025

The Set Up – A Monkey’s Trap for Revenge Gone Too Far

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In the treetop kingdom of Ukuta Forest, where the canopy swayed like waves above the earth and laughter often echoed louder than danger, lived a clever monkey named Jito. Known for his tricks, quick thinking, and loud chatter, Jito was once the heartbeat of the monkey troop. But laughter had long since vanished from his face.

Years before, during a fierce drought, Jito had been betrayed.

His closest companion, Kuba a thick-browed baboon with a booming voice had accused him of stealing the troop’s emergency food stash. Though Jito pleaded innocence, Kuba’s influence swayed the others. Without trial or truth, Jito was cast out and banished from the only home he had ever known.

That night, as he left the forest, Jito whispered a promise to the stars:
“One day, you’ll know what it feels like.”

⸻

Seasons passed. The rains returned. The forest healed.

So did Jito but differently.

He wandered to distant trees, learned new tricks, and watched from the shadows as Kuba rose in power. The baboon had become a hero, a warrior, a leader. And Jito, cloaked in silence, plotted not with fists but with precision.

When word spread of the Unity Festival—a grand celebration where all animals would gather to forgive old grievances and feast under moonlight—Jito saw his chance.

He returned to Ukuta in disguise: feathers on his head, ash on his face, and a crooked walking stick in his paw. None recognized him.

He introduced himself as a traveling sage and offered to bless Kuba with a gift: a ceremonial cloak said to bring “purity and praise under moonlight.”

Kuba, proud and vain, accepted it with glee.

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That night, as drums echoed and flames danced, Kuba donned the cloak and climbed the highest stone to perform the Ritual Dance of Rebirth.

At first, the crowd cheered.

Then, it began.

The cloak, laced with crushed itch-thorns, began to burn and sting. The underlining, soaked in ground stinkbug, released a foul odor that spread like wildfire. Kuba’s majestic dance turned into a desperate scratch-and-flail spectacle. Animals laughed, pointed, jeered.

The proud baboon tumbled off the rock and fled into the bush, howling with shame.

Jito, watching from above, felt a strange emptiness.

His revenge had worked. The humiliation was complete.

But as he looked at Kuba alone, humiliated, crying beneath the very tree where they had once played as friends—Jito’s triumph crumbled into ash.

The troop soon discovered the trickster’s true identity.

They brought Jito before the Council Tree.

“He betrayed me first,” Jito said. “He made me suffer alone. I just gave it back.”

The oldest monkey, gray and blind in one eye, responded softly:
“Then you have become what hurt you. Only louder.”

No punishment was given. But no trust was returned.

Jito was free to stay but no one looked him in the eye. The silence around him was heavier than any exile.

⸻

From that day, the young monkeys were taught this:

“Cleverness can win the moment. But only kindness wins the memory.”

And when asked what happened to Jito, the elders would only say:

“He set a trap for another and caught his own heart inside it.”

⸻

Moral Lessons:
1. Revenge may feel sweet for a moment, but it often sours the soul that serves it.
2. When we return pain for pain, we multiply suffering instead of ending it.
3. Wisdom is knowing when to win, and when to walk away.

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and

19/07/2025

Deep in the forest where no map dares go lies Shanty Town—a mystical village where spirits, outcasts, and the broken-hearted dwell.
Some arrive by accident, others by fate… but no one ever finds it twice.

Listen to the haunting African folktale that asks: What if the place you feared was the only place you truly belonged?

19/07/2025

Let's go

19/07/2025

Happy Birthday, His Excellency, Peter Obi! Na my Papa be this oh. 🙏

19/07/2025

Let’s go

19/07/2025

The Arbitration – A Folktale Court Where Animals Debate Betrayal and Justice

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In the heart of the ancient savanna, where the wind carried secrets and the trees had seen the rise and fall of many beasts, there stood a sacred clearing called Ngome’s Foot. It was named after the first elephant to walk the land, whose footstep, they said, shaped the hollow where no tree dared grow.

Ngome’s Foot was no ordinary place. It was the court of the wild the one place where claws did not tear and fangs did not pierce. Here, the animals came not to fight, but to speak. It was ruled not by the strongest, but by the oldest and wisest: Judge Owl, whose feathers bore the white of time and whose eyes missed nothing.

One year, during the peak of dry season, the animals gathered for an urgent arbitration. A betrayal had shaken the forest, and every creature from the smallest ant to the proudest lion came to witness the trial.

At the center of the court stood three animals: Hyena, Tortoise, and Dog.

Judge Owl opened his wings and hooted.

“Let the matter be spoken and judged. Who brings complaint?”

Dog stepped forward. His fur was matted from travel, and his eyes held pain.

“I accuse Tortoise of betrayal,” he said. “And Hyena of deceit.”

Gasps echoed through the crowd.

“State your case,” Owl commanded.

Dog bowed and began.

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“Months ago,” he said, “my family and I had more meat than we could eat. I shared it with Tortoise, who was hungry, and with Hyena, who swore loyalty to me. In return, they promised protection while I went to the river to find herbs for my sick pups. But when I returned…”

His voice cracked.

“I found my den ransacked. My food gone. My pups sick from stolen roots. And these two gone without a word.”

The animals murmured.

Owl turned to Tortoise.

“You are accused. Speak.”

Tortoise stepped forward slowly, his shell dusty and his voice calm.

“Yes, Dog fed me. And I am grateful. But I took nothing. When Dog left, Hyena whispered lies—saying Dog would never return, that the food was for the taking. I did not eat. I left in fear.”

Hyena growled.

“Lies! I protected the den. I even warned the monkey troop to stay away. But when I left to chase off a leopard, Tortoise called scavengers. When I returned, the food was gone, and Tortoise was gone too.”

Now the court rumbled with confusion.

Judge Owl raised a wing.

“There is truth in both tongues—and lies in the shadows between them.”

From the trees, Monkey leapt down.

“I saw them!” he cried. “Hyena told us Dog was gone forever. He led us to the den. Tortoise hid in his shell, but he didn’t stop us. They both betrayed Dog in their own ways.”

The crowd exploded.

Some shouted for banishment. Others called for mercy. The air was thick with tension.

Judge Owl, calm as dusk, turned to the old elephant, Grandmother Tembo, who sat beside the court as the voice of the ancestors.

“What says wisdom?” Owl asked.

Tembo spoke slowly.

“Betrayal wears many skins. Hyena lied to steal. Tortoise remained silent, and silence is its own poison. Both failed Dog. But justice is not vengeance.”

She raised her trunk.

“Let them restore what was broken.”

⸻

And so, the judgment was passed.

Hyena would guard the forest borders for three seasons without reward.

Tortoise would gather food daily for Dog’s pups until they grew strong.

And Dog, if he agreed, would forgive not forget but forgive, so peace could live again in the roots of the forest.

Dog nodded.

“I forgive but I will never be blind again.”

From that day, Ngome’s Foot became more than a court. It became a memory. A reminder. And whenever animals disagreed, they said:

“Take it to the Foot, where truth stands tall.”

⸻

Moral Lessons:
1. Silence in the face of wrong is its own form of betrayal.
2. Justice is not about punishing it is about restoring what was broken.
3. True wisdom listens beyond the loudest voice.

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Random Facts

and

17/07/2025

My Siblings and I – A Tortoise Family Whose Bond Is Tested When Greed Enters the Shell

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Long ago, in the quiet heart of a forest where the earth stayed cool beneath the trees and birds sang without fear, there lived a family of tortoises. Their shell home was large and round, nestled under the roots of an ancient iroko tree. It belonged to Mama Koko and her five children Tanu, Loma, Ejiro, Biba, and little Zino.

They were slow but wise, humble yet strong. And above all, they were close. Mama Koko raised them with love, teaching them to share, speak truth, and always walk with dignity even if slowly.

“A tortoise’s strength is not in his shell,” she would say, “but in how he treats those who live in it with him.”

They did everything together ate together, worked together, and even slept in a circle beneath the soft light of fireflies.

But as they grew older, things began to change.

It started the day Tanu, the eldest, returned from the riverside with a shiny red fruit none of the others had ever seen.

“Where did you get that?” Biba asked.

“Found it deep in the forest,” Tanu said, tucking it under his shell. **“It’s mine. I picked it.”

“But we always share,” little Zino reminded him.

Tanu grunted. “We’re not hatchlings anymore. What I find is mine.”

Mama Koko’s eyes watched him quietly, sadness tugging at the corners of her wrinkled mouth.

Days passed, and Tanu began disappearing more often. He stopped helping with chores, stopped laughing at Ejiro’s jokes, and started hiding things fruit, berries, even firewood beneath his shell. Soon, Loma followed, saying it was only fair to keep what she found too.

The shell that once echoed with laughter became quiet.

One evening, a terrible rainstorm swept through the forest. The wind howled. Branches cracked. Water surged through the roots of the iroko tree, seeping into the tortoises’ shell-home. In the scramble to protect their home, Tanu refused to share the dry corner of the nest where he had stored dry grass and food.

“This is my space,” he snapped. “Find your own.”

Mama Koko, too weak to argue, lay in the wet corner holding little Zino close. Ejiro tried to patch the leaks alone while Biba cried in silence.

When the storm passed, their home was soaked, the walls crumbling. But worse was the silence between them. They no longer ate together. They no longer trusted one another.

One morning, Mama Koko did not rise.

Her shell was cold. Her eyes closed.

A hush fell over the family.

Zino wept openly. Biba laid beside her. Ejiro said nothing, only staring at the soil.

Tanu, the strongest, the eldest, knelt by his mother’s shell.

And there, beneath the silence, was a letter written on a folded leaf—tucked neatly under her chin.

Tanu opened it.

“My children,
If you read this, it means I’ve walked into the Great Stillness.
I want you to remember: no fruit, no treasure, no hiding place is greater than the love we shared in this shell.
You are not five without each other. You are one—like the shell we call home.
If greed has cracked our bond, then let love be the glue that mends it.
– Mama Koko”

The words struck Tanu like thunder.

He looked around at his siblings wet, tired, grieving. Then he did something none expected.

He crawled to the center of the shell-home, pulled out everything he had hidden berries, roots, nuts, firewood—and placed them in a pile.

“I was wrong,” he said. “And I miss you all.”

Loma lowered her head in shame. Slowly, she brought her own stash and added it to his.

Then Biba. Then Ejiro. Even little Zino, who had only one tiny mushroom, placed it gently on the pile.

They sat in silence together again.

That night, they rebuilt their home. No longer as separate corners, but as a single, united shell. They carved Mama Koko’s words on the inside of the roof, so they would never forget.

From that day forward, when any of them brought something home, they whispered, “For all of us.”

And in the heart of the forest, the tortoise family healed.

⸻

Moral Lessons:
1. Greed can break even the strongest bonds, but love and humility can restore what is lost.
2. Family is not made of blood alone it is nurtured through sacrifice and unity.
3. True strength is in giving, not keeping.

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and

17/07/2025

Lionheart – A Tale of a Young Lioness Who Must Prove Her Worth in a Male-Dominated Pride

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In the heart of the sun-drenched savanna, where the golden grass swayed like whispers of ancient stories, there lived a young lioness named Sefu. She was the daughter of Mzinga, the former queen of the Moonlight Pride, a once-thriving lion clan known for its strength, discipline, and tradition.

But ever since Sefu’s birth, things had shifted. Her mother had died defending the pride from a rogue leopard attack, and leadership had passed on to a new king Baraka, a towering male lion who believed that only males were destined to lead, fight, and make decisions for the pride.

Sefu, though young, carried her mother’s fire in her veins. Her amber eyes watched the horizon with a quiet hunger. While the other lionesses accepted their roles as hunters and caretakers, Sefu trained in secret—leaping over rocks, chasing shadows, sharpening her claws on bark and bone. She wanted more than survival. She wanted to lead. But Baraka had made it clear.

“A lioness may hunt, but she cannot rule,” he roared one day as she dared to speak in council. “That is not the way of our ancestors.”

But Sefu didn’t flinch. “Maybe our ancestors were wrong.”

A murmur rippled through the pride.

That night, Sefu sat alone beneath the baobab tree where her mother used to rest. The stars blinked above her like the eyes of the ancestors. Wind whispered in the leaves, and in it, she thought she heard her mother’s voice:

“Courage isn’t about waiting your turn. It’s about creating a path where none existed.”

The next day, a scout lioness came running into the heart of the territory. Her flanks were torn, her breathing short.

“The Red Drought Pride is crossing the border,” she panted. “They’re pushing south taking land, stealing prey.”

Baraka snarled. “They wouldn’t dare challenge us.”

But they would and they did.

Over the following days, the Red Drought lions moved like fire through the eastern territories. They were brutal, fast, and ruthless. Baraka’s warriors tried to resist, but many fell. The pride’s numbers thinned. Fear crept into the camp like a fog.

Sefu stepped forward. “Let me lead a defense,” she said.

Baraka bared his teeth. “You? A cub in lion’s fur?”

Sefu stood tall. “Then test me. A challenge. If I win, I lead the defense.”

There was silence. Then laughter.

But Baraka, full of pride and rage, accepted.

The next morning, the entire pride gathered in the clearing. Sefu and Baraka would face off in a trial of three parts: strength, speed, and strategy.

First was strength. They were to drag a wildebeest carcass uphill. Baraka was older, bulkier, but Sefu used her agility, darting around the heavier lion, leveraging her angles and momentum. By the time Baraka reached the top, Sefu had already finished—and collapsed in silence, breath heaving.

Second was speed. They were to race to the river and back, weaving through thorny thickets. Baraka thundered like a storm, but Sefu moved like wind. She bled from thorns, limped from stumbles, but she returned just ahead of him mud splattered across her coat, but fire in her eyes.

Finally strategy. They were each given a team of lionesses and told to track and hunt a zebra herd near the salt plains. Baraka charged with brute force and scattered the herd. His team returned with nothing.

Sefu watched, waited, and used the terrain. She signaled her lionesses with tail flicks and quiet growls, guiding them around the herd. With calm precision, they isolated a young zebra and brought it down.

When she returned dragging the zebra, the pride fell into stunned silence.

Even Baraka looked at her with something that resembled respect.

But still, he said, “A competition means nothing in battle. When teeth clash and blood spills, that is the real test.”

And soon enough, that test came.

The Red Drought lions attacked in the dead of night. Roars shook the grasslands as shadowy forms leapt over the rocks. Panic surged. Baraka called his warriors but they were scattered, tired, demoralized.

It was Sefu who stood firm.

She roared not like a cub, but like thunder. Her voice cut through fear. “Form a circle! Protect the young and the old. Let no enemy pass!”

She moved like a phantom through the battlefield, her claws finding throats, her teeth meeting fur. She leapt onto a Red Drought lion three times her size and locked her jaws onto his neck until he fell.

The pride followed her lead. The lionesses fought with renewed purpose. Even the old ones rose with snarls of rage. Together, they drove the enemy back until silence returned to the savanna.

At dawn, with bodies strewn across the plains, Baraka approached Sefu. His mane was torn. His eyes heavy.

“You are your mother’s daughter,” he said quietly. “And more. The pride needs you. I was wrong.”

He bowed his head.

From that day forward, Sefu was called Lionheart
not just for her bravery, but for her strength of spirit. She didn’t only change the pride. She changed the tradition.

Young lionesses began training to fight. Councils welcomed female voices. And Sefu led not as a queen to be obeyed, but as a leader who had proven her worth in claw, courage, and compassion.

She would one day tell her own cubs beneath the same baobab tree:

“They’ll say the path is closed. That’s when you carve one with your paws.”

⸻

Moral Lessons:
1. True leadership is not bound by tradition but proven by action and courage.
2. Those underestimated often hold the greatest power within.
3. Changing the future sometimes means challenging the past.

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and

13/07/2025

The Elephant Who Hated His Shadow

An African Animal Folktale

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In the great open plains of Nyanda, where the grasses swayed like whispers and the sun carved gold across the earth, there lived an enormous elephant named Tembo.

Tembo was strong, wise, and respected. His tusks were as long as tree branches, and his footsteps echoed like drums. But Tembo had one strange problem—he hated his shadow.

Everywhere he went, his shadow followed—dark, large, and always beneath him. It stretched behind him when he walked. It danced beside him when he played. It even hovered over his water when he bent down to drink.

And Tembo hated it.

“Why must you always be here?” he would grumble at it.

“You’re too big, too dark, too close.”

He tried stepping away from it.

He tried stomping on it.

He even asked the sun to burn it away.

But no matter what he did, the shadow stayed.

⸻

The other animals noticed.

“Why is Tembo always angry at the ground?” asked Kiki the crane.

“Maybe the sun offended him,” joked the jackal.

But no one dared ask.

Then one day, a small chameleon named Mido crept up to Tembo as he stood alone under the acacia tree, grumbling at his feet.

“Tembo?” Mido said gently. “Why do you talk to your shadow like an enemy?”

Tembo frowned. “Because it follows me without my permission. It reminds me of things I don’t want to see.”

“Like what?” Mido asked.

Tembo sighed. “When I was younger, I made mistakes. I knocked down trees in anger. I scared smaller animals. That shadow reminds me of the things I regret.”

Mido was silent for a while. Then he said:

“But don’t you see? Your shadow isn’t there to shame you. It’s there to show you how far you’ve come. It changes with you. It bends when you bow. It grows when you rise.”

Tembo looked down. For the first time, he studied his shadow quietly. It looked just like him but it was softer, gentler.

He turned. His shadow turned.

He bowed. It bowed.

He smiled. It smiled back in its own dark way.

⸻

From that day forward, Tembo no longer stomped or shouted at his shadow. He walked with it. He let it stretch beneath the sun. He understood now it wasn’t his enemy. It was his reminder.

A quiet witness to his growth.

And every time the sun cast his shadow far and wide, Tembo would say, “Let the past walk with me—but not ahead of me.”

⸻

Moral Lessons:
1. Your past is not your enemy it’s the proof that you’ve changed.
2. Shadows only follow the ones who walk in light.
3. Peace comes when we make friends with the parts of ourselves we used to fear.

⸻

Merab Blog 9ja

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