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Merab Blog 9ja, Lagos (2025)

28/09/2025

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28/09/2025

Where the Antelope Waits

There was once a boy named Chijioke, quick of foot and full of pride. From the time he was small, he loved to run. He outran the goats when they strayed into the fields. He outran his friends when they played tag in the dust. Even the dogs, panting and barking, could not match his speed. By the time he grew taller, the whole village knew him as the boy who carried the wind in his legs.

But pride is a seed that grows weeds if left untended. One evening, while the elders sat under the iroko tree, Chijioke puffed his chest and declared, “No creature on this earth can outrun me. Not even the antelope with its long legs and swift leaps. Let me find one in the open, and I will prove it.”

The villagers laughed uneasily. To speak so boldly against the antelope swiftest of the savannah was to tempt shame. The old hunter Duru leaned on his staff and shook his head. “Child,” he said, “speed is a gift, but wisdom directs the feet. Without patience, swiftness leads only to emptiness.”

Chijioke laughed. “I do not need patience when I carry the wind.”

Duru’s eyes narrowed, not in anger but in quiet knowing. “If you wish to test yourself, go to the salt-lick clearing before dawn. Wait there. If pride arrives before wisdom, you will lose. But if patience sits with you, you may learn.”

The boy scoffed, yet curiosity stirred. Before the first c**k crowed, he slipped away to the clearing. The grass still carried dew, the world hushed in that soft hour before day. At first he stamped his feet, eager to move. “Why should I sit here?” he muttered. “I came to race, not to rest.” But Duru’s words echoed: If pride arrives first, you will lose.

So he sat upon a stone.

The forest visited him in silence. First came the wind, cool fingers brushing the grass. Then came the dew, sparkling jewels on every blade, painting the clearing with silver. At last came silence, deep and patient, filling his chest until even his heartbeat seemed too loud. Each arrival seemed to ask him, “Will you wait? Or will you leap blindly?”

Time stretched. His legs ached for movement. Yet he stayed.

Then, as the first flame of sunrise broke the horizon, the antelope came. Graceful, cautious, stepping as if each foot carried a secret, it entered the clearing. It lowered its head to the salt, lifted it again, eyes alert.

Chijioke’s body tensed. Every muscle screamed to run, to prove himself. But in that stillness, he saw something he had never noticed before: the antelope was not only fast it was wise. It moved with calm, with measure, with patience born of survival. Suddenly Chijioke understood. This was not a contest to be won. It was a lesson to be honored.

So instead of running, he bowed. His head lowered, his pride set aside.

The antelope paused, ears flicking, as if surprised by respect. For a long moment, boy and beast stood together, joined not by a race but by recognition. Then the antelope flicked its tail and bounded away, swift as light, leaving no shame behind only wisdom.

Chijioke did not chase. He walked back to the village slowly, his steps lighter, though he had not run at all.

When the children asked if he had outrun the antelope, he only smiled. “I met it,” he said.

The elders saw in his eyes that his boast had melted into something stronger than speed. From that day on, he became the boy trusted to guide strangers through the forest, to lead goats back from the hills, to fetch herbs from far clearings. His patience made his feet wiser than his pride ever had.

And so it is told: at the salt-lick clearing, where the antelope waits, a boy once learned that not every meeting is a race.

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Moral Lessons
1. Not every meeting is a race.
2. Pride rushes; wisdom waits.
3. Patience is the strength that steadies speed.
4. To bow is sometimes greater than to boast.
5. The fastest feet are those guided by humility.

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27/09/2025

In the Footsteps of the Silent Fox

In the rolling savannah beyond the red hills, there lived a fox whispered about in every hunter’s tale. They called it the Silent One, for no matter where it walked, it left no print. Across ash from burned fields, through marsh reeds, over stone ridges, it moved as if it carried the blessing of invisibility. Some believed it was a spirit in animal form. Others swore it was the last fox born before memory, charged with teaching men humility.

One hunter, Okoro, heard these tales until his pride grew restless. He was young, strong, and eager for fame. “If no one can catch the fox, then I will,” he boasted. “When I bring back its skin, the elders will carve my name into drums.” His companions warned him, but pride does not hear warnings. He set out at dawn, bow across his back, snares heavy at his side.

That very morning, he glimpsed a flicker of russet fur weaving through the tall grass. His heart leapt. “At last,” he murmured. He followed.

The chase began.

Through a plain of ash, where his own feet pressed black marks, the fox drifted untouched, a flame without shadow. Across a bed of reeds, where his boots cracked stalks, the fox brushed through, leaving them swaying upright as if it had never passed. Over a ridge of stone, where his steps loosened pebbles that clattered down, the fox glided like breath, leaving silence whole. Okoro pressed harder. Sweat stung his eyes. “I see you,” he gasped. “You will not escape me.”

At last the fox slipped into a dry riverbed, cracked and pale beneath the sun. Okoro stumbled after, eager for the kill. But when he looked down, he froze. There were footprints many footprints. But not the fox’s. They were his own, circling again and again, leading back toward the path home.

He spun in confusion. His breath grew shallow. The fox sat ahead, eyes like mirrors. It bowed once, a slow dipping of the head, and in that bow Okoro felt something break: the weight of his pride, the foolishness of his hunger. Then, like mist rising from water, the fox vanished.

Alone in the riverbed, Okoro dropped to his knees. He saw clearly for the first time. His hunt had not revealed the fox; it had revealed himself. The snares in his hands felt heavier than chains. His bow felt like shame slung across his back.

He returned to the village with nothing. The children mocked, expecting trophies. The elders said nothing, for his eyes already told the story. That night, he carried his snares to the great iroko tree and burned them. Sparks rose into the dark like unspoken prayers. “No longer will I hunt life for pride,” he said. “If I must follow tracks, let them be of the lost, not the hunted.”

And so it was. From then on, Okoro became known not as hunter but as finder. He tracked children lost in tall grasses. He led blind elders to rivers. He brought back goats that wandered into gullies. He followed quarrels until he found their roots, and he taught peace. His feet, once chasing shadows, now carried light.

The Silent Fox was never caught. But some swore it appeared to those searching for more than meat: to mothers seeking missing sons, to travelers wandering in circles. It led them until they saw their own prints and knew the truth: what we pursue is often the mirror of ourselves.

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Moral Lessons
1. Pursuit reveals the pursuer.
2. Pride chases outward, but wisdom circles inward.
3. Some creatures are not prey but teachers.
4. The worthiest tracks to follow are those that lead the lost home.
5. The Silent Fox teaches that humility begins in our own footprints.

27/09/2025

Where the Antelope Waits

There was a boy named Chijioke whose legs were quicker than most. From the moment he could walk, he loved to run. Across yam fields, through dusty lanes, past goats and hens that scattered before him, he ran as if the wind itself envied his speed. Soon he began to boast.

“No antelope can outrun me,” he declared one evening at the fire, puffing out his chest. “Let me meet one in the open, and I will catch it before it blinks.” The children cheered, but the elders shook their heads. One of them, an old man named Duru, leaned on his staff and said softly, “Speed is good, but speed without patience is foolishness dressed in fine cloth.”

Chijioke laughed. “I need no patience when my feet are wings.”

The next morning, Duru called him. “If you believe yourself faster than antelope, then prove it. Go to the salt-lick clearing before dawn. Wait there. If pride arrives first, you will lose. But if wisdom guides your waiting, you may learn.”

Chijioke scoffed but went. He reached the clearing in darkness, when stars still stitched the sky. He stamped his foot, eager to prove himself, but there was nothing. He paced. He yawned. “Why should I wait?” he muttered. “My legs hunger for the chase.”

But then he remembered Duru’s words. If pride arrives first, you will lose. So he sat on a stone and folded his arms.

The forest stirred around him. First came the wind, sliding softly through leaves, carrying the smell of dew. Then came the dew itself, settling on grass blades until the clearing glittered like beads in the moonlight. After that came silence thick, patient, humming with expectation. Each visitor seemed to ask him, “Will you stay, or will you rush away empty?”

Chijioke’s heart raced faster than his legs ever had. Every nerve wanted to leap and run. But he sat. He breathed. He waited.

At last, as dawn stretched a red finger across the horizon, the antelope appeared. It stepped lightly into the clearing, its ears high, its eyes alert. The animal did not rush. It bent its neck, licked the salt, lifted its head again.

Chijioke rose slowly, muscles tight, ready to prove himself. Then something strange happened. He saw the beauty of the antelope the slender legs, the measured breath, the calm rooted in caution. The forest seemed to hold its breath too. And suddenly, he understood. This was not a race. This was a meeting.

Instead of charging forward, Chijioke bowed. The antelope blinked, as if surprised, and for a long heartbeat the boy and the creature regarded one another. Then, with a flick of its tail, the antelope bounded into the trees, swift as a streak of sunlight.

Chijioke did not chase. He stood still, watching it vanish, feeling both smaller and wiser than he had ever felt.

When he returned to the village, the children asked, “Did you outrun it?” The boy smiled quietly. “I met it.”

The elders nodded. They saw a new steadiness in his walk, a new weight in his words. From that day, Chijioke no longer bragged of his speed. Instead, he became the one villagers sent to watch the skies for storms, to guard the goats, to lead travelers through thick forest. His patience made his steps more certain than his boasting ever had.

And the story was told and retold: that in the clearing of salt, where the antelope waits, a boy once learned that not every meeting is a race.

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Moral Lessons
1. Not every meeting is a race.
2. Speed without patience is folly.
3. The forest rewards those who wait with humility.
4. Sometimes the greater victory is in bowing, not chasing.
5. True wisdom listens before it leaps.

27/09/2025

Random facts

25/09/2025

The Spider’s Gift and the Power of Kindness

Long ago, in a peaceful village surrounded by vast grasslands and mighty baobab trees, there lived a poor but kind-hearted weaver named Adama. She was known for making the finest cloth, but despite her talent, she barely had enough to feed herself.

One year, a terrible famine struck the land. The rivers dried up, and the crops failed. People became desperate, hoarding whatever little food they had. But Adama, despite having very little, always shared what she could with those who were hungrier than her.

One evening, after giving away her last piece of food to an old traveler, Adama sighed and sat by her weaving loom. “What will I eat tomorrow?” she whispered to herself.

Just then, a tiny voice spoke from the corner of her hut. “Adama, you have given so much, yet you ask for nothing. Now it is time for your kindness to be repaid.”

Startled, she looked up and saw a small spider descending from the ceiling. But this was no ordinary spider it shimmered like gold in the candlelight.

“Who are you?” Adama asked.

“I am Anansi, the Spider,” the creature replied. “Because you have shown kindness in times of hardship, I will give you a gift. Weave as you always do, and you will see.”

The Magical Cloth

The next morning, Adama sat at her loom and began to weave. To her amazement, the thread she used turned into shimmering gold! The more she wove, the more golden cloth appeared.

Word spread quickly, and soon, people from all over the village came to see Adama’s miraculous fabric. Some wanted to buy it, while others asked for her secret. But Adama did not become greedy. Instead, she used her newfound wealth to help the village.

She bought food for the hungry, rebuilt houses for the poor, and shared her golden fabric with those who needed warmth.

The famine soon ended, and the land became fertile again. The villagers never forgot Adama’s kindness, and they learned an important lesson: Wealth is not in what you keep, but in what you give.

The Spider’s Final Visit

One night, as Adama sat by her loom, the golden spider returned.

“You have used my gift well,” Anansi said. “And so, I will leave you with one final blessing your kindness will never be forgotten. Your name will be remembered in stories for generations.”

And with that, the spider disappeared into the shadows.

From that day on, Adama continued to weave—not for wealth, but for the joy of giving. And whenever a child in the village asked why their grandmother told stories about a golden spider, the elders would smile and say, “Because kindness always weaves the strongest threads of all.”

Moral of the Story: True wealth comes not from what you keep, but from what you give.

23/09/2025

The Hyena’s Crown

There was once a kingdom of animals where the lion’s mane was the crown of power. It shone in the sun like flame and commanded obedience. But lions grew careless, trusting teeth more than wisdom. Quarrels spread. Waterholes shrank. The grass forgot how to be generous. And in the middle of this unrest, the hyena, of all creatures, dreamed of wearing a crown.

Now, hyenas were not trusted. Their laugh was said to mock grief, their jaws to prefer scraps. But Mosi, a young hyena, was different. He listened when others roared, and he remembered when others forgot. He carried news across the savannah because he had learned every trail. Still, when he dared to speak at councils, elephants rolled their ears, zebras stamped impatiently, and lions swished their tails. “A hyena’s words stink like carrion,” they said.

One drought stretched too long. The lion king grew thin but refused to share the shaded pools, declaring them royal. The herds scattered. Predators fought over bones that used to be feasts. It was Mosi who noticed the termites building higher mounds, the reeds whispering of water under the cracked mud, the vultures circling not over carcasses but over a hidden grove where life still clung.

He went to the lion. “There is a river sleeping underground,” he said. “If we dig where the mounds lean, we can wake it.” The lion roared, “Be silent, eater of leavings! Would you teach a king where to drink?” Mosi lowered his head and left, but his paws carried him to the hungry instead. He showed zebras where to stamp, buffalo where to push, tortoises where to scratch. All night they worked, led by his map of memory. At dawn, water rose, clear as truth.

The herd drank. Birds sang like drums of rain. Even the lion, smelling the current, came and bent his mane low. He drank, then lifted his head and muttered, “Perhaps the hyena was right.” But the animals had already seen who had saved them. They turned to Mosi. The old tortoise spoke: “A crown is not hair or roar. It is responsibility worn on the head. Today, the crown belongs to the one who gave us back water.”

So they wove a garland of reeds and placed it on Mosi’s spotted brow. The lion growled but did not strike, for thirst had humbled him. Mosi wore it not with pride but with trembling, for he knew crowns are heavier than they look. He decreed no well should be closed, no path guarded by pride. He set guards not of teeth but of patience: hornbills to call danger, termites to measure soil, ants to taste bitterness in water. The savannah healed because the least trusted had been trusted at last.

But some never forgave. A jealous leopard spread lies: “Hyenas will lead us into darkness.” A band of young lions whispered of ambush. Mosi heard, for secrets run to hyenas as rivers to the low ground. He did not raise soldiers. He walked into the ambush with only his crown of reeds. “Strike if you must,” he said. “But remember, if my blood feeds this ground, it will rise as water again. And you will answer to your children why you killed the one who kept them alive.”

His courage bent their claws. The lions backed away, ashamed, and in their shame found a lesson.

When Mosi grew old, he passed the reed crown to no heir. Instead, he placed it on the river itself, setting reeds along its bank so water and crown became one. “Let every thirsty throat wear the crown when it drinks,” he said.

And to this day, when a hyena laughs in the night, some say it is not mockery but memory of the time when one wore a crown woven not of gold, but of service.

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Moral Lessons
1. True crowns are woven from service, not power.
2. Wisdom can live in the mouths of the despised.
3. Leadership is heavy; only the selfless can carry it.
4. Pride kills kingdoms, humility heals them.
5. Never measure worth by reputation actions reveal the truth.

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21/09/2025

The Goat That Danced with Stars

On the mountain’s lower slopes, goats chewed gossip with grass. They warned the young about cliffs and bragged about horns. Uche listened politely and left. Night after night he climbed where the air thinned and the sky bent close. “Stars are too far,” the herd laughed. Uche wasn’t chasing distance; he was chasing nearer.

One moonless night he climbed higher than sense. Stones bit his hooves; cold tugged his ears. He reached the last ledge, a knife of rock where the world drops away. There, silence stood up and looked around. The Milky Way spilled across the black like ground cassava. Uche lifted his horns and because joy needs somewhere to go danced. Not pretty at first: slips, skips, a wild leap that almost became a fall. He recovered, laughed at himself, and tried again. Something in the dark laughed back—soft, delighted. The stars swayed.

Light slid down and kissed his horn tips. His coat held a faint brightness like memory. Uche danced until he learned the mountain’s true song: part wind, part stone, part heartbeat. When he returned at dawn, the herd sniffed him. “You smell like frost and foolishness.” He started to explain and stopped. Some dances cannot be told; they must be seen.

That evening he led three skeptical kids up the safer ridge. “Watch,” he said, and waited. The stars came shyly as stars do for beginners. He showed the small steps that keep hooves honest. He taught them to bow before leaping, to breathe with the wind, to stand still until the sky remembers your name. When the stars finally wobbled a little, the kids gasped and forgot to be cool.

Word spread weirdly. The village’s children began bringing blankets to the shoulder of the mountain. Parents followed so their fear wouldn’t walk alone. A drummer carried a hand drum and tried to keep time. Uche shook his head. “Let the sky lead.” The drummer tucked his instrument under his arm and listened until he could hear the rhythm that needs no hands.

Not everyone liked this new habit. A jealous ram declared the dance “nonsense that risks necks.” He climbed to mock Uche and slipped, hanging by one desperate hoof. Uche reached him fast, pressed horn to horn, and levered him back. No scolding, just a look that said: we do not waste lives on being right. The ram went home quiet and returned another night to learn the bow.

Seasons turned. The goats that danced grew sure-footed in storms and calm in darkness. They found new grazing by starlight and brought mothers with kids safely through rock mazes that used to eat ankles. The village tracked planting by the dance too, for Uche discovered which constellations meant frost, which meant soft rain, which meant hold-your-seed-and-wait.

When Uche’s muzzle silvered, he climbed slower, but the stars came quicker as if they, too, had grown fond of this goat who visited so faithfully. On his final dance, he bowed long to the mountain and longer to the sky. The herd below saw the stars sway more deeply than ever, a great breathing across the black. Children cheered and then grew quiet, sensing a goodbye they hadn’t been told.

Uche lay down on the warm rock and watched until his eyes held nothing but the night he loved. The mountain kept him gently. After that, on certain evenings, the stars still sway above that ledge. Parents tell children, “A goat taught them the step.” The children laugh, then listen, and some of them climb.

Moral: Dreams reach where hooves cannot but they return to light the path for all.

19/09/2025

The Cat Who Counted Dreams

Long ago, when sleep was still considered a gift instead of a burden, there lived a cat named Imani. She was unlike other cats, who hunted for mice and curled lazily in the sun. Imani hunted something else entirely dreams. Every night, when the village fell quiet and the moon leaned low, she crept silently across rooftops, her paws softer than whispers, her eyes glowing like two lanterns lit by starlight.

It was said that she could see dreams as clearly as hunters see footprints in the sand. They floated from sleeping people in shimmering threads blue for hope, gold for joy, gray for sorrow, and red for fear. Imani counted them as if each were a bead in a sacred necklace. She never touched them, never broke them, only counted, for she believed every dream was a secret piece of the world’s balance.

One night, however, something strange happened. As she padded past the hut of a poor widow, she saw only silence above her mat. No dreams floated out. Imani frowned, for she had counted dreams in this hut many times before dreams of the widow’s husband long gone, dreams of a son taken by sickness, even fragile dreams of planting yams that would not rot. But tonight, there was nothing.

Imani slipped inside and sat by the widow’s side. Her breath was steady, but her sleep was empty. “If dreams disappear,” Imani thought, “the soul begins to wither.” She purred low, not to wake her but to stir her heart. Slowly, a thin thread of silver rose weak, but real. It told of a tomorrow where the widow laughed again. Imani counted it, then guarded it until dawn, batting away shadows that tried to chew at its edges.

The next day, the widow woke lighter. She did not know why, but she hummed as she fetched water. Imani smiled in her secret way.

Night after night, Imani began to do more than count. She began to tend. She licked sorrow-threads so they gleamed brighter, nudged golden hopes closer to sleeping hearts, and shielded children’s fearful reds until they softened into pale pink. She still counted, but now she cared.

But the world noticed. Shadows that fed on broken dreams grew angry. They crept from the forest with long fingers, hissing, “Cat, leave what is ours.” Imani arched her back and hissed louder. She would not abandon the dreams she had guarded. The shadows struck, tearing at her fur, but she fought with claws sharp as truth. For each scratch she bore, a child in the village slept safely.

One night, the shadows grew bold. They wrapped around her and whispered, “Why count dreams at all? They die with dawn. They mean nothing.”

Imani almost believed them. Then she looked to the smallest hut where a sick boy slept. From his mouth rose a dream-thread, fragile as smoke: he dreamed of running again. She touched it gently with her paw, and it steadied. She realized then: dreams may vanish with daylight, but they leave roots in waking hearts. They teach people to try again, to plant again, to sing again.

With a roar too fierce for such a small body, she clawed the shadows apart. They shrieked and fled to the far side of the forest, where they still wait for careless hearts. Imani limped back to the boy’s hut, tired but victorious.

From then on, people began to notice her differently. They saw her sitting on their windowsills, eyes half closed, as if listening to something far away. They began to leave bowls of milk not just for hunger, but in gratitude. Mothers whispered to children, “Sleep, for the Cat Who Counts Dreams will watch.”

As Imani grew older, she did not weaken. Her body slowed, but her spirit stretched larger than night. She became a legend. Elders told travelers, “If you dream sweetly here, thank the cat who keeps count.”

And so she remained, padding along rooftops as generations passed, counting not for numbers but for meaning. For every dream was a seed, and she was its keeper. Some say that even now, when the night is soft and a cat stares too long at your sleeping face, it is Imani making sure your dreams are not forgotten.

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Moral Lessons
1. Even the smallest guardian can protect the greatest treasures.
2. Dreams may vanish with morning, but they leave strength in the heart.
3. True service is not in counting but in caring.
4. Shadows thrive only when hope is left unguarded.
5. What seems ordinary like a cat may carry sacred work unseen.

18/09/2025

The Goat That Danced with Stars

High in the mountains lived a goat named Uche. While the herd stayed near the lower slopes where grass was plentiful, Uche always sought higher paths. He believed that the mountain tops whispered secrets to those bold enough to climb. The elders shook their heads. “A goat’s place is with the herd,” they said. But Uche’s heart leapt whenever the stars began to prick the sky.

One night, restless under the weight of ordinary life, Uche climbed higher than he had ever gone before. Rocks scraped his hooves. Cold nipped his ears. Still he climbed, guided by the silver thread of the Milky Way above him. At the peak, the world fell away. The sky seemed close enough to touch.

And then, as if in answer to his longing, the stars lowered their gaze. They shimmered, and Uche lifted his horns. The stars brushed them gently. Light spilled down his body, and in that moment, joy overwhelmed him. He danced clumsy, leaping, spinning. The stars laughed, twinkling brighter, and joined his dance.

When he returned to the herd at dawn, his coat shimmered faintly with starlight. “Where have you been?” they asked.
“I danced with the stars,” he said simply. They laughed. “Stars are too far,” they said. But that night, when they looked up, the stars swayed as though remembering steps.

The children of the village noticed. They begged their parents to stay up late, to watch the sky’s new dance. Songs were made. Soon even the doubters whispered that perhaps Uche had indeed touched what others only admired from below.

Uche never bragged. He continued to climb, to dance, to remind the stars that goats, too, could dream beyond stone and grass. His herd began to follow him higher, daring more, believing more.

And when children asked their parents why the stars sometimes swayed at night, the elders said, “Because once, a goat dared to dance with them, and they loved him for it.”

Moral: Dreams touch places feet alone cannot reach.

17/09/2025

The Sparrow’s Secret Song

In the village of Udala the morning belonged to mortar and pestle. Women pounded yam. Men called to cattle. Roosters stitched the air with their same bright boast. The drums of the night market still hummed in the bones of the young. Between those loud threads there lived a thin filament of music that most ears never caught. It belonged to a small gray sparrow who nested in the rafters of the abandoned schoolhouse at the edge of the banana grove.

Her name was Anuli. She had a throat like a reed flute and a shyness that made her tuck her song deep inside her chest. When she opened it at first light the sound did not try to win. It did not climb high to prove it could. It moved slow, the way a hand moves over a sleeping child’s hair. She sang to dew that gathered on cassava leaves. She sang to the earth before feet troubled it. She sang to the river while it was still thinking of being a mirror.

Anuli had learned quiet the hard way. As a fledgling she once joined the evening racket on the iroko. The parrot mocked her simple notes. The hornbill laughed. Even the rooster chuckled in his rust. After that she kept her music for dawn and for herself. It was enough, or so she told her small heart.

One season a shepherd named Izu lost his father to fever. Silence followed him around the compound and into his sleep. The world tasted like boiled yam without salt. On the seventh morning after the burial, he woke before the rooster because grief keeps a different time. He walked without plan past the old schoolhouse where chalk ghosts still waited on the walls. There he heard something that made his shoulders drop as if a load had been lifted. It was Anuli’s song pouring through a crack in the roof.

He did not clap. He did not call out. He leaned against the dusty doorframe and let the notes stitch his torn place. When she finished, he wiped his face and left a handful of millet on the sill. At dawn the next day he returned. She sang again, not for pay but because his quiet had joined hers. The millet kept appearing. Word of his dawn walks reached his mother, then his aunties, then the talkative palm wine tapper who could not hold any story without spilling it into the village.

“What do you hear there before the sun sits up?” people asked.

“A small thing that makes big things bearable,” Izu said.

Curiosity is louder than shyness. On the fifth morning the potter came. On the sixth the woman who had not conceived. On the seventh the old hunter with a knee that crackled like dry leaves. They stood in the shadow of the schoolhouse and listened with their breath instead of their mouths. Anuli saw shapes gather through the gap. Her chest tightened. She remembered laughter that once pushed her from the iroko. She almost swallowed her song.

But Izu looked up and did something strong men rarely do in public. He closed his eyes and let tears find their path. Something in Anuli’s small body unknotted. She let the song come, not bigger, just true. It rested on their shoulders and in their throats and in the soft place between rib and spine where sorrow makes a nest.

After that, dawn in Udala grew a new habit. The rooster still bragged. The pestles still rose and fell. Yet a pause lived between those sounds. People woke a little earlier to stand by the schoolhouse. They did not bring drums. They did not ask the sparrow to change her notes or add trills to please them. They brought their burdens. They left them a little lighter.

Jealousy visited, as it always does when quiet things begin to shine. The parrot arrived with a tail clean as a proverb and offered to teach the sparrow to sing in seven languages. The hornbill suggested harmony that would roll down the hills like a parade. The drummer boy asked to beat a soft background so the song would sound more important.

Anuli thanked them. She kept her song the size of dew. She sang for the woman who miscarried. She sang for the boy who limped. She sang for a marriage that had grown careful and needed a soft cloth over its sharp places. She sang when the rains returned and when they forgot the village for a week. The elders began to say the dawn had a guardian. Mothers began to hush quarrels if the first light approached. “Do not bruise the morning,” they warned. “It must carry a song.”

One morning the roof gave way under Anuli’s feet. She fell through and flapped in panic, striking the empty classroom, scattering chalk dust like pale smoke. Izu lifted her with tender hands and set her back in the rafters. The village gathered in the doorway. “We will fix this place,” said the potter. “No one should sing under a roof that forgets to hold.” The carpenter brought fresh palm fronds. Children swept. The old hunter, whose knee protested every stair, climbed a ladder with nails in his teeth because some debts cannot be measured and must be paid anyway.

They did not paint the schoolhouse. They kept it simple, the way a bowl is made to hold water not to boast. Anuli watched all this work with eyes like small beads and felt her fear loosen into trust. The next dawn she sang earlier than usual. The river listened harder. Even the rooster paused between boasts.

People lived their lives. They still grieved and argued and lost their way now and then. Yet each morning a thin thread of music held the day together long enough for mercy to be tied in. Children who grew up with that song learned that comfort does not always arrive in thunder. Sometimes it comes on a small pair of wings, carrying notes no bigger than a tear.

If you pass Udala at first light you will see figures in the dim, standing close but not crowding. You will hear mortar and pestle wait a heartbeat. You will hear a sparrow begin. Then you will know why the village learned to protect small things. Their strength is not in volume. It is in how they find the cracks and make a home there.

Merab Blog 9ja

28/09/2025

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