https://www.facebook.com/306099442593218/

Bsong Official, Warri (2025)

11/07/2025

The Drumbeat Beneath the Baobab

An African Folktale

⸻

Long ago, before iron tools touched the earth and long before drums were beaten with hands, there lived a boy named Ifeloju in a sun-warmed village nestled beneath a towering baobab tree. This was no ordinary baobab it was ancient, twisted with stories in its bark and thick with the whispers of ancestors. People believed it held the soul of the land.

Ifeloju was a boy with a wild spirit and a quiet heart. He never spoke much, but his ears were sharp as eagle claws. What fascinated him most was rhythm. Not just music, but rhythm in all things the rustle of millet stalks in the wind, the thump of feet on red earth, even the throb of his own heartbeat when he stood beneath the mighty baobab. He often sat beneath the tree, eyes closed, listening.

One dry season, a famine spread across the region. The rivers thinned into lines of sorrow, and the soil grew hard. Drums no longer played. Songs vanished from the throats of women. Even laughter fled the village. People feared the gods had turned their backs.

But Ifeloju, still only ten years old, would go to the baobab tree every night. One evening, as the wind died and even the stars seemed to stop blinking, he heard something strange a drumbeat. Not from any house. Not from any man. But from deep inside the baobab itself.

It was faint, but steady. Like a heartbeat calling him.

He pressed his ear against the trunk. The rhythm thumped softly, like it had been waiting for someone to hear it. And then, as if the bark parted for him, a knot in the tree opened. Inside was a drum, shaped from the very wood of the baobab, carved with ancient symbols and tied with leather that smelled like forgotten rain.

Ifeloju didn’t hesitate.

He touched it.

The moment his fingers met the drum, the earth rumbled. Wind burst through the village. Crops still dry in the soil began to sway gently. And without knowing why, he began to play.

The rhythm poured out of him, faster than thought, deeper than fear. The villagers ran to the tree. Old men dropped their walking sticks. Women wept. Children stopped their crying. The sound filled their bones like water in cracked pots. It healed. It awakened.

That night, rain came.

Not in drops, but in a roar, as if the sky had been holding back until the drum’s song unlocked its heart. Crops returned. Laughter came back. So did hope.

From then on, Ifeloju played the baobab drum only when the village truly needed it when babies were born, when war threatened, when love needed a path. But he never claimed the drum as his own. He always said:

“I did not find the drum. The drum found its rhythm in me.”

And when he grew old, he passed the secret to a girl named Ewatomi, who also listened deeply. And when she touched the drum, it beat a new rhythm, soft and bright.

Because the drum beneath the baobab never truly sleeps.

⸻

Moral Lessons:
1. Those who listen deeply can awaken what others forget.
2. Gifts are not owned they are carried for the good of all.
3. Even in silence, rhythm lives and waits to be heard.

⸻

11/07/2025

Title: The Drum That Refused to Echo Lies

⸻

In the village of Owerre, drums spoke louder than words. Every event—birth, death, war, marriage—was announced through a beat. And the greatest of these drums was called Uduka. Tall, carved from iroko wood, its voice could reach the ears of distant forests and sleeping hills.

No one knew exactly how old it was. But elders said it once refused to sound during a war started on a lie. Since then, Uduka had only responded to the truth.

The drum had a keeper, a boy named Tobe, just thirteen, but with eyes that saw things others missed. His father had died years back, leaving the sacred duty of Uduka to him.

⸻

One harmattan morning, the air full of red dust and cold silence, something strange happened.

Chief Oba, the ruler of Owerre, called a gathering. He said some villagers had plotted to poison his food. He named three people: Mama Ezechi, a widow who sold herbs, Ogbuefi Nnamdi, a farmer, and D**e, a young hunter.

They all denied it.

The chief, red-faced and trembling with anger, ordered Tobe to sound Uduka and announce their shame.

But when Tobe struck the drum, it stayed silent.

He hit again.

Nothing.

The crowd murmured.

The chief growled.

Tobe stood in fear, sweat dripping down his spine. He whispered to the drum. Begged it to speak.

Still, it was quiet.

⸻

That night, Tobe wept. He was afraid the chief would punish him. But in his dreams, a voice came—low and steady like rain on a thatched roof.

“Do not beat a lie into the wind. What is not true cannot echo.”

The next day, Chief Oba sent guards to seize the accused.

But as they dragged them to the village square, a child came running.

She had overheard the palace cook confess.

The real poisoner was the chief’s own nephew, hoping to take his seat.

The lie unraveled like dry raffia.

The people were stunned.

And when Tobe was asked to strike the drum again, he tapped it gently.

Boom.

Uduka answered.

⸻

From that day, Uduka became more than a drum. It was the soul of Owerre.

Whenever someone lied in the village, Tobe would touch the drum. If it stayed quiet, the village knew to look deeper.

They called it the Drum of Conscience.

And they called Tobe the Boy Who Guarded the Truth.

⸻

Moral Lessons:
1. Truth has a sound and lies cannot echo it.
2. Silence can be a powerful way of protecting the innocent.
3. Even a child can guard a community with courage and honesty.

⸻

04/07/2025

The Lion’s Whisker

In a small village nestled at the foot of the great mountains, there lived a woman named Amara. She had married a man named Kofi, who was kind but troubled.

Since returning from war, Kofi had become distant, quick-tempered, and withdrawn. No matter how much Amara tried, she couldn’t reach his heart. Their home, once filled with laughter, now echoed with silence.

Desperate to restore the love they once shared, Amara sought the help of the village’s wise elder, Mama Yaa. The old woman was revered for her deep knowledge of herbs, spirits, and the ways of the heart.

Amara poured out her troubles, tears running down her cheeks. "Mama Yaa, please help me. I want a potion that will make Kofi love me like before."

Mama Yaa listened quietly, then nodded thoughtfully. “There is a potion,” she said, “but it requires a very special ingredient — a whisker from the great lion that lives beyond the river.”
Amara’s eyes widened in fear. “The lion? No one goes near that beast and returns.”

The old woman’s eyes twinkled. “Yes, it is dangerous. But if you truly want to heal your marriage, you must bring me one of the lion’s whiskers.”

Amara trembled but agreed. The very next day, she set out with a bowl of meat and trembling hands. She found the lion’s den from a distance. Hiding behind the bushes, she left the meat far from the lion and retreated quickly. The lion came, sniffed, and ate.

The next day, she returned. This time, she left the meat a little closer. Again and again, Amara came, each day inching closer, moving slowly, speaking softly, and offering food. Weeks passed. The lion grew accustomed to her presence, no longer roaring or baring its teeth.

One day, as the lion lay peacefully after his meal, Amara whispered a prayer, crept close, and with steady hands, plucked a single whisker from his muzzle.

Heart pounding, she raced back to Mama Yaa and held out the precious whisker. “I have it! Now, please, make me the potion.”

Mama Yaa took the whisker, smiled warmly, and threw it into the fire. Amara gasped. “Why did you do that?”

The wise woman took Amara’s hands in hers. “Amara, the courage, patience, and gentle persistence you showed to gain the lion’s trust are the very things you need to heal your marriage. There is no potion for love. Love is tended, day by day, just as you tamed the lion.”

For the first time in months, Amara felt a spark of hope. She returned home, not with a magical potion, but with a new understanding. Slowly, gently, she began to approach Kofi not with demands, but with patience, kindness, and steady love.

Little by little, Kofi softened. His walls began to crumble. He spoke more, smiled more, and one day, as they sat by the fire, he reached for Amara’s hand and whispered, “Thank you for not giving up on me.”

And so, the lion’s whisker became not a symbol of magic, but a lesson: that the fiercest hearts can be won — not through force, but through patience, understanding, and the quiet strength of love.

03/07/2025

Title: The Brother Who Buried His Pride
A African Folktale About forgiveness, humility, and the strength in letting go of ego

⸻

In the rugged hills of Umugo, two brothers, Obinna and Ejike, were born a year apart but raised like twins. They fetched water together, chased goats together, even got into trouble together. Their bond was the kind people spoke of during moonlight gatherings.

Their father, a hunter known across five villages, taught them the value of unity. “The spear is sharp,” he used to say, “but the hand that throws it must be steady. That hand is your brother.”

But when their father passed, something broke between them.

It started small a disagreement about who should lead the funeral rites. Then it was about land. Then it became about everything.

By the time the funeral ended, the brothers no longer spoke.

Obinna took the upper farmland.

Ejike moved closer to the river.

And the space between them grew like a wall too high to climb.

⸻

Years passed.

Villagers tried to intervene. “You are brothers,” the elders reminded them.

But pride is a heavy thing. And both men carried it like a boulder on their back.

Each time they passed each other in the market, their heads turned away.

One season, Ejike’s farm flooded. He lost his yams and had to buy food on credit.

The next, Obinna’s wife fell ill and needed herbs only found near the river on Ejike’s land.

Neither asked for help.

Neither offered.

The silence between them was louder than war.

⸻

Then one dry morning, word spread that their late father’s hunting spear had been found deep in the forest near the foot of the hills. The hunter who found it claimed it had no rust, no age like it had waited.

The village called for a ceremony to honor it.

It was tradition that the sons of the hunter present the weapon to the ancestors.

But both brothers refused to speak to the other.

The elder priest, tired of the rift, made a quiet announcement.

“If the brothers cannot honor the father in unity, then the spear will be buried—with the shame of both.”

The village grew still.

⸻

That night, Obinna couldn’t sleep. He stared at his father’s old wrapper, folded in a corner.

Ejike sat by the river, holding a small wooden carving their father once made of two boys holding a spear together.

Both remembered the same words:

“If your pride becomes heavier than your brother, you will one day drown in it.”

⸻

Before the ceremony, Obinna arrived early and dug a small hole behind the gathering hut. He dropped in something wrapped in cloth and covered it.

When the crowd gathered, Ejike was surprised to see him standing tall beside the priest.

“What have you buried?” the priest asked.

Obinna looked at his brother.

“My pride.”

Ejike said nothing. His eyes filled.

He stepped forward and dropped a pouch into the same hole.

“My anger.”

Together, they lifted the spear.

The wind stirred.

Some say even their father’s hunting drum echoed from nowhere.

The brothers walked home together that day, saying little, but walking side by side for the first time in many seasons.

⸻

Moral Lessons:
1. Pride divides faster than hate.
2. True strength is found in those who ask for peace first.
3. To bury your pride is to build a path back to those you love..

03/07/2025

Title: The Farmer Who Shared His Shadow
An African Folktale About humility, quiet kindness, and the legacy we leave behind

⸻

In the quiet village of Obele, where the sun often lingered long before setting, there lived a farmer named Udo. He was not a man of many words, nor was he known for wealth or stories. But his farm always bloomed, and his heart was never closed.

He lived in a small mud hut at the edge of the village, just where the forest began to whisper. Each day, he walked barefoot to his field before the cock’s second crow, humming to himself and tending his crops with patience only time could teach.

But what made Udo different wasn’t just his green thumb.

It was what people began to call his shadow.

⸻

Whenever someone passed his field—tired, hungry, or simply lost—Udo would stop what he was doing and offer something.

A fresh tuber of yam.

A drink from his clay pot.

A place to sit beneath his old mango tree.

And always, he stood beside them not ahead, not behind, but beside letting his own shadow stretch over theirs, offering relief from the sun, as if he had plenty to spare.

The villagers began to say, “Udo shares his shadow.”

They didn’t mean the darkness on the ground.

They meant the safety, the presence, the peace of being near someone who carried no pride.

⸻

One market day, a wealthy merchant came to Obele. He wanted to buy up farmland to build a storage barn. He visited many farmers, offering gold and salt. Most agreed.

When he got to Udo, he saw the humble hut and the old man in worn wrappers and sandals.

The merchant laughed.

“This one will sell for a handful of kola nuts.”

But when he made his offer, Udo smiled.

“I do not own this land,” he said.

The merchant frowned. “It’s your farm.”

“I plant here, but the land feeds many. Even those who pass through,” Udo said. “So, if you want to buy, you must ask the shadows too.”

⸻

The merchant thought he was joking.

Until he tried to take it anyway.

The day he brought men to clear the land, they began falling ill.

The clouds turned suddenly dark.

And one of his workers shouted that he saw “a long shadow standing in the field.”

They fled.

And never returned.

⸻

After that, Udo’s story spread across the villages.

Not because he fought back.

But because he didn’t have to.

Even when he passed away years later, they said he died sitting under his mango tree, watching the wind dance through his crops.

No gold in his hut.

No title to his name.

But every child in Obele knew where to go when the sun grew too hot and the world too loud.

Under the tree.

Where Udo’s shadow still lingered.

⸻

Moral Lessons:
1. Kindness leaves a longer shadow than power.
2. What you give in silence often speaks loudest after you’re gone.
3. True wealth is in how many people feel safe in your presence.

⸻

02/07/2025

Title: The Daughter Who Fed Her Enemies

In the village of Umuaka, tucked between wide rivers and tall mango trees, there lived a girl named Awele. Her name meant “gentle wind,” and it suited her well. She wasn’t loud or quick to anger, but her presence calmed people like the cool air after a storm.

Awele was the only daughter of Elder Uzo, a respected farmer known for his wisdom and fairness. He taught her early to grow her own food, to use her hands before her voice, and to always leave her doorstep open for the hungry.

The village thrived.

But not all was well outside the boundaries of Umuaka.

One dry season, warriors from a rival village raided the farmlands, stole goats, and burned down yam barns. The chief of Umuaka called the act unforgivable. Retaliation was planned.

Swords were sharpened.

Awele watched in silence.

⸻

Three days before the attack, Awele left her home before sunrise. She carried a basket filled with food: roasted yams, palm oil, smoked fish, and sweet fruit.

She didn’t tell anyone where she was going.

She walked far, through the edge of the forest, down paths her father had shown her only once, until she reached the river that separated Umuaka from the enemy village of Eziama.

There, just by the water, she found a group of young boys dirty, thin, and bruised. She knew at once they were part of the enemy clan. Children of the raiders.

They stood up when they saw her, unsure whether to flee or fight.

But Awele did not speak.

She knelt.

She opened her basket.

And she fed them.

⸻

One of them, the oldest, stared at her and asked, “Why?”

She only said, “Because your hunger does not make me your enemy.”

She left the basket behind and walked home before the sun had fully risen.

⸻

The next morning, she returned.

And the next.

The boys began to speak.

They told her that their people raided not from greed, but from desperation. A sickness had struck their farms. Their water was poisoned. Their elders had died. Their new leader was angry, and anger had become their only language.

Awele listened.

She took their words back to her father.

⸻

At first, Elder Uzo did not believe her. But Awele’s voice held the calmness of someone who had seen truth. She begged him not to let the village go to war without understanding what had truly happened.

Her father brought her before the council.

Some mocked her.

Others laughed.

But a few elders remembered how truth often comes from unexpected mouths.

They agreed to send one messenger, with Awele as the guide.

When they arrived at the enemy village, what they saw shocked them dried crops, children coughing, elders wrapped in leaves trying to heal with nothing but roots and hope.

The enemy wasn’t a beast.

It was suffering.

⸻

Instead of war, the two villages made a pact.

Seeds were shared.

Herbalists were exchanged.

And in time, both lands healed.

No one forgot who stopped the war before it began.

They carved Awele’s name into the elder stone.

But she asked for no statue.

Only a bench near the river, where people could sit, eat, and listen.

⸻

Years later, Awele’s story became a fire-side tale for mothers to tell their children not just about peace, but about how feeding someone can sometimes do what swords never can.

⸻

Moral Lessons:
1. Kindness is a language that even enemies understand.
2. Listening can stop battles before they begin.
3. True strength is not in retaliation, but in compassion.

28/06/2025

“The Vulture Who Cried for the Ones Still Breathing”

⸻

In the wide plains of Oba Oloko, where the grass rose tall and yellow and the sun never seemed to sleep, there lived a vulture named Eshe.

She flew high.

Alone.

Always alone.

The other birds kept their distance. Even the jackals whispered behind her wings.

“Here comes death,” they muttered.

“She must bring bad omens,” said the doves.

“She never laughs,” said the monkeys. “She watches too much.”

But Eshe was not cruel.

She was just…quiet.

She saw things others didn’t want to see. And she flew where others were too afraid to go—over battlefields, drought lands, and forgotten places where silence screamed louder than thunder.

She did not kill.

She only came after.

And that made her hated.

⸻

One season, a great sickness spread through the southern forest. Animals died in numbers not seen before. The jackals and hyenas feasted. The crows cawed with wild joy.

But not Eshe.

She did what she always did cleaned what was left behind. Took the rot. Took the smell. Took the burden.

And flew away.

But this time, the forest animals had had enough.

The antelope stood tall.

“Vulture!” he shouted. “Why do you follow death?”

“You are the shadow that chases sorrow!” yelled the hare.

“You are the curse!” cried the leopard.

They gathered and banned her from flying above their trees. From perching on their rocks. From being seen in the daylight.

“You are not one of us,” they said.

“You belong to the dead.”

Eshe said nothing.

She turned her head once, then flew away.

⸻

Up high in the lonely air, she wept.

But not for herself.

She wept for them.

For their fear.

For their misunderstanding.

For the way they judged her by her feathers and her silence, and not the work she did for them in return.

She wept because she knew someone had to carry the burden no one wanted.

Someone had to clean what was broken.

⸻

Weeks passed.

Then came the Great Fire.

No one knew how it started. But it spread fast—fast enough that even the fastest animals couldn’t outrun it.

Smoke filled the air.

Nests burned.

The trees cried.

And the ground turned to ash.

The birds fled.

The animals scattered.

The forest fell silent.

When it was over, all that remained was charred earth and frightened hearts.

But high above, a shadow circled.

Eshe.

She returned not to feast.

But to clean.

To carry the smell of death away.

To help restore what could be saved.

She gathered scorched feathers and dropped them into the river.

She cleared dead carcasses so flies wouldn’t breed disease.

She flew from hill to hill, checking where help was needed.

And she did not stop.

Not for praise.

Not for forgiveness.

Just because it had to be done.

⸻

The animals watched.

Ash-covered and humbled.

They had seen the truth.

She was not a curse.

She was a keeper.

A quiet healer.

A reminder that sometimes, the ugliest roles are the most necessary.

They approached her slowly.

“We judged you,” said the tortoise. “But we did not understand you.”

Eshe blinked.

“I do not need your apology,” she said.

“But I accept your sight.”

And with that, she flew off again.

Back into the sun.

Back into the wind.

Not for recognition.

Just to carry what others couldn’t.

⸻

Moral Lessons:
1. Do not judge those who carry burdens you do not understand.
2. Sometimes, the quietest work is the most important.
3. It is easy to condemn what you do not see clearly. Compassion begins with understanding.

27/06/2025

Nigerian cook Harrison Odjegba Okene survived 60 hours trapped in an air pocket 100 feet underwater after the tugboat he was in capsized in May 2013. 🌊 ⏱️ 🛟

The Jascon-4 vessel had been pulling an oil tanker off the coast of Nigeria when it suddenly overturned and rapidly sank to the Atlantic Ocean floor.

While 11 of his crew members perished in the disaster, the 29-year-old cook managed to find a small air pocket in the ship's hull.

Wearing only his boxer shorts in the pitch-black compartment, Okene faced hypothermia as cold ocean water continuously seeped into his diminishing air space.

Drinking Coca-Cola to stay hydrated and listening to the sounds of fish eating the bodies of his deceased shipmates, Okene clung to life while reciting a psalm his wife had shared with him.

On the third day underwater, Okene heard knocking sounds. South African divers sent to recover bodies were shocked to discover his hand reaching out from the darkness.

Rescuers fitted Okene with an oxygen mask and carefully decompressed him during the rescue to prevent deadly gas bubbles from forming in his blood.

Okene's unprecedented survival stunned the diving community - most shipwreck victims in similar circumstances die within hours, not days.

After his rescue, Okene suffered from nightmares and survivor's guilt. Though offered work on land by the same company, he vowed never to return to the sea. However, he later returned to the sea and became a diver against his brother's wish, choosing to deal with his fears and trauma.

His remarkable story remains one of the most extraordinary survival tales in maritime history.

Sources: Associated Press, The Mail & Guardian, Maritime Executive

27/06/2025

The Forbidden Love

In a quiet mountain village surrounded by dense pine forests and ancient legends, lived two neighboring families—the Morenos and the Valderas. For generations, these families had been bitter enemies, feuding over a forgotten insult that no one alive could clearly remember. Yet the hatred lived on, passed down like an heirloom.

Isla Moreno was the only daughter of her family, a curious girl with eyes full of wonder and a heart open to the world. Across the fields, in the Valderas household, lived Elias, a boy with a quiet strength and a soul drawn to poetry. The two had often seen each other from afar—during village festivals, at the market, or while tending to the cattle—but had never spoken.

One autumn morning, fate intervened. Isla wandered into the forest to gather wild herbs. A sudden storm rolled in, and she slipped on a wet rock near the riverbank. Her ankle twisted, and she cried out in pain. As if summoned by her voice, Elias appeared, having heard her cries while returning from fishing.

Without hesitation, he lifted her gently and carried her to the edge of the forest. “You’re Isla Moreno,” he said softly. “And you’re Elias Valderas,” she replied, her voice full of disbelief and wonder.

That moment became the beginning of something they never expected—friendship that blossomed into love. They met in secret under the old cypress tree, sharing dreams, fears, and poems. The forest became their sanctuary, a place untouched by hate.

But secrets rarely stay buried.

One winter night, a cousin of Isla spotted them together. The news spread like wildfire. Both families erupted in fury. Isla was locked in her room. Elias was forbidden to leave his house. The village elders convened, urging peace, but pride clouded judgment.

In the stillness of that long winter, Isla wrote Elias a final letter:
"If love is a crime, let it be the one we commit in truth. I will wait under the cypress tree when the moon is full. Come, if your heart still dares to beat for mine."

On the appointed night, Elias snuck out, heart pounding, unsure if she would come. But she was there, wrapped in a cloak, her eyes shimmering like the stars above.

“I don’t want to live in a world where we must hate because others did,” she whispered.

They ran. Not far, but far enough to start anew in a neighboring town. Years later, they returned—not as star-crossed lovers, but as husband and wife, with a child in hand. Their return softened the hearts of many. Time, love, and the innocence of a child began to mend the wounds of old.

By the time they were old and grey, the feud had faded into memory, and the village celebrated a new festival each year under the cypress tree, in honor of love that healed a broken past.
-
***
Moral Lesson:
True love transcends hatred, pride, and fear. When people choose compassion over conflict, even the deepest wounds can heal. Holding onto old grudges may preserve history, but choosing love writes a better future.

27/06/2025

Title: The Crocodile Who Forgot How to Cry

Deep in the slow-moving waters of the Ezi River lived a crocodile named Oko. His scales were tough, his jaws strong, and his stare could silence a bird mid-song. Among the animals, Oko was feared and respected. But no one knew much about him. He didn’t speak often, and when he did, his words were short and sharp.

Many whispered that Oko had no heart.

“He never laughs, never mourns, never cries,” the heron said.
“He’s stone inside,” the turtles muttered.

But they were wrong.

Oko had once known how to cry.

Long ago.

⸻

When Oko was just a small croc, he had a friend named Tima a gentle hippo who loved to sing in the evenings when the river glowed with fading sun. Tima and Oko were inseparable. They played, shared secrets, and made promises. One of those promises was: “No matter what, we always speak the truth to each other. No hiding.”

But one dry season, something happened.

Food became scarce.

The river shrank.

One day, Tima shared her portion with Oko, even though she had little. But Oko, ashamed of his hunger and pride, took more than he should. And when she asked him about it later, he lied.

It was small, but it grew.

More lies.

More silence.

Until one morning, Tima vanished.

Gone. Without a word.

Oko waited. Days. Weeks.

He searched, but she never returned.

No one knew where she had gone.

He tried to cry.

But no tears came.

Only silence.

And from that day on, he stopped speaking much at all.

⸻

Years passed.

Oko grew bigger.

Stronger.

But inside, he felt hollow.

His power meant nothing without someone to understand him. But it was too late. And the one who could have helped him feel again had disappeared like mist.

⸻

One day, a young tortoise named Kelechi approached him at the riverbank.

“You’re the crocodile who never cries,” she said boldly.

Oko stared at her.

“What do you want?”

“To know why,” she replied.

“No one cares,” he growled.

“I care,” she said.

Oko turned away.

But she didn’t leave.

Each day, she came. Sat beside him. Spoke little, but stayed long.

And slowly, something stirred.

⸻

One evening, the sky turned gray and the river sang a sad song. Kelechi looked up at Oko and asked, “Did you ever love someone?”

Oko’s jaws tightened.

He looked into the water.

Saw his reflection.

Then, he spoke.

“I had a friend. Her name was Tima.”

And the story poured out word by word. Like the river breaking its own banks.

When he finished, there was silence.

Then Kelechi reached out and touched his foot.

“It wasn’t the lie that hurt the most,” she said. “It was not saying sorry when you had the chance.”

Oko didn’t respond.

But that night, when the stars blinked low and quiet, a single tear slid from his eye.

Not for the past.

But for the part of him that had waited so long to feel again.

⸻

From then on, Oko changed.

He still looked fierce. Still hunted. Still ruled the river.

But when young ones came to speak, he listened.

When someone cried, he sat beside them.

And when they asked about feelings, he didn’t hide.

Because he had learned something powerful:

It takes more courage to cry than to bite.

⸻

Moral Lessons:
1. Hiding emotions doesn’t make pain go away it only buries it deeper.
2. A strong heart is one that isn’t afraid to feel.
3. Sometimes, healing starts the moment we tell the truth.

Bsong Official

11/07/2025

11/07/2025

04/07/2025

03/07/2025

03/07/2025

02/07/2025

28/06/2025

27/06/2025

27/06/2025

27/06/2025

Address

Website

Alerts

Shortcuts

Share

Category