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Bsong Official, Warri (2025)

23/11/2025

HER WICKED STEPMOTHER SENT HER TO THE FOREST TO GET FIREWOOD EVERYDAY

EPISODE 1

“Amarachi! Amarachi, will you sleep till the sun burns your useless head?!”

The bamboo door crashed open with a loud thud. Her step mother’s voice tore through the air like a thunderclap. She stood in the doorway, anger already burning in her eyes.

Amarachi shot up from her bamboo bed, her heart racing. She was only nineteen, her frame slender, her spirit already bruised by too many mornings like this.

Her step mother simply called Nkem, roared in anger. “You’re still lying there like a princess? Do you expect the gods to sweep the compound for you? Get up this instant!”

“I’m sorry, Mama…” Amarachi’s voice quivered. She quickly rose, her bare feet hitting the cold, cracked floor.

“Sorry?” Nkem mocked, stepping closer until her heavy breath filled the small room. “Will ‘sorry’ cook breakfast? Will ‘sorry’ put firewood in the kitchen? Who do you think will do your job for you? Me? Or my precious daughter?”

Tears welled in Amarachi’s eyes, but she kept her head low. “I’ll sweep now, mama.”

“You better,” Nkem hissed, grabbing the broom by the wall and slamming it into her hands. “And when you’re done sweeping, light the fire and make pap and akara. Then off to the forest you go. The firewood you brought last time barely lasted two days. Lazy girl!”

She turned and walked out of the hut

The door slammed again, and silence returned — except for Amarachi’s muffled sobs. She sank to her knees, clutching the broom. The tears came hot and fast, falling on the dusty floor as she whispered to herself:

“Mama, if you were here, maybe life wouldn’t hurt this much…”

Her shoulders trembled, but she forced herself to move. She stepped out of the hut and began to sweep the compound. The early morning breeze greeted her with cool fingers.

When the compound was clean, she walked toward the kitchen shed made of wood and clay. She blew softly on the cold ashes, added dry sticks, and struck the firestone until sparks danced to life. Soon, thin smoke rose, curling into the morning sky.

She placed the pot on the fire, poured water, and began to stir the pap. Every movement came with a tear. Her hands trembled as she sliced onions into the bean paste for akara.

When the pap was ready, she called her step mother and informed her

Nkem stepped out of the main hut and walked into the kitchen. Without a word, she snatched the ladle from Amarachi’s hand and began to serve. She filled two large bowls to the brim.

“These are for me and my daughter,” she said coldly.

Then, she dipped the ladle again and poured a much smaller portion into a cracked calabash. “This one is for you,” she said with a sneer. “You don’t need much to swing a broom and carry wood.”

Amarachi swallowed hard, blinking fast to stop the tears that returned to her eyes.

Then Nkem filled another small bowl, her tone suddenly practical. “And this one—take it to that man you call father. Feed him quickly before you go. If not for you, he’d have starved long ago. He is nothing but a burden.”

Amarachi’s lips trembled. “Yes, Mama Nkem,” she whispered, taking the bowl carefully in both hands.

As she turned to leave, Nkem’s voice followed. “When you’re done feeding your precious father, head straight to the bush. I want firewood enough to last the week, you hear me? If you return before sunset without a heavy load, you’ll sleep outside tonight!”

“Yes, mama,” Amarachi said, her voice barely audible.

She walked across the compound toward her father’s hut, balancing the bowl with trembling hands.

When she reached her father’s hut, she pushed the door open gently with her foot. The air inside was thick and still. Her father laid helpless on a bamboo bed, his limbs stiff and motionless. His eyes moved slowly toward her, but he could not speak. He hadn’t spoken a word in five years.

“Papa…” she whispered, kneeling beside him. Her tears spilled freely now. “I brought your food.”

She placed the bowl on a stool, dipped a wooden spoon into the pap, and blew softly before lifting it to his lips. He swallowed with effort, his eyes glistening with gratitude. A faint sound escaped his throat—half a breath, half a groan.

“I know, Papa,” Amarachi said, forcing a smile through her tears. “I know what you want to say. You want me to be strong. But it’s hard.”

Her father’s eyes filled with tears. His hand twitched slightly on the mat—a helpless attempt to comfort her.

Amarachi broke down then. She buried her face in her palms, her shoulders shaking. “Every day I pray for you to get well,” she sobbed. “Five years, Papa. Five years I’ve been feeding and cleaning you. Five years I’ve been praying—and still, the gods are silent.”

The room was filled with her quiet crying and the soft buzz of morning insects outside.

When she was done feeding him, she washed the bowl and placed it aside. She spread a clean wrapper over his legs, tidied the mat, and swept the floor around his bed.

Then she stepped out of his hut, tied her wrapper tight, picked up her machete and rope. Then, without a word, she began walking toward the forest path to fetch firewood.

TO BE CONTINUED…

Written by Hilda's

06/10/2025

THE DANGER OF COPYING OTHERS

One afternoon, as I helped Grandma sort beans under the mango tree, I asked,
“Grandma, why do people always tell others what to do, yet they never follow their own advice?”

She chuckled softly, shaking her head.
“My son, people love giving directions on a road they’ve never walked.”

I frowned. “But Grandma, sometimes we follow what they say because it sounds right.”

She looked me in the eye and said,
“Words can shine like gold, but not every shining thing is true. Some people shout from the shore because they’ve never felt the storm.”

She poured the beans into a bowl and continued,
“If you copy others blindly, you’ll lose your path. A bird that flies with another’s wings will never reach its own destination.”

I asked quietly, “So what should we do?”

She smiled, tapping her cane gently.
“Listen, but don’t worship every voice. Learn, but don’t lose yourself. The wisdom that changes your life is the one you live — not the one you just repeat.”

And as I watched her work, I realized:
It’s easy to speak about consistency — harder to live it.
It’s easy to advise — harder to walk the talk.

So before you follow another’s map, ask if they’ve reached where they claim to be.

26/09/2025

SHAKE IT OFF AND STEP UP

THE STORY OF THE DONKEY

One day, a farmer’s old donkey 🫏 fell into a dry well. It cried for hours while the farmer stood above, helpless and uncertain. Finally, the farmer made a painful decision: the donkey was too old, the well too useless—it wasn’t worth saving. He called his neighbors, and together they grabbed shovels 🪏, preparing to bury the donkey alive.

At first, the donkey cried out in fear as dirt fell upon its back. But then something remarkable happened—it stopped crying. Instead, with every shovel of dirt, the donkey shook it off and stepped up. Over and over again: Shake it off. Step up.

Soon, to everyone’s amazement, the donkey climbed out of the well—alive, stronger, and unbroken.

THE LESSON IN THE STORY

Life will try to bury you with dirt—betrayal, rejection, failure, criticism, disappointment, and pain. Sometimes even those you thought would save you may be the ones adding to your burden. But the difference is not in what life throws at you, it is in how you respond to it. Every heap of dirt can either bury you or elevate you, depending on your attitude.

THE POWER OF RESILIENCE

Like the donkey, you must decide that every weight, insult, or challenge will not crush you but lift you. Resilience is the ability to use adversity as a stepping stone rather than a stumbling block. The more you shake it off and step up, the closer you rise to freedom and breakthrough.

PEOPLE MAY GIVE UP ON YOU

Sometimes life feels cruel when people you trust walk away or when society counts you out. But remember this: people’s opinion is not God’s conclusion. If others declare you finished, God can still write a new chapter. Let their rejection be your redirection, and let their dirt be your platform for growth.

HOW TO RESPOND TO LIFE’S DIRT

1. Shake it Off – Refuse to carry bitterness, fear, or discouragement. Don’t let negative words or painful experiences bury your spirit.

2. Step Up – Use what was meant to destroy you as motivation to climb higher. Let every failure become a lesson, every rejection a redirection, and every setback a setup for a comeback.

3. Keep Climbing – The process may be slow, but every little step brings you closer to your freedom and destiny.

FINAL WORD

Life will try to bury you. People may throw dirt on you. But if you choose to rise above it—shaking off the weight, stepping up in courage, and keeping your eyes on the goal—you will come out stronger, wiser, and unbroken.

Remember: The donkey survived not because the dirt stopped coming, but because it turned the dirt into steps. So when life throws dirt at you, don’t stop—shake it off and step up.

23/09/2025

*🔥BEFORE YOU CALL YOURSELF A PROPHET OR APOSTLE*

Before you boldly call yourself a prophet, do you know what it truly meant for Prophet Isaiah to serve God? He was sawn in two for the very Gospel we enjoy today.

Before you take the title of an apostle, consider this: the Apostle John was thrown into a cauldron of boiling oil because of his unwavering commitment to Christ.

Peter was crucified upside down because he felt unworthy to die the same way Jesus did.

These early Christians did not build massive churches or host global conferences, but they turned the world upside down by preaching Christ and winning souls.

They paid the highest price — their lives — for the Gospel.

Today, titles like "Apostle," "Prophet," "Bishop," and "Pastor" are often worn like fashion accessories. Many desire the name but know nothing of its sacrifice. We must ask ourselves: are we truly servants of God, or are we serving ourselves?

Ministry is not a platform for profit. It is a sacred calling. Your purpose is to glorify God and win souls, not to build an empire of wealth and fame. Let us remember the price the apostles paid so we can freely hear the Gospel today.

*▪️HOW THE APOSTLES DIED*

1. Matthew
Suffered martyrdom in Ethiopia. He was killed by a sword for preaching the Gospel.

2. Mark
Dragged to death by horses through the streets of Alexandria, Egypt.

3. Luke
Hanged in Greece for boldly preaching Christ to the lost.

4. John
Boiled in a massive pot of oil during a persecution in Rome but was miraculously delivered. He was later exiled to the island of Patmos, where he wrote the Book of Revelation. John was the only apostle who died a natural death, after returning to serve as a bishop.

5. Peter
Crucified upside down on an X-shaped cross. He chose this death, saying he was unworthy to die in the same manner as Jesus
let this message stire in your heart, share it to others so that this gospel must reach to all

18/08/2025

Nigerian Man Divorces His New Wife During Honeymoon After Seeing Her for the First Time Without Makeup (Photos).

16/08/2025

I Caught My Husband with My Sister… See What I Did

I never thought betrayal could hit this close… until I caught my husband, not a stranger, but with my own sister.

We’d been married three years, we loved each other deeply. We supported each other’s dreams, shared laughter, and leaned on each other through hard days.

My younger sister, a college student, often visited. She’d cook, help with chores, and sometimes we’d all watch football together. She was a Chelsea fan, my husband rooted for Manchester United, and their playful arguments always made me laugh. I saw nothing wrong with their closeness. After all, we were family.

Then one week, my husband fell ill. He was too weak to go to work and needed constant care. Our business still had to run, so I stepped in to cover for him. I called my sister and said, “Please, I’ll need you to come home and stay for some days. My husband isn’t strong.”

She replied, “No problem. I can do anything for you. I’m coming.”

And just like that, she was here.

After some days, my husband was back on his feet. But my sister didn’t just visit once in a while anymore, my husband often insisted she stayed longer. He always spoke highly of her. One day he told me, “Tell your sister to be careful with those college guys.”

I smiled. “Honey, she knows. She’s mature… but I’ll keep advising her anyway.”

On the days she stayed with us, my husband would come home with more gifts than usual. He always brought her ice cream, her favorite. They’d spend hours talking in the living room while I was busy in the kitchen. I smiled at their bond, never suspecting a thing.

Then came that morning.

It was our little routine, sometimes we’d share a quick moment together before the day began.
But that morning, he said, “Honey, I’m not in the mood. I’m feeling unwell and need the whole day to rest. I think yesterday’s work got to me, coupled with the fact that we slept late.”

I smiled. “It’s alright, darling. Trust me, the business won’t even feel your absence.”

We shared a quick smile, and I left for work.

Halfway there, I remembered I had left something at home for one of our staff members. I decided to rush back.

The moment I opened the door, I froze.

From somewhere inside, I heard a voice, my husband’s voice. Low. Playful. Almost teasing.

“You’re so sweet…”

My mind raced. Who was he talking to?

I followed the sound quietly, my heart pounding against my chest. It was coming from the kitchen.

Step by step, I moved closer…
And then… I saw them.

I froze at the sight.
They didn’t even notice me, their backs were turned.

Quietly, I walked away, straight to the bedroom.
I packed my things in silence.

I sat for a moment, my hands trembling, and wrote a short note.
I left it on the table, walked to the door, and slammed it shut so hard the sound echoed through the house.

The bang made them stop.
They rushed out, looked around… nothing.
Peeking through the window, they saw my car in the distance, speeding away.

Panic set in.
He ran to the bedroom — my clothes were gone.
He dashed back to the living room.
My sister was standing there, already reading the note with tears in her eyes.

I wrote:

“I’m gone. I can’t believe you did this to me with my own kid sister.
I am ashamed of you both.
From today, you are no longer my husband, and you are no longer my sister.”

They were shaking, crying, restless.

My sister left without a word, ashamed of herself. She locked herself in her apartment.
He called and texted me, I didn’t reply. His chest grew heavy, and he couldn’t bear the shock any longer.

That evening, a staff member found him collapsed and rushed him to the hospital.
Neighbors forced my sister’s door open they found her barely holding on.

When the news reached our parents, they were heartbroken.
Both families pleaded with me to forgive.

After long begging, persuasion, countless promises, and weeks of staying away…
I thought over it one night, and decided to have a family meeting with everyone.

The next day, they were all gathered.
I stood before them and said:

“I’m here because of my peace.”

I turned to my sister.

“I’ve forgiven you… but I pray you’ll never experience this when you get married.”
Tears streamed down her cheeks.

Then I faced my husband.

“If I were the one, you would have never forgiven me. But you know what? Forgiveness doesn’t show weakness, it shows strength and maturity. I forgive you.”

The room fell silent.
He knelt down in tears, I walked up to him and hugged him; he cried on my shoulder like a child.
My sister joined, hugging me too.

People appreciated my kind of heart, and gradually, we rebuilt the love and trust we had lost but this time, more careful than ever.

The End

10/08/2025

How to make yoghurt with soya beans.
It is very simple to make and cost effective.

Ingredients:
Soyabeans
Yoghurt starter.

Procedure:
Soak your soyabeans for 5- 10 hours
Wash off the back of your soyabeans and rinse properly.
Put in a blender and blend until very smooth
Pass it through a sieve .
This will ensure there is no lumps.
Put the sieved water on fire to cook very well until you notice a white particle on top of the milk.
Sieve out that part and bring down the soya milk from fire.

Take out a portion of the soya milk and add your yogourment.( Starter)

Take some containers for storing your yogurt and sterilize them with boiling water.

Pour the soya milk and the mixture of the one with the culture into a containers.

Put the containers in the warmest spot of your house and cover them with blankets (or you can use any other way of maintaining the temperature). Leave them for at least four hours (ideally six-eight hours).

After the time has passed, check your soya yogurt. If it is firm, store it in the fridge for at least one hour and before consuming.
If it is still runny, leave it in a warm place for a bit longer.

07/08/2025

1. They are the highest order of angels

Angelic hierarchies (especially in the works of Dionysius the Areopagite), Seraphim are placed at the top.

They are closest to God and are said to burn with pure love and devotion for Him.

2. The name "Seraphim" means "burning ones"

Derived from the Hebrew word “saraph” (שָׂרָף), which means to burn.

Symbolically, this refers to their fiery passion and purity in serving God.

3. They have six wings

According to Isaiah 6:2, each Seraph has:

Two wings to cover their face (showing reverence),

Two wings to cover their feet (indicating humility),

Two wings to fly (symbolizing service or mission).

4. They worship God continuously

Their main role is to praise and glorify God, calling out:

> “Holy, Holy, Holy is the Lord of hosts; the whole earth is full of His glory” (Isaiah 6:3).

This triple "holy" is a sign of God’s perfect holiness.

5. They appear in visions, not physical form

Seraphim are not typically seen in human form. Their description comes mostly from prophetic visions, especially the one Isaiah had in the Temple.

6. They act as agents of purification

In Isaiah 6:6–7, a Seraph touches Isaiah's lips with a burning coal from the altar, symbolically cleansing him of sin so he could speak for God.

This shows their role in purifying and preparing messengers.

7. They are associated with fire and light

Beyond just being called “burning ones,” Seraphim are linked to divine fire, not destructive but purifying and illuminating.

They reflect God's glory, holiness, and unapproachable light.

01/08/2025

The Seeds of Sacrifice

In a quiet village nestled between rolling hills and golden fields, lived a humble farmer named Arman. He had calloused hands, sun-kissed skin, and eyes full of dreams—not for himself, but for his family. With him lived his gentle wife, Mariam, and their two young daughters, Liyana and Noor. Their home was modest—mud walls, a thatched roof, and a floor that cracked with every season—but it was filled with warmth, laughter, and love.

Every morning before the sun kissed the earth, Arman would rise, tie his worn turban, and step into the fields. He ploughed, sowed, and toiled under the blazing sun, earning just enough to feed his family and pay for his daughters’ school fees. Mariam stitched clothes for villagers at night to help with expenses, her fingers aching but her heart hopeful.

Liyana and Noor were bright-eyed and curious. They walked miles to school with their books wrapped in cloth, never once complaining. They knew their father’s sweat turned into their notebooks, and their mother’s prayers stitched courage into their hearts.

Though they often went without meat or new clothes, Arman never allowed their studies to suffer. “Education is the richest soil,” he would say. “With it, you’ll grow into something greater than I ever could.”

One year, a drought swept through the land. Crops withered, and Arman’s earnings vanished with the rain. Debt crept in like a shadow. Still, he refused to pull his daughters out of school. Instead, he worked in neighbouring farms, carried sacks heavier than himself, and skipped meals to make sure Liyana and Noor never missed a single class.

Years passed. Liyana became a doctor, and Noor a teacher. They returned to the village one evening, dressed not in silk, but in the same humility they were raised with. They built a new home for their parents, brought fresh water to the village, and started a small scholarship fund for local children—all in their father’s name.

When asked about their success, they always said, “It was our Baba who taught us that real wealth lies not in what you own, but in what you’re willing to sacrifice for the ones you love.”

Moral: True greatness often begins with silent sacrifices. A parent’s love and labour, though unseen by the world, can sow the seeds of a brighter future.

24/07/2025

Living in Bo***ge – A Bird Who Traded Its Freedom for Golden Feathers

⸻

In a land where the skies kissed mountain peaks and rivers ran like silver threads through the valley, there lived a small gray bird named Nwoke. He was not the most colorful among the forest dwellers—his feathers were dull, his voice soft, and his wings carried him only modest distances. But what he lacked in beauty, he made up for in spirit. Nwoke loved nothing more than to fly freely, singing to the sunrise and gliding with the wind.

He lived atop the tallest iroko tree, waking with the dawn and resting beneath moonlight. Though other birds boasted bright feathers or melodious songs, Nwoke’s gift was different—he was free. No branch or border could contain him.

But one day, while resting near the edge of the human village, Nwoke heard something that made his heart pause.

Children were gathered beneath a fig tree, their eyes wide as a storyteller spoke of a mysterious merchant who roamed from village to village offering gifts to animals. This merchant, it was said, carried a magical powder that could turn plain feathers to gold.

Nwoke tilted his head.

“Golden feathers?” he whispered to himself.

Later that week, Nwoke met the merchant—an old man with cloudy eyes and a pouch that glittered with strange dust. He had come to the forest edge, placing cages of fine wood and silk on the ground, each with a perch, fruit, and a bowl of clean water.

The merchant smiled when he saw Nwoke.

“You could be so much more,” he said. “Why live in wind and mud when you could gleam like the morning sun?”

Nwoke blinked. “But what do I give in return?”

The merchant pointed to the nearest cage. “Only your freedom. Just for a little while.”

That night, Nwoke thought deeply. He remembered the jeers from brighter birds. He recalled how the parrots laughed at his dull wings. He imagined himself shining like a star, envied by all, admired by flocks.

By morning, he returned.

“I want the gold,” he said.

The merchant dusted Nwoke with glittering powder and placed him in a cage lined with silk. At first, Nwoke marveled at his reflection. His feathers shone with gold. Every angle caught the light. Even his beak glimmered.

Other birds gathered.

“Look at Nwoke!” they cried. “So beautiful!”

He was offered seeds, praises, even songs in his name.

Days passed. Then weeks.

But soon, the weight of the golden feathers made flying difficult. His wings no longer cut through the sky. His song grew hoarse. His heart, once light with wind, felt heavy with stillness.

And then he saw something worse.

Another bird arrived—plain, gray, like he once was.

The merchant dusted this new bird and placed it in another cage. Crowds gathered for it instead.

Nwoke tapped on his bars. “What about me?”

The merchant shrugged. “There’s always a newer shine.”

Nwoke tried to fly, but the feathers dragged him down. He cried out, but his song was weak. He watched the skies, longing for the breeze, the trees, the joy of not being seen, but being free.

One night, a storm swept the forest. The merchant fled. His cages were knocked over by wind and rain. Nwoke’s cage rolled down a slope, smashing against a stone. The door cracked open.

Nwoke stumbled out.

He tried to flap but his golden feathers weighed him down. He couldn’t fly. Couldn’t run. Couldn’t even call for help.

By dawn, a crow found him and helped pluck out the golden feathers one by one, until all that remained were stubs and bruised skin.

“You’ll never be the same,” the crow warned.

“Maybe not,” Nwoke whispered, “but I will be free.”

Weeks turned to months. New feathers grew. Not gold. Not silver. Just plain, soft gray.

But when Nwoke flew again, he wept. Not for the loss of beauty, but for the return of wind in his feathers.

And whenever a young bird flew too close to human villages, Nwoke would call out:

“Don’t trade your wings for a mirror. Some cages shine but they are cages still.”

⸻

Moral Lessons:
1. Not everything that glitters is worth having especially if it costs your freedom.
2. True value lies in the joy of being yourself, not in how others see you.
3. Fame and beauty without freedom can become a prison harder than bars.

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.

⸻

Bsong Official

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