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Random Facts, New York, NY (2025)

07/30/2025

The Kingdom of the Hidden Treasure

In the heart of Africa, where the rolling hills met the endless sky and rivers ran like silver ribbons through the land, there stood the great Kingdom of M’bara. It was a prosperous and happy place, ruled by King Obadele, a just and wise leader who was loved by his people.

King Obadele had three children—two strong and clever sons, Ade and Lami, and his youngest, a quiet and curious daughter named Zola. While her brothers trained with swords and horses, Zola spent her days exploring the royal gardens, asking questions about the stars and listening to stories from the village elders.

One day, as the sun rose and bathed the palace in golden light, King Obadele called his children to him. His face was grave, and the air seemed heavy with importance.

“My children,” the king began, “there is a great secret that has been passed down through generations of our family. Somewhere in this kingdom lies the Hidden Treasure of M’bara—a treasure so powerful that whoever finds it will have the wisdom to lead our people into an age of peace and prosperity.”

The children listened in awe.

“But,” the king warned, “this treasure is not easy to find. It is protected by ancient riddles and hidden in a place only the most deserving can reach. Whoever finds the treasure will inherit my throne.”

The two brothers exchanged eager glances. Each was determined to prove himself worthy. Zola, however, said nothing. She simply watched her father’s eyes and wondered what kind of treasure could be worth such a journey.

The Journey Begins

The next morning, the king gave each of his children a map. “Follow your map,” he said. “It will lead you to your first trial. Remember, this journey is not about strength or cleverness alone. It is about heart, wisdom, and courage.”

Ade and Lami rushed off immediately, eager to claim the prize. Zola studied her map carefully. It pointed toward the Whispering Hills, a place where the wind was said to speak secrets to those who listened.

Zola packed a small bag with food, water, and her mother’s pendant for luck. As she left the palace, the villagers wished her well.

The First Trial: The Whispering Hills

The hills were tall and golden, rolling gently toward the horizon. As Zola climbed the first hill, she heard a soft voice carried by the wind.

“Child of the king,” the wind whispered, “to pass this place, you must answer a question: What grows stronger the more it is shared, yet weakens when kept?”

Zola thought for a moment. She remembered her grandmother’s words: Kindness shared multiplies; kindness hoarded fades.

“The answer is love,” Zola said confidently.

The wind grew warm and soft. “You are wise, young one. You may pass.”

The path ahead lit up with golden light, guiding her down the hill and toward her next destination.

The Second Trial: The River of Reflections

Zola soon arrived at a wide, shimmering river. The water was so clear it seemed like a mirror, reflecting the sky above. At the river’s edge stood an old woman with kind eyes and silver hair.

“Child,” the woman said, “this river shows more than your reflection. It shows your true self. Only those who face the truth may cross.”

Zola looked into the water. At first, she saw her usual reflection. But as she watched, the image changed. She saw herself as a small child, lonely and uncertain, always in the shadow of her brothers. She saw her fears, her doubts, and the times she had held back her voice.

Tears welled up in her eyes, but she did not look away. “I see my fears,” Zola whispered. “But I will not let them rule me.”

The old woman smiled. “You have faced the truth. Now, you may cross.”

A bridge of silver light appeared over the river. Zola walked across, her heart lighter than before.

The Third Trial: The Mountain of Memory

Her final challenge was to climb the Mountain of Memory, a towering peak that touched the clouds. The path was steep and rocky, and the air grew thinner with every step.

Halfway up, Zola grew tired. Doubt crept in. What if I am not strong enough? What if this journey is meant for my brothers?

But then, she heard a voice—a memory of her mother. Strength is not in the body alone, my child. It is in the heart and the mind.

Zola took a deep breath and continued climbing. She reached the summit just as the sun began to set. There, at the top of the mountain, was a small stone door engraved with ancient symbols.

The Hidden Treasure

The door opened slowly, revealing a small chamber bathed in golden light. At the center of the chamber stood a simple wooden box. Zola stepped forward and opened it.

Inside was not gold or jewels, but a glowing crystal that pulsed with warmth and light. As she held it, a vision filled her mind—images of her family, her village, the rivers and hills of her homeland. She saw the laughter of children, the strength of her people, and the beauty of their traditions.

This was the true treasure—the heart of M’bara, the wisdom and unity of the kingdom.

As Zola held the crystal, a voice echoed in the chamber. “You have found the true treasure, for it lies not in riches but in the love and strength of your people. You are worthy to lead them.”

The Return

Zola descended the mountain, her heart glowing with pride. When she returned to the palace, her brothers were waiting, their faces filled with curiosity and respect.

King Obadele smiled as Zola handed him the glowing crystal. “You have done what many could not. You found the treasure because you listened, learned, and led with your heart.”

The villagers cheered, and the king declared Zola the heir to the throne. From that day on, she ruled with wisdom and kindness, bringing peace and prosperity to the land.

And every evening, as the sun set over the hills, the people of M’bara would tell the story of their brave queen who found the hidden treasure—not in gold, but in the heart of her people.

Moral of the Story: True treasure lies not in riches, but in wisdom, love, and the strength of community.

07/30/2025

Proverb:

“The hand that gives is the hand that gathers.”

Interpretation:

This proverb teaches the principle of reciprocity and generosity. It suggests that by giving and sharing with others, one creates opportunities to receive in return. Acts of kindness and generosity often lead to rewards, whether material or emotional, fostering mutual support and growth.

It reminds us of the value of being selfless and contributing to the well-being of others, knowing that generosity strengthens relationships and communities.

07/30/2025

The Whispering Calabash

In the heart of Okporo village, surrounded by thick forests and fiery red soil, lived a widowed potter named Mama Ebere. She was known for shaping the finest calabashes in the region—vessels so smooth and beautiful that even chiefs and priests sought her craft.

But what most didn’t know was that Mama Ebere had a secret:
She never spoke while working.
Not a word. Not a hum. Not even a sigh.

People said her silence came from grief, others said it was wisdom. But the truth was deeper—she was guarding something.

⸻

The Arrival of the Stranger

One Harmattan morning, a mysterious stranger arrived in the village. He was dressed in robes made of silver thread and walked with a cane carved from ebony. He went from compound to compound, listening, watching, and asking strange questions.

Finally, he came to Mama Ebere’s hut and saw her working on a large, black calabash, unlike any she’d ever made.

He asked her, “What is this one for?”

Mama Ebere didn’t speak. She only looked up, eyes sharp as glass, and tapped the calabash three times.

The stranger left, but that night, strange things began to happen.

⸻

The Calabash That Spoke

At midnight, those sleeping near Mama Ebere’s hut heard whispers—not human, but from clay. The black calabash was speaking, revealing truths that had been buried.

“The chief hides grain while the people starve…”
“The healer’s medicine is laced with lies…”
“The sacred river is drying because the elders sold the land…”

By dawn, the village was in chaos.

No one could sleep. No one could hide. The calabash whispered every hidden truth, and people came to Mama Ebere, begging her to silence it.

But she shook her head and said for the first time in years,
“You all shaped it. I only carved it.”

⸻

The Truth That Heals

The villagers wanted to smash the calabash, to bury the truth. But Mama Ebere placed it in the center of the square.

“If we destroy it,” she said, “we remain the same. But if we listen, we grow.”

And so, for seven nights, the people gathered to hear the whispering calabash. Some cried. Some confessed. Others made peace.

When the last secret had been told, the calabash cracked open—and inside it was a tiny green seed.

Mama Ebere planted it in front of the shrine.

Years later, a tree grew in that very spot—its leaves shaped like tiny calabashes. And every time the wind blew, it made a sound like whispers.

Not to expose.
Not to shame.
But to remind.

That truth heals, even when it hurts.

⸻

Moral of the Story:

What we try to hide grows heavy in silence. But when we speak—and listen—we make space for healing.

⸻

07/30/2025

Title: The Lion Who Forgot He Was King

⸻

In the heart of the Oji forest, where the trees stood tall like ancient guardians and the rivers whispered old stories, there lived a lion named Ekene. He was once the strongest, loudest, and most respected among the animals. His roar alone made the ground tremble, and his presence brought silence to any dispute.

But seasons passed. Ekene grew older. He lost a fight to a younger lion from the northern range. Bruised and ashamed, he walked away from his territory. He wandered deep into the forest and settled near the swamp, far from anyone who once called him king.

He stopped roaring.

He stopped hunting.

He even stopped walking with pride.

One day, he came across a group of hyenas laughing by the river.

“Isn’t that the lion who lost to Uzo the Younger?” one said.

“More like a housecat now,” another jeered.

Ekene said nothing. He lowered his head and drank his water in silence. The hyenas laughed louder.

⸻

Time passed, and the lion began to shrink inside himself.

He helped no one.

He stood up for nothing.

Even when the smaller animals were bullied near him, he stayed still. The forest slowly forgot who he was.

Until one day, a young antelope named Nala wandered into a trap set by hunters. She cried out, but no animal dared go near. The trap was deep in the human borderlands, and everyone feared being caught.

Nala had once heard stories about the lion who used to be king. She believed in them.

She cried again. This time, not in fear but in hope.

“Ekene!” she called. “If you are still the lion from the stories, help me. Even if you have forgotten, I believe you are still him.”

⸻

Something stirred in the lion.

A quiet voice he hadn’t heard in moons.

He stood.

The ground didn’t shake.

The animals didn’t gasp.

But the forest listened.

He walked toward the borderlands.

The hyenas watched in confusion.

When he reached the trap, Nala was bleeding and barely holding on.

The ropes were thick, the scent of humans strong.

Ekene looked around. No backup. No glory.

Just a choice.

He roared.

Not the roar of the king he was, but of the protector he had forgotten he could still be.

He bit through the ropes.

Carried Nala on his back.

Led her to safety.

⸻

The forest changed after that.

The birds sang of the lion who remembered.

The squirrels whispered his name.

And though Ekene never claimed a throne again, animals from far and near began to follow him not because he fought, but because he stood when it mattered.

⸻

Moral Lessons:
1. Even when you feel lost, who you truly are never disappears.
2. Strength is not in how loud you roar, but in what you rise to protect.
3. True kingship is not about the crown it’s about the courage to show up.

⸻

and

07/30/2025

The Hyena and the Moon

Theme: Dealing with rejection
Summary: A young hyena feels left out by the other animals who fear her laugh and sharp teeth. One night, she begins talking to the moon, who listens without judgment. Over time, she learns to accept herself—and others begin to see her differently too.
Moral: The first step to being accepted by others is learning to accept yourself.

⸻

The hyena cub was named Kula, and she knew from a young age that she was different.

Her laugh came suddenly, loud and strange. Her legs were too long, her ears too big, and the other animals avoided her. Even when she tried to play, her energy came off as too rough. The meerkats hid when she came near. The young antelopes walked the other way.

“Hyenas are dangerous,” the older animals would whisper. “They sneak. They bite. They laugh when things go wrong.”

But Kula didn’t want to sneak. She didn’t want to scare anyone. She just wanted to belong.

Every night, she wandered alone along the edge of the grasslands. And every night, the moon followed her—silent, distant, but always present. One evening, when she felt especially lonely, Kula looked up at the pale disc hanging in the sky and whispered, “Why do you come every night if you’re not going to talk to me?”

Of course, the moon didn’t answer.

But something about its quietness felt… comforting.

So Kula began talking. Not all at once. Just a few words at first. Then stories—about the day she was chased away from the watering hole, about how her laugh made even the birds scatter, about how she sometimes wished she was born something else.

The moon never judged her. It never turned away. And every night, it returned.

Over time, Kula’s voice grew steadier. She began to sit instead of pace. She started noticing things—the way the wind moved the grass, the way owls blinked before flying, the quiet music of night.

She didn’t try to change anymore. She laughed when something was funny. She stopped hiding her walk. She started being herself, not just when the moon was there, but even during the day.

And then, slowly, the other animals started noticing.

One morning, a zebra c**t asked if she would walk with him to the edge of the water. “You’re good at spotting danger,” he said.

A young hare asked her to help dig a burrow. “You’re strong,” she said.

They still flinched sometimes when Kula laughed—but now they laughed with her, too.

She never stopped talking to the moon. But now, her stories were different. She spoke of the zebra’s joke. The hare’s stubbornness. The birds that no longer flew away.

The moon never answered. But Kula no longer needed it to.

⸻

Moral: The first step to being accepted by others is learning to accept yourself.

⸻

07/30/2025

The Owl Who Forgot the Night

Theme: Identity and rediscovery

Summary: An old owl, once wise and confident, forgets how to hunt and navigate the night after an illness. Feeling useless, he hides from the world until a lost squirrel pup needs help. In guiding the pup, the owl slowly remembers who he once was.

Moral: Sometimes, we remember our strength by being needed.

In a quiet part of the forest where the trees stood tall and the wind barely reached the ground, lived an old owl named Nuru.

For many years, Nuru had been known as the eyes of the forest. He had guided animals through darkness, warned them of dangers, and told stories to young ones when the stars blinked into view. His voice was soft but sure. His wings knew every current of the night air.

But after a long, strange illness that kept him grounded for weeks, something in Nuru changed. When he was finally strong enough to fly again, he couldn’t.

He’d forgotten how.

He tried once spread his wings and leapt but misjudged the wind and hit a branch. Another time, he couldn’t judge distance in the dark. He began to doubt himself.

So, Nuru stopped trying.

He stayed in his hollow, only coming out during dusk when the light was soft and the forest still. The other animals assumed he was resting. Only a few noticed he no longer answered questions or told stories like before.

Then one cloudy evening, just before the wind shifted, Nuru heard a soft rustling below. A small squirrel pup—barely weaned was crying under a fern.

She had wandered too far from her nest and gotten separated from her siblings.

Nuru watched. At first, he hesitated. He hadn’t flown in weeks. He hadn’t spoken to anyone properly in just as long. But something in the little squirrel’s trembling made him take a breath.

He called down gently, “Stay where you are. I’ll come to you.”

His voice surprised even him. It didn’t sound as tired as he thought.

Nuru climbed down slowly from his hollow. When he reached the pup, she looked up, wide-eyed.

“You’re the owl, aren’t you?” she whispered. “The one who knows the stars.”

“I used to be,” he replied softly.

She sniffed. “Can you help me get home?”

Nuru looked at the trees, then the sky. The stars weren’t out yet, but he remembered where they should be. He didn’t fly, but he walked with her slow, steady, guiding her from branch to branch, offering his wing for balance. He told her stories to distract her from fear. He asked her questions, encouraged her to look for signs of her nest.

And slowly, something stirred in him again.

They found her family by nightfall.

The little squirrel hugged him before running into her mother’s arms. “He remembered the way,” she said proudly. “Even in the dark.”

Later that night, Nuru returned to his hollow. For the first time in weeks, he climbed to the very edge, looked up at the sky, and spread his wings.

He didn’t fly far. Just a short glide to a lower branch.

But it was a beginning.

⸻

Moral: Sometimes, we remember our strength by being needed.

07/30/2025

Title: The Girl Who Faced the Thunder King

Theme: True courage is not in running fast, but in standing firm

PART I: The Man Who Ruled with Noise

In the vast plains of Kisema, there lived a ruler feared by all—King Shundu, a man whose voice could shake the skies and whose anger echoed like thunder through the hills.

He wasn’t a cruel man. At least, that’s what the elders said. But somewhere along the road of power, Shundu had learned one dangerous lesson:

Louder meant stronger.

He ruled with iron tone, not iron fist. When he walked through the market, mothers clutched their children tighter. When he stood to speak, no one dared interrupt—not even the council of chiefs.

The people said, “At least he keeps order.”

But order built on fear is a cage—and cages eventually crack.

⸻

PART II: The Girl in the Crowd

Her name was Lemo. She was seventeen, with skin like riverstone and eyes like calm fire. Her voice wasn’t loud—but it was clear. She lived with her grandmother in a small hut made of woven reeds and mud near the edge of the village.

Most days, Lemo helped cook, sweep, and carry water. But at night, she read. Scrolls. Old letters. Songs whispered by griots. She was especially drawn to stories about queens and rebels and girls who had nothing but still spoke anyway.

She didn’t hate King Shundu. She didn’t even plan to confront him.

But truth has a way of pulling you into places your feet never meant to go.

⸻

PART III: The Moment It Changed

One dusty afternoon, the king passed through the market square. His guards marched ahead, warning everyone to move aside.

An elderly man—a storyteller named Papa Tumbo—didn’t hear the warning in time. His ears were nearly gone, his steps slow.

“Make way!” a guard barked.

The king reached him first. Without pause, Shundu shoved Papa Tumbo aside. The old man fell into the dirt, fruit spilling from his basket, his pride bruised more than his body.

No one said a word.

No one… except Lemo.

She stepped forward, her heart thundering in her chest.

“You could have helped him,” she said, voice barely above a whisper.

King Shundu turned, startled. “What did you say?”

“You could have helped him,” she repeated. “Not humiliated him.”

Gasps echoed. Silence fell like rain.

The king stared at her, nostrils flaring. “And who are you?”

She didn’t flinch. “Someone who listens. Someone who sees what you’ve forgotten.”

⸻

PART IV: The Summons

By morning, everyone knew. “The girl with the scarf spoke against the king.”

Some called her brave. Others called her foolish.

Then came the royal summons.

Lemo was to appear at the palace square, where all could witness what happens when the wind speaks against the thunder.

Her grandmother wept and begged her not to go. Lemo knelt and held her wrinkled hand.

“I won’t raise my voice,” she said, “but I won’t lower my head either.”

When she arrived, the village gathered like clouds. King Shundu sat on his throne of carved ebony, red cloak billowing like fire behind him.

“You challenged my voice,” he boomed. “Do you think your whispers can defeat storms?”

“I don’t want to defeat you,” Lemo replied. “I want you to hear what your thunder is drowning out.”

⸻

PART V: The Roar and the Stillness

King Shundu rose from his throne. He was a mountain, casting a shadow over her.

“You think strength is in soft words?” he shouted. “Would you dare speak like this if I was not king?”

“I speak like this because you are king,” Lemo answered.

Gasps again. Even the guards looked at each other.

The king raised his voice, his hand twitching like a storm gathering.

“I should crush this defiance,” he growled.

Lemo stood still.

She did not run.

She did not shake.

She looked into his eyes and said softly, “Thunder may be loud, Your Majesty… but it is the lightning that strikes first.”

The words pierced him deeper than any spear.

He saw in her not rebellion—but truth. His reflection. His mistake. A mirror in the eyes of a girl too young to fear him.

And for the first time in years… Shundu sat down.

⸻

PART VI: The Wind Begins to Speak

After that day, something shifted in the kingdom.

The king began walking the markets without guards. He asked questions—and listened. He paused before speaking. Sometimes he even said nothing at all.

He called on Lemo—not to punish her, but to sit in council. “If thunder can learn,” he said once, “then even silence can lead.”

Lemo did not seek titles or robes. She taught other girls to speak. She helped elders write down old stories. She reminded people that change begins with stillness.

And once a year, beneath the baobab tree, the people gather.

To remember the girl who stood against the storm.

And the king who finally listened.

07/30/2025

The Shadow Thief

Theme: Facing the consequences of secrecy
Summary: A clever jackal learns how to slip through shadows, stealing small things unnoticed. At first, he uses it for fun, but soon his actions begin to hurt others. When his own shadow vanishes one day, he must confront the loneliness he caused.
Moral: What you do in secret shapes who you become in the light.

⸻

In the valley between the cliffs and the river, lived a young jackal named Zari.

Zari was quiet, thoughtful, and observant. He didn’t hunt in packs or chatter much, but he noticed things others didn’t—where the sun cast long shadows, how wind shaped the sand, and how even at night, the forest never fully slept.

One evening, while playing near the rocks, he discovered something strange: if he moved just right, slipping between the tree shadows and the rocks, he could move almost invisibly. His paws made no sound. The air around him held its breath.

He tested it again and again. A trick of light, perhaps. But no Zari had found a way to walk within shadows, unnoticed.

At first, he used it harmlessly sneaking up on squirrels, popping out to make the young tortoises jump. It made him feel powerful.

Then he started using it to take things.

A nut from the squirrel’s stash. A ripe berry from the bush the birds had marked. A fish left cooling on a stone by the otters. Small things. Unnoticed, at first.

The animals grumbled. “Who keeps taking our things?”
“It’s the wind,” joked a baboon.
“Maybe a spirit,” said another.

Zari never spoke up.

But the more he stole, the more withdrawn he became. He stopped joining gatherings. He felt safer in the shadows. Alone. Unseen.

Until one day, as the sun rose behind him, Zari looked down—and saw nothing.

His shadow was gone.

He jumped. Turned in every direction. No matter where he stood, no outline followed him. It was as if he didn’t belong in the light anymore.

He panicked. He tried to explain to the birds, but they tilted their heads, confused. The squirrels eyed him suspiciously. Even the tortoise turned slowly away.

“Maybe you’ve hidden yourself too well,” said the old river frog. “Even from yourself.”

Zari returned to the place where he first walked through shadow. He sat, quietly, for a long time. Not stealing. Not sneaking. Just waiting.

As the moon rose and the shadows grew long again, he stepped forward and whispered, “I’m sorry.”

He didn’t expect a reply.

But he felt something shift. A breeze. A soft pull behind him.

When he turned, his shadow was back faint, but there.

He walked home slowly, not hiding this time. And the next day, he returned the things he had taken. Quietly. One by one.

He wasn’t perfect after that. But he stopped slipping away when things got hard.

And little by little, the forest welcomed him back into the light.

⸻

Moral: What you do in secret shapes who you become in the light.

⸻

07/30/2025

Title: The Drum That Never Lied

Theme: Truth has its own rhythm you can’t silence it

⸻

PART I: The Drummaker’s Daughter

In the town of Bendali, where red dust rose with every dance and drums told the history of the people, lived a girl named Zuri.

Her father, Baba Tunde, was the finest drummaker in the region. His drums were not just instruments—they were storytellers, confessionals, judges. Each drum had its own soul.

But Zuri’s favorite was the one he never sold—a deep, carved djembe made from fallen iroko wood and bound with crocodile hide. Her father called it Ooto, meaning truth.

“It only speaks when the truth is near,” he told her.

Zuri, curious and bold, would sit by the drum, tapping it softly.

It never echoed unless she said something real.

⸻

PART II: The Broken Peace

One morning, news spread through the village: someone had stolen gold from the chief’s hut. A small chest, meant for the school, was missing.

Suspicion ran wild.

The guards stormed homes. Neighbors accused neighbors. Even Baba Tunde’s workshop was searched.

No one trusted anyone.

Zuri watched the town unravel.

And the worst part?

The thief had left no trace.

That night, Ooto let out a single boom in the dark.

Zuri sat upright in bed. “You know,” she whispered.

The drum was silent.

But she felt it in her chest: the truth was close.

⸻

PART III: The Trial

The chief, in desperation, called for a public trial.

“We will bring each suspect forward,” he said. “And they will place a hand on the truth drum.”

Zuri’s heart skipped.

“You mean Ooto?” she asked.

The chief nodded.

One by one, the accused came. All claimed innocence. All touched the drum. Most walked away with steady eyes.

But when Kolo, the chief’s cousin, stepped forward—Ooto trembled before his fingers touched it.

BOOM.

Kolo froze.

“I haven’t done anything,” he muttered.

BOOM. BOOM.

The crowd gasped.

Kolo turned to run—but guards caught him.

He confessed. He had taken the gold and hidden it in the bush, planning to return it later and be seen as a savior.

⸻

PART IV: The Silence After

After the confession, the village rejoiced—but unease lingered.

“If a drum speaks better than we do,” one elder muttered, “what does that say about us?”

Zuri stood up. “It says we’ve stopped listening. Not to drums—but to each other.”

The chief nodded. “Then let us learn to listen again.”

Ooto was placed in the village square—not as a weapon, but as a reminder.

People gathered weekly to speak, to share, to confess.

The drum rarely boomed again.

But when it did, people listened.

⸻

EPILOGUE

Zuri eventually took over her father’s workshop. She made new drums—but none like Ooto.

Because some truths, she learned, are not meant to be heard loudly.

They are meant to echo inside you until you face them yourself.

07/30/2025

The Drum That Refused to Beat

In the spirited town of Idoma, music was more than entertainment it was identity. Every birth, harvest, wedding, and funeral began with the deep echo of the Great Talking Drum that sat in the center of the square. It was said to be carved from the tree where the ancestors first met the earth, and its beats could call rain, calm storms, or stir the soul to dance.

But one year, as preparations began for the annual Festival of Unity, the drum fell silent.

No matter who struck it chief, drummer, priest, or elder it refused to make a sound. Not even a whisper.

The people panicked. “It is a curse!” they cried. “The ancestors have turned their backs!”

But the oldest drummer, Baba Dogo, simply nodded and said,
“The drum only speaks to those who listen with their hearts.”

⸻

The Girl with a Hollow Gourd

In the outskirts of Idoma lived a young girl named Tari, known for carrying a hollow gourd she tapped rhythmically while walking through the market. She wasn’t a drummer. She wasn’t even part of the village’s music guild. But she had rhythm in her spirit and questions in her eyes.

When she heard of the silent drum, she visited the square. Villagers laughed.

“You? A girl with a kitchen gourd?”

But Tari walked straight to the drum, placed her small gourd beside it, sat down quietl and listened.

Not with her ears.
With her soul.

And as the wind passed through the square, she whispered,
“Tell me what you need.”

⸻

The Song of the Ancestors

The sky dimmed. A breeze circled the square. The drum gave a soft thud.

People gasped.

Tari closed her eyes and began tapping her gourd, slowly, patiently. With every beat, the Great Drum responded first gently, then rising like thunder rolling from the hills.

It sang, not just music but memory.

It spoke of the forgotten widow who had no one to farm her land.
It echoed the cries of the orphans too poor to attend the festival.
It mourned the greed that had replaced generosity, the pride that had silenced kindness.

The village listened and wept.

⸻

The Return of Rhythm

That night, the villagers gathered not to celebrate, but to reconcile.
They gave. They forgave. They danced not out of joy, but out of healing.

And in the center, Tari played her gourd beside the Great Talking Drum, now alive and thunderous, telling a story that no one would ever forget.

The chief approached her with a golden drumstick.
“You have awakened more than the drum. You have awakened us.”

Tari bowed and replied,
“It was never about who beats the drum. It was about who listens first.”

⸻

Moral of the Story:

True power does not lie in who makes the most noise but in who dares to listen before speaking.

Random Facts

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07/30/2025

07/30/2025

07/30/2025

07/30/2025

07/30/2025

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