As a grandmother, these days, I find myself looking for folk tales or trying to remember those ones my grandparents, uncles and parents told me many many years ago. And they are many, especially the ones with songs. Those ones come in handy on Omugwo duties, trust me. I remember how my Little Man watched my lips as if he understood the lines of
‘Agbigbo, agbigbo gb’omo mi ko mi,
Eye’gbo…’
He had turned down another bowl of his cereal. He didn’t want me to put him in his seat. A diaper change didn’t change anything. He was crying so hard I became afraid someone would the cops or something. All he wanted was his mum. Then I remembered that song, took him to the balcony (it was a warm day in Newcastle) and started singing. Between the song and the birds flying and the swaying trees, Little Man eventually stopped crying. Until I returned to Nigeria, we kept to that routine.
I am also the self-appointed Yoruba Professor for the little ones. I intend to give that job my best shot.
Folktales carry values. They carry heavy cultural contents, the kind that we need to preserve our communities our kingdom, our nation long after we are gone.
Our young ones must learn the true values of selflessness, service to the community, love for the poor. They must learn that a slave can sit with kings, the same way a prince can end up a refugee. Then must learn not to chew life like new yam. They must enjoy today to the fullest while protecting tomorrow with wisdom. They cannot afford to be so drunk on the wealth of the moment that they forget that wealth can change location (ola a maa s’ilo ni ile eni) and that money is a visitor (alejo l’owo).
I bring you a story for your relaxation and reorientation pleasure.
Aaalo o
Aaalo.
Once upon a time, beyond seven rivers and nine mountains, there stood a magnificent kingdom called Aramanda. Its border walls were made of polished stones, its palace gates were plated with gold, and its princes wore silk embroidered with precious stones. The kingdom was so wealthy that its kings were said to have forgotten the colour of copper coins. Gold was their language. Silver was their small change.
Aramanda was a land blessed by the gods. Its rivers never ran dry. Its soil yielded three harvests in a year. Its women bore strong children, and its men lived long enough to become ancestors with many stories to tell.
For generations, the kingdom prospered because its rulers understood a simple truth: the palace was only as strong as the villages surrounding it.
Then came King Adagun the Third.
Adagun inherited a kingdom he did not build, wealth he did not earn and a throne he did not understand. He was a handsome king with a magnificent beard and an unfortunate allergy to responsibility. He believed that the purpose of kingship was to enjoy the privileges of power while leaving the inconveniences of leadership to the gods.
His sons were worse.
The hunger did not arrive suddenly. It announced itself in small, frightening ways.
First, the farmers noticed the rainy seasons were shorter and the dry season longer. The yam seeds were roasted by the scorching sun before they became tubers. The corn stalks died stunted before they could fetch seeds for their cobs. The river that flowed through the villages slowly became ponds and small pools that smelled.
The river goddess was angry?
Obatala had been fed a taboo?
Orisa-Oko was feeling neglected?
The royal barns were empty because the princes had sold saved harvests to buy the latest Alaari.
Then diseases of all kinds showed up, from skin rashes and diarrhoea to measles and small pox.
The healers complained that their stores were empty. The princes had diverted the kingdom’s medicinal herbs and healing supplies to buy royal ornaments.
The Balogun got no money to buy guns or arrows because the royal treasury had no money. Yet, there was always money for another festival.
The roads became dangerous. Bandits occupied the farms and forests. Merchants stopped bringing goods to Aramanda.
The king’s advisers warned him.
The princes were even less interested. They had discovered a new amusement: rewarding their favourite concubines with golden carriages.
Seven magnificent carriages were commissioned from the finest craftsmen in the neighbouring kingdom. Each was decorated with precious stones and drawn by six white horses.
When the carriages arrived, the princes organised a great ceremony. Trumpets sounded. Drums rolled. Praise singers exhausted their vocabulary.
The eldest prince declared that the carriages would help their loyal companions travel to distant villages to remind the people of the greatness of the royal family.
An old woman watching from the roadside laughed.
“Will the carriages carry food?”
“No.”
“Will they carry medicine?”
“No.”
“Will they bring back the rains?”
“No.”
“May the gods help a kingdom whose glory rides in golden carriages while its children crawl towards their graves.”
What insolence!
The palace guards arrested her.
That night, the gods held a meeting.
Not because of the old woman’s arrest. The gods had heard thousands of prayers from Aramanda. They had watched the kingdom decay. They had seen children buried without names, women die in childbirth and young men abandon their ancestral homes.
But the gods were patient.
They understood that kingdoms, like men, must sometimes be allowed to choose their own destruction.
The oldest god, whose beard was said to contain the wisdom of a thousand generations, asked a question.
“What affliction shall we send upon Aramanda?”
Sango, the god of thunder suggested fire.
Oluweri, the goddess of the rivers suggested a flood.
Ogun proposed an invasion.
But the goddess of wisdom shook her head.
“Why waste our strength? They are already destroying themselves. Let us simply withdraw our protection.”
And so it began.
The rivers shrank. The rains failed. The forests surrendered to bandits. The soil became hard. The kingdom’s finest craftsmen departed for distant lands. Its healers left. Its blacksmiths left. Its strongest young men enlisted in foreign armies.
Where there had once been prosperous villages, there were abandoned compounds. Where children once played, weeds had taken possession. The markets were silent. The roads were empty.
The people had gone.
Some had died. Others had fled. Those who remained no longer recognised the authority of a palace that had abandoned them.
The princes ordered their golden carriages prepared for escape.
But the horses had starved.
They summoned their guards.
The guards had deserted.
They called their praise singers.
The singers had taken their talents to kingdoms where people still had money to pay for lies.
Nobody answered.
Years later, travellers passing through the ruins of Aramanda would find seven broken golden carriages buried in sand. The palace had become a playground for lizards and snakes, it’s a village square occupied by animals.
Aramanda disappeared from the map.
Its princes became former princes.
And nobody remembered their names.
*Egbemode (egbemode3@gmail.com)
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