Long ago, before borders were drawn and names were written on maps, the land of N’Gwala stretched from the red rivers of the east to the shadowy mountains of the west. The earth here was rich—not with crops or cattle—but with stones that sparkled brighter than the eyes of a lion at night. Among these stones was one of great mystery, hidden deep in the belly of the earth. They called it Mutu wa Mwazi—the Stone That Wept Blood.
The tale begins in a humble village where a boy named Jali lived with his mother, a weaver of baskets. Jali was curious and bold, always asking questions about things grown-ups preferred to forget. One day, while herding goats near the mountain of Damba, Jali stumbled upon an opening in the earth—fresh, as though the ground had just sighed. Drawn by a strange warmth, he ventured inside and found the stone. It pulsed like a beating heart and shone like fire trapped in glass.
He told no one—not even his mother.
But secrets, like smoke, always find cracks to escape. Word of Jali’s discovery spread like wildfire. One day, men with strange tongues and iron thunder-sticks arrived. They promised coins and cloth, salt and soap, if the villagers helped dig more of the sparkling stones. At first, the village rejoiced. The chief wore robes from faraway lands. Children drank sugar water. But soon, the land groaned under the weight of greed.
The men took many boys, including Jali, and forced them to dig with blistered hands. They gave them numbers instead of names and taught them to hold guns instead of calabashes. The stone that once pulsed with beauty now cried tears of blood, and the river ran red.
Jali, once wide-eyed and full of questions, grew hard and silent. Yet deep inside, the old fire flickered. One night, under the gaze of the moon and the sorrowful stars, he escaped into the forest. There he met an old woman named Nambela, who was said to be a spirit of the land in human skin.
“You have touched the blood stone,” she said without asking. “It binds to your spirit like a shadow. What will you do now?”
“I want to return it,” Jali said. “I want peace.”
Nambela gave him a horn carved from the tusk of an ancient elephant. “Blow this only when you stand atop the mountain with the stone in your hand. Then, and only then, will the land hear your cry.”
Jali journeyed for seven moons, dodging soldiers, snakes, and spirits of the forgotten. He finally reached the summit of Damba, stone in hand, body weary. He blew the horn, and the sound rolled across the valleys like thunder from the gods.
The earth opened once more and swallowed the stone. The skies wept, and so did the villagers who remembered the old ways. The strangers vanished with the mist. In time, the trees grew back. The river cleared. And Jali returned, older than his years but carrying the peace he had sought.
To this day, they say the mountain still hums softly, like a sleeping drum, warning those who dig not with reverence, but with greed.
Moral: What the earth gives in beauty, it may take back in sorrow when touched by hands that do not listen to its heartbeat.
Comments
Post a Comment