The Day the Village Forgot to Sing

The Day the Village Forgot to Sing

They said there was once a village where every dawn began with song.
Mothers hummed while grinding millet, children sang to call the sun, and elders’ deep voices carried through the mist like a promise. Singing was not just sound—it was survival. It reminded the people who they were and where their joy came from.

But one season, the rain refused to come. The ground cracked like old skin, and even the river forgot its rhythm. Fear crept into the huts at night, whispering that maybe the gods had grown tired of listening.

One morning, when the first rooster crowed, no one sang.
Not the potter. Not the herdsboy. Not even little Amondi, who used to sing to her shadow. The silence was so heavy it made the air taste like dust.

Days turned into weeks, and tempers grew short. The blacksmith accused the elders of losing favor with the ancestors; the market women snapped at customers. Even laughter began to sound strange, like it didn’t belong there anymore.

Then, one evening, an old traveler arrived—his back bent, his eyes tired but bright. He carried no load but a small drum covered in cracked hide. He sat under the ancient fig tree and began to play. Not loud, not proud, but soft. Like a heartbeat reminding you of something you once knew.

Children came first, then mothers, then even the proud men who swore they had no time for old songs. The traveler didn’t say a word—he just played until someone began to hum, then another joined, and soon the air filled with voices again.

When they sang, they cried. When they cried, the first drop of rain fell.
And by the time the song ended, the sky had opened its heart.

The traveler smiled, stood up, and said only one thing before leaving:

“The gods never left. It was your song that went missing.”

No one ever saw him again, but every dawn after that, the village sang louder—just in case silence ever tried to return.

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