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 ...