The Drum That Forgot Its Song by Linda Somiari- Stewart
In the heart of a small village, under the shade of a great baobab, sat an old talking drum.
Its skin was worn smooth from many seasons of praise songs, war calls, and moonlit dances.
Once, the whole village gathered when it spoke.
Children ran from the fields. Elders raised their hands.
Even the birds paused to listen when the drum said, “Come!”
But one season, the chief returned from the city with a new treasure
- a shiny metal gong that gleamed like sunlight on water.
It was loud. It was new. And when it spoke, even the hills seemed to echo.
The people clapped. They danced harder than ever before.
The old drum watched in silence.
“Look at them,” it muttered. “Chasing noise instead of music.”
And from that day, it refused to be played.
“I am not needed,” it said. “Let them dance to their shining toy.”
Days turned into moons.
Rain came, and then dry winds.
The drum sat forgotten beneath the baobab, its skin cracking in the sun.
One night, a young drummer — the grandson of the old village griot — came searching.
He lifted the drum gently and whispered,
“Old one, the gong has fallen silent.
Its metal is cold. The people miss your voice.”
The boy struck once — thum!
But the sound came dull, hollow, empty.
The drum’s skin had dried.
It had forgotten how to sing.
The boy bowed his head.
“You waited too long,” he said softly.
The old drum, brittle and broken, wanted to cry,
but only the wind passed through its hollow body, whispering,
“Pride kept me silent — and silence stole my song.”
From that day, every drummer in the village learned a sacred truth:
even the loudest voice can fade — when pride drowns the heart that made it sing. Moral: Pride can silence even the loudest voice.