Long ago, in a quiet village nestled between wide savannahs and rolling hills, there lived an old man named Dona Wila. Though age had lined his face and silvered his hair, his voice was still as soft and comforting as a mother’s lullaby. People called him The Gentle Singer.
Every evening, when the sun slipped behind the thorn trees and the night birds began to call, villagers would gather beneath the ancient baobab tree at the edge of the village. There, Dona Wila would sit with his old guitar carved from mukwa wood, and he would sing songs of love, loss, hope, and simple truths.
His songs were not loud or boastful; they floated like the night breeze, settling gently in the hearts of all who listened. Children fell asleep to his melodies, elders nodded in understanding, and young lovers held hands, dreaming of tomorrow.
One year, a terrible drought struck the land. The rivers dried up, crops withered, and hunger stalked the village like a hyena at dusk. The people grew restless and fearful, and many forgot the gentle wisdom of Dona Wila’s songs. They argued over the little food left, and some even blamed the old man for singing instead of fighting the drought.
But Dona Wila did not stop singing. Instead, he sat beneath the grand baobab and whispered his songs into its roots, trunk, and branches. He sang of patience, of faith, and of the rain that would surely return when hearts were calm.
One night, as he sang alone under the moon, the baobab whispered back. It told Dona Wila that deep beneath its roots, an ancient spring still flowed, waiting to be found by those who listened with kindness and unity.
At dawn, Dona Wila called the village together. He asked them to sit quietly and listen—not to him, but to the whispers of the baobab. At first, the villagers grumbled, but one by one, they sat, closed their eyes, and let the tree’s wisdom wash over them.
When they opened their eyes, they dug at the foot of the baobab as the tree had guided them through their dreams. By sunset, clear water bubbled up from the earth—sweet, cool, and enough to quench every thirst.
From that day on, the people of the village never forgot the gentle singer or the whispering baobab. They learned that sometimes, when troubles come, fighting and shouting do nothing—but a calm heart, a gentle word, and a listening ear can bring life back to even the driest places.
And long after Dona Wila’s voice faded into the wind, his songs lived on, carried by the baobab’s leaves, reminding each generation that gentleness is its own kind of strength.
✨ Inspired by the timeless spirit of Don Williams, The Gentle Giant.
Wonderful! Here’s Episode 2 of The Gentle Singer and the Whispering Baobab, continuing the folktale inspired by Don Williams:
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Episode 2: The Traveler with No Song
Seasons passed, and the village flourished around the baobab’s secret spring. The people grew crops again, laughter returned to the evenings, and though Dona Wila had joined the ancestors, his spirit lingered in every gentle breeze and every calm heart.
One dry season, when the sun was harsh and the winds blew dust across the plains, a stranger arrived at the village gate. He wore a coat made from skins of many animals, his eyes were sharp like a hawk’s, and around his neck hung a charm of twisted bones.
His name was Zuba the Roamer, and he carried no drum, no flute, no song in his heart—only tales of far-off kingdoms and promises of riches and power.
When the villagers welcomed him and offered him sweet spring water, Zuba scoffed.
> “Why do you waste your days under this old tree? I can teach you to dig deep wells and build great walls! Abandon these foolish songs and dreams. Follow me, and you will become powerful—like the cities I have seen.”
Some of the young men and women were tempted. They began to gather around Zuba each evening, ignoring the gentle hum of the baobab’s leaves. They spoke boldly, laughed at the elders, and mocked the old songs of Dona Wila.
One night, as Zuba’s voice rose like a crow’s caw in the night, an old widow named Mama Kesa stood beneath the baobab. She leaned on her walking stick and whispered:
> “Baobab, you who remember all things, what should we do? The Gentle Singer is gone. Who will remind the children of your wisdom?”
The baobab rustled its branches and dropped a single pod at her feet. Inside, hidden among its seeds, was a small flute carved long ago by Dona Wila himself.
Mama Kesa called the villagers back under the tree. She raised the flute to her lips and blew a soft, trembling note.
At first, it was thin and cracked—but then the wind carried the note, wrapping it around the restless hearts of the people. Memories of Dona Wila’s songs returned like the first rains after drought.
One by one, the villagers turned away from Zuba’s promises and gathered around Mama Kesa and the baobab. They remembered that true strength lies not in stone walls or loud boasts, but in unity, kindness, and songs that live long after the singer is gone.
Ashamed, Zuba the Roamer packed his bones and skins and left at dawn, muttering at the gentle tree that had defeated him without lifting a branch.
From that day, the people taught every child to listen to the wind in the baobab’s crown, to respect the songs of the past, and to know that a quiet tune can drown out even the loudest roar.
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✨ To be continued🌳🎵