THE LAST GRIOT'S DRUM In the ancient kingdom of Dabanu, nestled between the lush banks of the River Koma and the whispering dunes of the northern deserts, there lived a griot named Bako—the last of his kind. Bako wasn’t just a storyteller. His drum could speak. Carved from the sacred trunk of the Obira tree and bound with lion-hide, the drum carried the voices of ancestors, the wisdom of elders, and the soul of his people. Whenever he struck it, warriors remembered their oaths, mothers sang lullabies long forgotten, and the land itself seemed to hum in recognition. Dabanu was a land of harmony, where tribes of different tongues coexisted. But peace is a fragile flame. Whispers of invaders with firesticks and red flags began to swirl from the coast, spreading fear across villages. One moonless night, the elders summoned Bako. “The white men come,” they said. “They bring chains for our sons, mirrors for our gold, and books to erase our tongues. You must protect the memory.” “How?” Bako asked. “Hide the drum,” the oldest replied. “Hide the voice of the people.” Reluctantly, Bako journeyed into the Forbidden Forest, where the spirits of the first hunters dwelled. He dug deep into the earth and buried the drum beneath the roots of a baobab tree, whispering an incantation that only the chosen of Dabanu could unlock. The next morning, the kingdom fell. Fires rose, elders vanished, children were taken. Bako himself was captured, silenced in chains, and shipped across the ocean. Yet even in bondage, his lips moved at night, telling tales to children in foreign lands—stories of Dabanu, of the river, of the drum. Generations passed. In a bustling city in West Africa, a young girl named Naya—orphaned by war, raised by a grandmother with trembling hands and sharp memories—stumbled upon an old legend. Her grandmother often spoke of a “singing tree,” of a “drum that could speak,” and a “voice waiting to return.” With nothing but a map drawn in charcoal and dreams of a lost kingdom, Naya traveled into the forest. There, beneath the oldest baobab tree, she found it. The drum was still warm. When she struck it, the winds changed. And far away, in lands where Africans had been scattered like seeds, children began to dream in languages they had never learned, and songs long forgotten echoed in the streets once more. The voice had returned. #documentary #AfricansStorytelling