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Storytelling

In the village of Okipa, the skies had forgotten how to cry. Children coughed in dust. Wells had turned to cracked bowls of clay. But Zuma, a brave little girl, never stopped walking to find water. With a clay pot on her head, bare feet, and hope in her eyes... She walked for hours, across fields that once sang with green. Her hair curled in the heat. Her steps made little clouds of dust. She lived with her blind grandfather, Nana Kibi, in a straw hut. Each night, he told her stories so she could sleep without crying. They had one cup of water a day. Still, Zuma never complained. One evening, she saw an old man under a dying baobab tree. His lips were cracked. His robe torn. His hands trembled. “Water...” he whispered. “Just a sip...” Zuma didn’t hesitate. She poured her last water into a cup. “Here, Grandpa,” she said. “You need it more than me.” The old man drank, sighed, and smiled deeply. “You have given what others wouldn’t,” he said gently. “Not what you had plenty of… but what you needed most.” He pulled a small wooden drum from his cloth bag. “Take this,” he said. “It listens to hearts, not mouths.” “Each morning, tap it once. Then speak your true need.” “But beware — greed will break its spirit.” Zuma blinked, confused. But before she could speak... The man vanished — like wind through dry grass. That night, she showed the drum to Nana Kibi. He touched it and nodded. “This feels... old. Powerful.” The next morning, Zuma tapped the drum once. “Magic drum, I need clean water for today.” The drum hummed, glowed... and filled her cup. Cool, crystal-clear water. Zuma gasped. “Thank you,” she whispered. “Thank you, thank you!” That evening, she asked for food for her grandfather. Hot fufu and spicy okra stew appeared — fresh and warm. She ran outside, twirling. “It’s real! The drum is real!” But she didn’t keep it to herself. She gave water to goats. Shared food with neighbors. She fed crying babies. Smiled at hungry mothers. The village soon noticed. “Zuma’s house smells like festival every day,” they said. “She must have angels visiting her.” But not everyone was happy. Amaya, Zuma’s older cousin, watched with burning eyes. “She’s just a barefoot girl,” she muttered. “Why her?” One night, while Zuma slept, Amaya crept into her hut. She took the drum and ran back to her house. The next morning, she shouted, “Drum! Give me gold!” “Give me fine clothes! A palace! Servants!” The drum sat silent. Still. She screamed. Kicked it. Beat it with a stick. “Give me what I want, you useless thing!” The drum began to shake. A deep hum filled the air. Suddenly — a whirlwind of fire ants swarmed from it. They chased her through the village, biting every inch. She screamed, “Zuma! Take it back! I’m sorry!” The villagers watched in shock as she ran in circles. Zuma found the drum, cracked but still warm. She hugged it gently. “It’s okay,” she whispered. “I forgive her.” She tapped the drum. “Please... bring peace to our family.” The drum gave a soft glow — no food, no riches — just warmth. Later that day, Amaya came to Zuma, arms bandaged. Tears rolled down her cheeks. “I was wrong.” “I thought you didn’t deserve it. But you do.” “Kindness… that’s the true magic, isn’t it?” Zuma smiled. “Yes. It always was.” They sat together in the shade of the baobab tree. And for the first time in many moons… they laughed. The drum lay between them — still, calm, glowing. Not just a gift... but a teacher. A reminder that power without love is poison. And love without greed? That’s the strongest magic of all. From that day on, Zuma still asked the drum. But only for what the heart needed — never more. Water for the sick. Food for the hungry. Peace for the broken. Lullabies for crying babies. And every morning, as the sun rose… Zuma danced barefoot in the dust. Laughing. Free. Loved by all. Because the village remembered… It wasn’t magic that saved them. It was the kindness of a little girl named Zuma.