By: Chioma Madonna Ndukwu
Africa’s Talking Drum: When the Town Crier Lost His Voice
In the old trading town of Gberun, news travelled faster than harmattan fire Before sunrise each morning, Town Crier Oba would walk through the crooked streets with his bronze gong hanging from one shoulder.
Gboooim! Gboooim! The sound alone could wake even the laziest sleeper. “Market opens at first cockcrow!” “The bridge near River Omi is unsafe “The council meets by moonrise!”
People trusted Oba because his tongue had no fork in it. In Gberun, they often said: “A lying mouth may dine with kings, but truth sleeps peacefully.”
For many years, the town moved with the rhythm of Oba’s voice. Then Chairman Leopard entered office. Leopard was smooth. Too smooth.
His agbada always smelled of imported perfume, and his smile could make even hungry people forget their empty stomachs for a moment.
At first, the town loved him. He promised tarred roads “that would shine like mirrors.” He promised jobs “as numerous as grains of sand.” He promised light “bright enough to shame the moon.”
And every promise was followed by applause loud enough to shake mangoes from trees. But after some seasons, people began noticing strange things.
The clinic roof still leaked during rain. Teachers abandoned classrooms because salaries arrived like eclipses, once in a blue moon. The roads developed potholes wide enough to swallow bicycle tires whole.
Still, every evening, Chairman Leopard gathered singers and praise-chanters around the village square. “Tell the people progress is marching,” he would say. And the drummers would beat their drums until complaints drowned beneath the noise.
One afternoon, Leopard summoned Town Crier Oba privately. “You speak too plainly,” Leopard warned him softly. “From today, announce only good news.”
Oba frowned. “But what of the broken well in Abeke quarter?” he asked. “Three children already fell sick.” Leopard waved his hand dismissively. “Must every crack in the wall become public discussion?”
That evening, Oba walked through Gberun with his gong unusually silent. The people gathered around him. “What happened?” they asked.Oba looked at them with tired eyes.
“A town crier who cannot speak truth,” he said quietly, “is merely carrying metal about the streets.”The words spread across Gberun like palm oil on white cloth.
From that day, people stopped clapping so quickly at speeches. They began looking beyond slogans and fancy ceremonies. They listened harder to ordinary voices, market women, farmers, bricklayers, widows.
Because they finally understood something their grandparents once knew: “When drums become too loud, they often hide an empty barn.”
And slowly, Gberun changed. Not overnight. Not magically. But truth returned to the streets again — rough, uncomfortable, stubborn truth. And the town learned that a community dies quietly when honesty is forced to whisper.
Moral: Any society that punishes truth-tellers eventually blinds itself to its own problems.
Do you think people sometimes prefer comforting lies to uncomfortable truths? Why?
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