When the Moon Bows, the Earth Remembers
The hall was vast — a marvel of glass and bamboo, shaded by baobabs and powered by the sun. Delegates from across Africa and beyond were seated. Heads of State, griots, spiritual custodians, technologists, herbalists, farmers, business moguls, and children. Even those who once opposed Odogwu came — not as cynics but as converts. The world had come to witness a man's final word.
He did not enter with pomp.
He walked in clothed in plain woven cotton, carrying a carved staff gifted to him by a ninety-seven-year-old blind woman from Senegal who said, "This is the staff of the one who did not let the snake bite twice before reacting."
The hall stood. Then silence fell.
Odogwu stood before them. A long pause.
Then he spoke — not loudly, but clearly.
"I was once like the yam no one would buy — too rough, too stained, too irregular. But they forgot: the tastiest yam rarely grows on smooth soil."
A low murmur of acknowledgment passed through the audience.
"I was once rejected — not by enemies, but by those I called kin. But the rain does not ask the clouds' permission before it falls. It just falls — and nourishes."
He paused and lifted his eyes to the skylight above him.
"The child who is not embraced by the village will burn it down to feel its warmth. But I chose instead to build a new village."
There was a silence heavy with emotion.
"You all saw me rise. What you did not see was the years I spent falling. I fell like a leaf in harmattan — brittle and trampled. But as our elders say, 'The leaf that falls close to its tree is never truly lost.' I found my roots again — in Amaedukwu. In truth. In spirit."
He turned slowly, looking at faces from Burundi to Botswana, from Lagos to Lesotho.
"Oru Africa was never about me. It was about the fire waiting in every abandoned one. 'Even the axe forgets, but the tree remembers,' the proverb says. I remembered. And I forgave."
A young girl from Mali wiped tears. A journalist from Tunisia stopped typing to listen.
"The chicken that sleeps in the bush should not forget the hyena hunts at night. In our pain, we must not forget to be vigilant. Let Africa not return to slumber because we have a little light."
He pointed toward the map of Africa projected above.
"There is more to do. But not by me."
The twelve rose.
He looked at them. "The river that forgets its source will run dry. Never forget. Always remember: 'When the roots of a tree begin to decay, it spreads death to the branches.' But also remember: 'Even a dead tree will sprout if the rain finds it.' You are the rain."
The hall erupted in thunderous applause — not clapping alone, but drumbeats, chants, ululations. Some wept. Others raised fists. Many bowed.
When silence returned, Odogwu raised his staff one last time.
"If you ever doubt yourself, remember the frog does not jump without a reason. There is a fire in you. If the cockroach survives the fowl's kitchen, it is because its chi says it is not time. Do not give up. Even the tortoise, with all its slowness, arrives."
Then, with his final words, he faced the elders present and said,
"I leave not in sorrow, but in gratitude. I do not leave the stage — I return to the soil. And remember, 'the wise man who knows when to stop talking will live to hear his echoes sing back to him.'"
He turned. Walked out.
The drums did not follow. The people remained standing. And above the dome, a sudden ray of sunlight pierced through and fell exactly where he had stood.
Some say it was coincidence. Others say it was the ancestors.
In Amaedukwu, the wind rustled the plantain leaves gently that morning. An old woman whispered to her granddaughter, "Do you know what the elders say? 'When the storyteller dies, the stories go with him. But when the storyteller plants his stories in others, he never dies.' Odogwu has planted his."
The girl looked up.
"Will he return?"
The old woman smiled. "Child, 'the moon does not disappear — it only changes homes.'"