The Children of Smoke

The Children of Smoke
… a tale of the ancient griots
by Linda Somiari- Stewart

As told in hushed tones by the griot Arokòyé, under the moon of the grieving mothers…

Long ago, in the land of Ilé Aìmọ̀, where the rivers once laughed and children sang beneath the kola trees, there lived a spirit-mother named Morounkeji. She was not a woman of flesh, but of love, carved by the gods to watch over the children of the land.

Wherever a child cried in hunger, Morounkeji’s tears watered the ground.
Wherever a child laughed, Morounkeji’s voice echoed with the wind.
And wherever a child wandered into darkness, she lit her lamp and searched.

But one season, a strange fog crept into Ilé Aìmọ̀. It came not from the mountains, nor from the seas. It came from within—a smoke that did not burn trees, but burned the hearts of the young.

The children of Ilé Aìmọ̀ changed.
They no longer sat to hear stories from the elders.
They no longer tilled the soil, fetched firewood, or carved drums.
Instead, they stared into glowing mirrors that spoke lies.

They rubbed oils from strange men who promised power.
They chewed and swallowed leaves that clouded the mind and powders that silenced pain.
And they began to vanish,not in body, but in soul.

Morounkeji wept.
She left her grove and walked the earth for answers.
In the girls’ rooms she found bracelets laced with sorrow, hidden bottles of numbness. Their eyes hollow like forgotten wells.

In the boys’ rooms she found bags of powder, chains of gold heavier than their character, and journals filled not with dreams but curses.

She cried out to the elders.
But many were silent, too proud, or too distracted by their own glowing mirrors.

“Where did we go wrong?” she asked the wind.
A voice answered from the trees. It was Igi Àràbà, the old tree of wisdom. He spoke not with leaves, but with truth:
“They were not taken by demons, Morounkeji.
They were handed over- by hands that stopped holding them.
Fed – by mouths that stopped correcting them.
Lost- not swalloed by the darkness outside, but the silence inside their homes.”

Morounkeji fell to her knees. “But they are just children…”

And Igi Àràbà whispered,
“Then fight for them like a mother. Even if their parents forget, you must not.”

So Morounkeji took up the drum again – not the drum of festivity, but the drum of warning.
She beat it in the market square.
She beat it at the crossroads.
She beat it before the shrines of worship .

And those who still had hearts that could feel wept.
They began to search their own homes.
They began to ask their sons what they carried.
They began to ask their daughters what they swallowed.
They began to listen. They began to weep.
But many… did nothing and the smoke grew thicker.

One day, the sun itself dimmed.The rivers stopped laughing.
And the spirits of the children,those whose souls were never reached,drifted into the sky like ash, whispering:
“We did not die from poverty.
We died from neglect.
From unchecked freedom.
From empty homes with locked doors and fast Wi-Fi.
From parents who paid bills but stopped paying attention.”

The land mourned.
Today, when the wind howls through the forests of Ilé Aìmọ̀, the elders say:
“Those are not winds, they are the children of smoke, searching still for the voices that failed them.

Moral of the Story:
The world is filled with smoke, but a child with watchful eyes and listening ears as parents can still find the path.
A home that speaks truth may be old, but it is never broken.
And love, though late, is better than silence that arrives too late.

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