In the ancient highlands of Ethiopia, where coffee beans grew wild among the rocky terraces and the air was thin with mountain mist, there lived a woman whose voice could weave magic from the simplest words. Her name has been forgotten by time, but her story lives on as a warning whispered by mothers to children who beg for just one more tale before sleep.
This woman possessed a gift that was both a blessing and curse, she could tell stories that painted pictures in the mind so vivid that listeners forgot they sat in a simple stone house. Her tales could make warriors weep, bring laughter to the grieving, and turn the longest winter nights into journeys through distant lands filled with talking animals, wise kings, and brave maidens who outwitted monsters.
From the moment the first light touched the eastern mountains until the last ember died in the evening fire, she told her stories. The village children would gather at her feet like flowers turning toward the sun, their eyes wide with wonder as she spun tales of ancient heroes and clever tricksters. Market days brought no rest, for traders would pause their haggling to hear her speak of magical cities beyond the great desert. Even the elders, gray-bearded and skeptical, would find themselves drawn into her circle when she spoke of the old days when spirits walked openly among mortals.
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But as the sun set and other storytellers put aside their words for sleep, this woman continued. While mothers sang lullabies and fathers secured their houses against the cool mountain night, she gathered those who would listen, night workers returning late, young couples walking beneath the stars, insomniacs who found peace only in the rhythm of her voice.
Her husband would plead with her to come to bed. “Rest your voice, beloved,” he would say, touching her shoulder as she sat by the dying fire. “The stories will wait until tomorrow.”
But she would shake her head, her eyes bright with an inner fire that seemed to burn brighter as darkness deepened. “Just one more,” she would whisper, her voice already growing hoarse. “There is still one more tale that needs telling.”
The village women began to notice changes first. Where once her hair had been black as night sky, silver threads appeared like early frost. The smooth skin of her face began to show lines that mapped the countless hours spent in animated expression. Her hands, once soft, grew thin and delicate as parchment.
“She grows old too quickly,” the women murmured as they drew water from the well. “It is not natural, this aging. She was young when the harvest moon rose, and now she looks as if winters have passed.”
But still she told her stories. Through the darkest hours before dawn, when only the most restless souls remained awake to listen, her voice continued. Tales of love and loss, of courage and cowardice, of magic that lived in the spaces between heartbeats. Each word seemed to flow from somewhere deep within her, carrying with it something essential and irreplaceable.
The old women of the village, keepers of ancient wisdom, began to understand what was happening. They had heard whispers of such things from their grandmothers, stories of the sacred power that lived within words themselves, and the price paid by those who gave too freely of their gift.
“Every tale takes something from the teller,” they said to each other in voices soft as dried leaves. “The words must come from somewhere, and they draw from the well of life itself.”
As the nights passed, the transformation became impossible to ignore. The woman’s hair turned white as mountain snow, her back curved like a crescent moon, and her voice, though still beautiful, carried the tremor of great age. Yet still she would not stop.
On what would be her final night, as the thin mountain air grew cold and stars wheeled overhead in their ancient patterns, she began a tale unlike any she had told before. It was the story of stories themselves, of how words carried power, of how every tale was a gift from the teller’s very essence to those who listened.
Her voice grew thinner as the night progressed, her breathing more labored, but the story continued. She spoke of the responsibility that came with the gift of narrative, of how stories were meant to be shared but never squandered, given freely but never carelessly.
As dawn painted the eastern sky in shades of gold and crimson, she spoke her final words, the ending of the greatest tale she had ever told. With that last syllable, her voice faded like morning mist, and the woman who had given all of herself to the sacred art of storytelling closed her eyes forever.
The villagers found her there at sunrise, peaceful in death, her face bearing the smile of one who had fulfilled a sacred purpose. Around her, the air still seemed to shimmer with the echoes of her final tale, and those who had heard it carried the memory like a precious burden.
From that day forward, the people of that mountain village understood what the old women had always known, that stories are sacred gifts, drawn from the very essence of those who tell them. Parents began to warn their children never to be greedy for tales, never to demand story after story without thought for the cost. For they had learned that words carry power, and every tale given freely takes something precious from the one who gives it.
Moral Lesson
This Ethiopian folktale teaches us that all gifts, no matter how freely given, come with a cost. The woman’s endless storytelling represents the danger of giving without boundaries, of sharing our gifts so completely that we exhaust ourselves in the process. Stories, like all forms of creative expression, are sacred, they deserve to be both given generously and received with gratitude and respect.
Knowledge Check
Q1: What supernatural element drives the plot of this Ethiopian folktale about storytelling? A1: The supernatural element is that each story the woman tells literally drains away part of her life force, causing her to age rapidly until she dies upon finishing her final tale at dawn.
Q2: How does the woman transform throughout this Ethiopian folktale? A2: The woman transforms from young to elderly over the course of her endless storytelling, her black hair turns white, her smooth skin becomes lined and aged, and her voice becomes tremulous with age, all from giving too much of herself to her stories.
Q3: What role do the village elders play in this Ethiopian story about the power of words? A3: The village elders, particularly the old women, serve as the keepers of ancient wisdom who understand the sacred nature of storytelling and recognize that the woman is paying a supernatural price for her endless tale-telling.
Q4: What warning does this Ethiopian folktale give about storytelling traditions? A4: The folktale warns that stories are sacred gifts that come from the teller’s life essence, and that children should never be greedy for too many tales, especially at night, as this places an unfair burden on the storyteller.
Q5: How does this folktale reflect Ethiopian cultural values about oral tradition? A5: The story reflects the deep respect for oral tradition in Ethiopian culture while teaching that storytelling is a sacred responsibility that requires balance, stories should be shared generously but received with gratitude and awareness of their true cost.
Q6: What is the moral lesson about gifts and boundaries in this Ethiopian tale? A6: The moral teaches that even the most precious gifts, like storytelling, must be given with wisdom and received with respect. Endless giving without boundaries can destroy the giver, making the gift itself unsustainable.
Source: Ethiopian folktale
