Long ago, in a dusty village near the banks of the Mouhoun River, lived two brothers — Kaoro and Bamba. Though born of the same mother and raised under the same straw-thatched roof, they were as different as day and night.
Kaoro, the elder, was proud and cunning. He dreamed of riches and recognition, and often looked down on the poor and the humble. Bamba, the younger, was quiet and observant. He valued honesty and patience, and helped the elders without asking for praise.
Their parents had passed away when they were still young, leaving them only a small farm and an old wooden stool their father had carved by hand. The land was dry, and the rains had become unpredictable. As hunger crept into the village like a slow wind, Kaoro grew bitter.
“Why should we stay here, planting dead soil?” he snapped one evening. “The forest holds secrets. I will go and find a way to make us rich.”
Bamba looked at his brother with worry. “The forest holds spirits too. Be careful, Kaoro. Don’t take what doesn’t belong to you.”
Kaoro scoffed. “You can stay here and talk to goats. I’ll return with something greater than yam or millet.”
And with that, Kaoro packed dried meat and water in a gourd and walked into the wild.
Days passed. The forest grew deeper, darker. Kaoro paid no attention to the warnings of rustling leaves or the owl that stared too long. He was determined.
One evening, he stumbled into a clearing where an enormous baobab tree rose like a tower. At its base was a strange calabash — painted with red and black symbols. It shimmered oddly, as though glowing from within.
He reached for it.
“Do not touch what is not yours,” came a voice — clear, soft, but firm.
Kaoro froze. The calabash was speaking.
“Who said that?” he asked, looking around.
“I did,” said the calabash, calm and unafraid. “I am not for greed. I am for need.”
Kaoro’s eyes widened. “Then you are magic.”
“I am knowledge. I speak only truth to those who listen without pride.”
Kaoro grinned. “Then speak to me.”
But the calabash was silent.
“Speak, I said!” Kaoro shouted. “I’m not leaving without you.”
Still silence.
Kaoro grew angry. He snatched the calabash, wrapped it in his cloth, and marched back home, muttering, “You’ll speak when I’m ready.”
Back in the village, he placed the calabash in his hut. “Now, tell me how to become rich. Tell me where the treasure lies.”
The calabash stayed quiet.
Over the next days, Kaoro grew frustrated. He yelled, insulted it, even threatened to smash it. But the calabash remained silent.
Then one morning, the calabash spoke softly.
“Take me to your brother.”
“What? No!” Kaoro barked. “He’s useless.”
The calabash said nothing more that day.
Eventually, Kaoro — tired and curious — took it to Bamba.
Bamba, upon seeing the calabash, knelt. “This is not of our world,” he whispered. “What have you done?”
“She only speaks to you!” Kaoro snarled.
The calabash glowed gently.
“You listen with your heart,” it said to Bamba. “So I will teach you.”
From that day, the calabash spoke only to Bamba — teaching him songs that healed sick goats, ways to find water under dry rock, and stories of the ancestors that no one had remembered in generations.
People from nearby villages began to visit Bamba for advice, blessings, and healing. He always gave freely, asking nothing in return. But Kaoro watched from the corner of the compound, bitterness growing in his belly.
One night, he crept into Bamba’s hut and stole the calabash again.
“If it won’t speak to me, I’ll sell it,” he hissed.
He journeyed to a distant market and displayed it with pride. “This is a sacred calabash,” he proclaimed. “It speaks! It knows things!”
The people laughed.
“You try too hard,” one woman said.
Kaoro shook the calabash. “Speak! Show them!”
But the calabash stayed silent.
Humiliated, Kaoro smashed it against the ground. It shattered.
A quiet wind blew through the market. And then, silence.
Kaoro returned to the village empty-handed.
Bamba, when he heard, wept. Not for the calabash, but for his brother.
“It asked only for kindness and patience,” he said.
Years passed. Bamba, now a respected elder, would sit under a mango tree with children at his feet, sharing the knowledge he had learned.
And Kaoro? He grew quieter. He worked the land beside his brother. He listened more. Slowly, his bitterness faded.
And one day, when the rains came after a long drought, Bamba whispered to the wind, “The calabash has not left us. It lives in the words we share.”
✧ Commentary
This tale from Burkina Faso contrasts pride and humility, showing that wisdom is not for those who demand it but for those who are willing to listen with honesty. The magical calabash becomes a symbol of ancestral knowledge — precious, sacred, and only useful to those with the right heart. The tale also reminds us that transformation is possible, even for those who stray.
✧ Moral
Wisdom does not shout — it speaks to those willing to listen without pride.
✧ Questions & Answers
1. Q: Who were the two brothers in the story? A: Kaoro, the proud and greedy elder; and Bamba, the humble and patient younger brother.
2. Q: What did Kaoro find in the forest? A: A magical calabash that could speak and reveal knowledge.
3. Q: Why wouldn’t the calabash speak to Kaoro? A: Because he approached it with pride and greed, not humility.
4. Q: How did Bamba benefit from the calabash? A: It shared healing knowledge and wisdom with him, which he used to help others.
5. Q: What lesson did Kaoro learn by the end? A: That humility and patience open the path to true wisdom, not force or pride.
