The Telegram: Ashanti Folktale of Ghana

In a quiet village in the heart of Ashanti land, a man lived his life largely untouched by the everyday drama of neighbors and kin. One afternoon, as the sun dipped toward the horizon and painted the earth in golden light, a messenger arrived at his doorstep carrying a folded piece of paper. The man took it without ceremony and unfolded the telegram.

The words were brief and blunt:

“Your mother died. Come quickly.”

He read the message slowly, absorbing the stark finality of each word. To anyone else, grief might have surged like a river breaking its banks. Tears might have sprung unbidden, and frantic preparations might have followed. But the man only frowned slightly, his eyes scanning the telegram once more. He did not cry, nor did he tremble. His thoughts remained calm, deliberate, and strangely detached.

After a moment, he spoke quietly to the messenger, his voice level and almost matter-of-fact:

“Send back the reply: Bury her.”

The messenger blinked, uncertain. There was no rage in the man’s voice, no despair, only a quiet insistence that life must continue, even in the face of death. The man’s words carried the weight of cultural understanding, of a perspective shaped by the Ashanti tradition: the living must honor the dead, yes, but they must not be consumed by grief. Death is a part of the natural order, and the proper response is respect, not hysteria.

In the village, news of his reply spread quickly. Some villagers were shocked. How could a man respond so calmly to the death of his mother, someone who had carried him as a child, who had fed and guided him? Others, more attuned to the ways of their ancestors, nodded quietly. They understood that grief, while natural, should not imprison the living. The telegram, a symbol of modern communication, had brought a timeless lesson into sharp relief.

The man, meanwhile, went about his day with the same quiet diligence he always maintained. He tended to his work, spoke to friends, and moved through the village streets with measured steps. There was no rush to travel, no frantic packing, no uproar of emotion. To him, the act of sending the telegram was itself an expression of care, a succinct, practical acknowledgment of his mother’s passing. It was enough to honor her memory while keeping his life rooted in the present.

Though brief, his action spoke volumes. In the Ashanti worldview, death is inevitable, and the rituals surrounding it are as important as the emotions they provoke. By instructing that his mother be buried, he affirmed the continuation of cultural tradition. He trusted that the family and the village would carry out the burial with proper rites and reverence, just as they had done for generations. In doing so, he demonstrated a form of love that did not require dramatic displays of sorrow, but rather a calm, resolute sense of responsibility.

The telegram, small and impersonal as it was, became a focal point for reflection. In the hands of the man, it was not merely a message of loss, but a reminder of balance: that life and death, grief and duty, are intertwined, and that wisdom often manifests as quiet action rather than visible emotion.

When the villagers recounted the story in years to come, they emphasized not just the telegram itself, but the lesson it carried. They remembered the man’s composure, his clarity of thought, and his respect for the proper course of action. In the face of death, he had chosen responsibility over impulse, ritual over reaction, and calm over chaos.

Moral Lesson

Grief is natural, but wisdom lies in measured response. Duty, respect, and cultural understanding often speak louder than emotion. In honoring the dead, the living must maintain balance, continuity, and composure.