If you were to stand in the southern woodlands of Nigeria during the dry season, you would hear the earth speaking. It does not speak in a whisper, but in the sharp, brittle crackle of fallen leaves, the dry rattle of empty seed pods in the wind, and the low hum of heat rising from the red clay.
It is a beautiful country, a place where the forest meets the Savannah, and where the Igbo people have lived, farmed, and shared stories for more generations than anyone can count.
The story we are telling today is one of the oldest and most famous of those tales. It is a story so beloved that Nigeria's great modern writers, who have traveled all over the earth and written books read by millions, have made sure to write this very legend down in their novels, preserving it like a jewel, so that the rest of the world can understand the wisdom of the forest.
And like all old stories, it has been told in a hundred different ways, around a hundred different fires. But the heart of it remains as true today as it was when the first storyteller sat beneath an Aroko tree.
Our story begins in a time of Ugani, a great and terrible famine.
The rains had forgotten how to fall. The clouds, which usually rolled in heavy and dark from the sea to drench the hills, simply drifted by like thin white threads, keeping their water to themselves.
In the villages of the animals, the harvest had been a sad affair. The yams, which should have been as thick as a man's thigh, were no bigger than a finger, dry and hairy in the hard dirt. The corn had withered on the stock before it could even grow silk.
Because of this, the animals had grown thin. And when animals grow thin, their tempers grow short. The lion no longer roared with majesty. He grumbled. The leopard spent his days sleeping to forget his hunger, and the small forest dikers walked on legs that looked like dry twigs, searching in vain for a single green leaf.
But of all the hungry creatures in the forest, none was hungrier, and none was more miserable than Embe, the tortoise.
Now, you must understand that in those days, the tortoise did not look the way he does now. If you were to see Embe back then, you would have stared in admiration. His shell was not a rough, bumpy patchwork of gray and brown plates. No, it was a single, magnificent shield of polished slate, as smooth as a river stone, and as shiny as a black oil bean.
When he walked, the sun glinted off his back like light on dark water. He was very proud of this shell, but he was even prouder of his mind. Embe was clever. He was so clever that he could see a trick coming from three villages away, and he could invent a new one before he had finished his morning bath.
But Embe's cleverness had a problem. It was entirely at the service of his stomach. And right now, his stomach was as empty as an overturned pot.
One afternoon, Embe sat outside his compound, leaning his smooth, shiny back against the clay wall. His wife, Alim, was inside, scraping the bottom of a mortar to see if there was even a grain of cassava dust left to make a meal.
Suddenly, a shadow fell over Embe's face. He looked up, squinting into the bright hot sky.
High above the trees, a flock of birds was gathering. They were not flying in their usual search of dry berries or muddy water holes. They were flying in a grand, excited circle, their feathers catching the light. There were eagles with wings like dark velvet, hawks with eyes like yellow beads, hornbills with great curved beaks, and bright green parrots who lived to talk.
They were all calling out to one another, their voices full of a joy that had not been heard in the forest for months.
"Did you hear?" cried the parrot, his voice cutting through the dry air. "The message has come down. The people of the sky have seen our suffering."
"A feast!" whistled the dove. "A feast in the clouds! They have harvested the stars and the mist, and they have prepared a table for us."
Embe's ears perked up. The word feast went straight to his brain like a spark to dry grass. He stood up on his short, stubby legs, his shiny shell catching the sun, and stretched his neck as far as it would go.
"A feast," Embe whispered to himself, his mouth watering so quickly he had to swallow. "In the sky? And who is invited?"
"Only the birds!" screamed a falcon, diving low over the trees. "Only those who can fly, for the sky people live where the earth cannot reach, and only those with wings may sit at their table."
The flock began to fly toward the great silk cotton tree at the edge of the forest to prepare for their journey. Embe watched them go, his heart sinking into his dusty toes. He looked at his own short legs. He looked at his heavy, smooth shell. He had no wings. He could not even jump over a fallen log without having to tuck his head inside his armor and roll.
But Embe was not a creature who accepted defeat easily. He sat back down, closed his eyes, and let his mind go to work. His mind was like a weaver's shuttle, darting back and forth, turning threads of ideas into a plan.
"They have wings," Embe muttered, "but I have a tongue. And in this world, a smooth tongue can fly higher than the strongest wing."
The great silk cotton tree was alive with the sound of flapping wings and excited chatter. The birds were preening themselves, cleaning their feathers, and discussing the wonderful things they hoped to eat in the sky.
"I hear there will be pounded yam so white and light, it floats like a cloud," said the hornbill.
"And a goosey soup," sighed the dove, "thick with melon seeds and yellow palm oil, smelling of smoked fish."
"Do not forget the palm wine," added the parrot, flapping his wings, "freshly tapped from the highest trees of the heavens, sweet and bubbling."
"Indeed, it will be a glorious day," said a deep, heavy voice from the foot of the tree.
The birds stopped their chattering and looked down. There, standing at the base of the giant trunk, was Membi the tortoise. He looked very small, very dusty, and very sad. His head was bowed, and his smooth, beautiful shell seemed to have lost its luster in the shadow of the great tree.
The birds immediately grew quiet, and their feathers ruffled with suspicion. They knew Membi. Oh, how well they knew him.
"What do you want, Membi?" asked the eagle, his sharp eyes narrowing. "If you are here to borrow something, the answer is no. We remember the time you borrowed the blacksmith's hammer and forgot where you put it."
"And we remember the time you offered to guard the palm fruit and somehow ended up eating every single nut yourself," piped up the hawk.
Embe did not look angry. He did not even look defensive. Instead, he let out a long, trembling sigh that seemed to come from the very bottom of his soul. He squeezed his eyes shut and let a single perfect tear roll down his dry cheek.
"Ah, my brothers," Embe said, his voice soft and sweet as honey. "You speak of the past, and perhaps I deserve your harsh words. I have been a foolish creature, thinking only of my own small life. But today, my heart does not ache for myself. It aches for you."
The birds looked at one another. The parrot leaned down from his branch, his green head tilted.
"For us? Why should your heart ache for us?"
"Because," Embe said, looking up with wide, sorrowful eyes, "you are going to the kingdom of the sky. You are going to represent the earth before the great people of the heavens. And yet, look at you."
"What is wrong with us?" demanded the eagle, puffing out his chest.
"Nothing is wrong with your spirit, great king of the air," Embe said quickly, bowing his head in deep respect. "Your courage is legendary. But the people of the sky are very grand, very formal, and very particular. They expect their guests to arrive with a spokesman, someone who knows the high language of the court, someone who can speak for all of you with elegance and grace.
If you arrive as a mere crowd, squawking and chirping in your different tongues, they will think we are nothing but wild beasts of the forest. They will not respect you."
The birds murmured among themselves. It was true that they had not thought about who would speak for them. They were all very good at flying, but none of them was particularly famous for making speeches, except, of course, the parrot, but the parrot tended to repeat himself or say things that were far too loud.
"Furthermore," Embe continued, seeing that his words were finding their mark, "you are all so different. The eagle is black and brown, the parrot is green, the dove is gray. You do not look like a single unified people. But imagine if you had a leader who wore the colors of all of you, a leader who represented every wing and every feather of the forest."
"And who would that be?" asked the hawk, though he already knew the answer.
Embe smiled, a modest, humble smile. "I do not ask to go for my own sake. What is a poor tortoise to do in the sky? But if each of you could spare just one feather, just one single plume from your wings, I could use the wax of the wild bees to stick them to my body. I would have a wing of every color. I would fly with you, not as your master, but as your servant, your voice, your beautiful patchwork ambassador."
He turned to the eagle. "Great eagle, your feathers are like dark silk. If I had but one, the sky people would see the strength of our kings."
The eagle, flattered by the description of his feathers as dark silk, hesitated. He looked at his wing. He had many feathers. One would not be missed. With a sharp tug of his beak, he plucked a long, dark feather and let it drift down to the ground.
"Take it," the eagle said, "but speak well of us."
Embe bowed so low his nose touched the dirt. "My lord, your generosity is as great as your flight."
Then Embe turned to the hornbill. "And you, noble hornbill, whose beak is like a trumpet of wisdom, a feather from your wing would show the sky people that we are a people of deep thought."
The hornbill, pleased to be called wise, plucked a feather and threw it down.
One by one, Embe went through the crowd of birds. To the falcon, he spoke of speed. To the dove, he spoke of peace. To the parrot, he spoke of brilliant wit. He had a word of praise for every creature, a sweet, glittering phrase that made each bird feel as though they were the most important animal in the forest.
By the time the sun began to sink behind the hills, there was a pile of feathers at Embe's feet, red, green, blue, yellow, black, and gray.
Embe produced a small pot of sticky beeswax from his shell. With great care, he began to smear the wax over his legs, his neck, and his smooth, dark shell. Then, one by one, he pressed the feathers into the wax.
When he was finished, the birds gasped. Embe the tortoise was gone. In his place stood a creature of unbelievable beauty. He was covered from head to toe in a coat of many colors, a patchwork of wings that shimmered in the evening light. When he moved his arms, the feathers rustled like the wind in the palms. He looked almost handsome. He looked, indeed, like a bird of all colors.
"Now," Embe said, testing his new wings with a little flutter, "we are ready to touch the sky."
So, the next morning, before the dew had even dried on the grass, the great journey began. The birds took off from the silk cotton tree in a magnificent cloud of color, and in the middle of them, flapping his arms with a wild, desperate energy, was Embe.
At first, the flight was not easy for the tortoise. He did not have the natural balance of a bird, and his heavy shell kept trying to pull his tail back down toward the earth.
"Help!" Embe cried, his legs kicking frantically in the air as he tipped upside down, his smooth belly facing the clouds. "The sky is pulling my bottom!"
The birds laughed, a great chirping sound that filled the morning air. The hawk flew beneath him, giving him a gentle push with his wing, while the eagle flew above, showing him how to catch the rising warm air currents.
"Flap together, Embe!" called the parrot. "Do not kick your legs like a frog in a pond. Keep your wings steady."
Embe adjusted his movements. He stopped kicking and began to sweep his feathered arms in long, smooth strokes. To his delight, he felt the air catch him. The red earth of Nigeria began to shrink beneath him. The great forest looked like a green carpet spread out for a king, and the rivers were like silver snakes winding through the hills. The air grew cooler, sweeter, and thinner.
As they flew higher, Embe's fear vanished, replaced by a great swelling pride. He looked at his feathered arms, and then he looked at the birds flying around him.
"They are strong," he thought, "but they are simple. They think with their wings. I think with my brain."
As they neared the kingdom of the clouds, where the air was as soft as cotton and smelled of rain, Embe called out to the flock.
"My friends, my noble companions, stop your wings for a moment and listen."
The birds drifted on the wind, turning their heads to look at him.
"We are entering the realm of the sky people," Embe said, his voice carrying clearly in the quiet of the high air. "And as your spokesman, I must remind you of an ancient custom. When travelers from the earth visit the high courts of the sky, they do not use their everyday names. It is considered a sign of low birth and poor manners. To show our respect, we must each choose a new name for the feast, a grand name, a name of honor."
The birds looked at one another. They had never heard of such a custom. But then again, none of them had ever been to the sky before. Embe was the one who knew about courts and speeches. It seemed wise to trust him.
"I shall be called Great Wing," said the eagle proudly.
"And I shall be called Iron Beak," said the hornbill.
"I am Bright Voice," declared the parrot.
Each bird, in turn, chose a name that spoke of their beauty, their strength, or their skill. When they were finished, they looked at Embe.
"And what of you, Embe?" asked the dove. "What grand name will you take?"
Embe looked down, his feathered shoulders dropping in a display of great modesty. "Oh, my friends, I am but your servant. I do not need a name of power or beauty. I shall choose a name that reminds me of my duty to this entire flock, a name that shows I am here to represent every single one of you."
He paused, letting the silence of the sky build the suspense.
"For this feast," Magabe said softly, "my name shall be All of You."
The birds thought about this. It sounded a bit strange, but it also sounded incredibly generous.
"He is indeed a good leader," whispered the dove to the falcon. "He thinks only of us."
"Yes," agreed the falcon, "a very noble name."
With their new names decided, the travelers made their final approach. They flew through a great gate of white mist and landed on the solid, shining floor of the sky kingdom.
The people of the sky were beautiful to behold. They were tall and slender, with skin that looked like polished bronze, and eyes that shone like stars. They wore robes of woven wind and carried themselves with a grace that made the birds feel very dusty indeed. But when the sky people saw the travelers arrive, they smiled with genuine warmth. They had seen the famine on the earth, and their hearts had been moved to pity.
"Welcome, children of the forest," said the king of the sky, his voice like the sound of a distant waterfall. "We have watched your struggle, and we have prepared a place for you."
The sky people led the guests into a grand hall made of solid blue light. In the center of the hall was a table so long, it seemed to have no end. And on that table was a feast that made Embe's heart skip a beat, and his mouth flow like a river. There were mountains of pounded yam, so white and steaming, they looked like the clouds outside the windows. There were great clay pots of a goosey soup, yellow with palm oil, and fragrant with ground melon seeds, dried fish, and tender meats that had been simmered for days. There were bowls of bitter leaf soup, rich and dark, and platters of roasted plantains that smelled of caramel and smoke. And in the center of it all were great sweating gourds of palm wine, sweet and bubbling, sending up a scent that made the head spin with delight.
Embe's eyes bulged. His stomach let out a roar so loud, he had to cough quickly to cover the sound.
The sky people invited the guests to sit. Because Embe was the most colorful of them all, and because he carried himself with such grand dignity, the hosts assumed he was the king of the earth. They placed him at the head of the table, on a carved wooden stool covered in leopard skin. The birds sat all around the table, their stomachs rumbling, their eyes fixed on the steaming food.
The king of the sky stepped forward, a large carved ladle in his hand. He looked at the beautiful feathered guest at the head of the table, and then he looked at the birds.
"We are honored by your presence," the king said, his voice filled with the warmth of true hospitality. "We have prepared this food with our own hands to ease your hunger. Please eat, drink, and be glad, for this feast is prepared for all of you."
The king bowed and stepped back, gesturing for the servants to begin serving the food.
Before a single bird could lift a claw, Embe the tortoise stood up on his stool. His feathered arms were stretched wide, his head held high.
"Did you hear that, my friends?" Embe called out, his voice ringing through the grand hall.
The birds looked at him, their mouths watering, their wings twitching with eagerness.
"Hear what, Embe?"
"The words of our generous host," Embe said, a look of great solemnity on his face. "He said, 'This feast is prepared for all of you.' And, as you know, that is my name. The people of the sky are very traditional, very formal. They have prepared this feast specifically for me, their guest of honor. It is the custom of this country that the person named must eat first, and then, if there is anything left, the rest of the company may share."
The birds stared at him in utter disbelief.
"But, Embe!" squawked the parrot. "We flew all this way! We gave you our feathers!"
"And I am very grateful," Embe said, his voice smooth as oil. "But we must respect the customs of our hosts. Would you have us offend the king of the sky on our very first visit? No, no. I must do my duty. I must eat."
And with that, Embe sat down and fell upon the food. It was a terrible, magnificent sight. Embe did not eat like a normal creature. He ate like a man who had three stomachs and a fire burning in each one. He took great balls of pounded yam, dipped them deep into the yellow goosey soup until they were dripping with rich oil, and stuffed them into his mouth. He devoured the tender meats, chewing with a loud, wet sound of pure satisfaction. He drank from the gourds of palm wine, letting the sweet, bubbling white liquid run down his chin and soak into the feathers on his neck.
The birds watched, frozen in a mixture of shock and growing, burning fury.
"Great Wing," whispered the hornbill to the eagle, his voice trembling with anger. "Are we going to let him do this?"
The eagle's yellow eyes flared, but he looked at the sky people, who were watching from the edges of the hall. The hosts did not understand the language of the earth animals. They only saw that the colorful leader was eating happily, and they assumed everything was going according to the customs of the forest. The eagle did not want to start a fight in the house of the great king of the sky.
"Wait," the eagle muttered, his claws gripping the edge of the table so hard the wood groaned. "Our time will come."
Embe continued his feast. He ate the roasted plantains. He cleared the bowls of bitter leaf soup. He licked the clay pots clean of every drop of egusi. He ate and he drank, his belly swelling larger and larger until his smooth, shiny shell felt tight around his middle.
The birds sat in cold, stony silence, their stomachs growling so loudly, it sounded like a distant thunderstorm.
Finally, after what seemed like hours, Embe leaned back on his stool. He let out a great, wet burp that smelled of palm wine and fish. He looked around the table at the starving, furious birds.
"Ah," Embe said, wiping his greasy mouth with a green feather from his arm. "That was truly excellent. I am quite full. Servants, you may bring the scraps to the rest of these creatures."
A few servants brought over a tray of bare bones, dry yam skins, and the dregs of the palm wine, the sour, yeasty mud at the bottom of the gourd.
"Here," Embe said, waving a lazy hand. "Eat. Do not say I did not share."
The silence in the grand hall of the sky was heavier than a mountain. The birds did not touch the scraps. They did not squawk. They did not fight. Instead, they stood up from the table, their movements slow, deliberate, and cold.
The eagle stepped forward first. He walked to the head of the table, where Embe sat, his belly round and heavy, his eyes half closed in a lazy, wine-soaked sleep. The eagle did not say a word. He reached out with his sharp yellow beak, gripped the long, dark feather he had given Embe, and with one quick, hard tug, he pulled it out.
"Ouch!" Embe cried, his eyes flying open. "What are you doing?"
The eagle did not answer. He turned and walked away.
Then came the hornbill. He stepped up, his great curved beak parting. He grabbed his feather and pulled.
"Ouch! My leg!" Embe squealed.
Then came the falcon. Then the dove. Then the hawk.
One by one, in a silent, grim line, the birds marched up to the head of the table. Each bird took back exactly what they had given. The wax of the wild bees, which had been so sticky in the cool morning, had grown warm and soft from the heat of the feast and the steam of the soups. The feathers came away easily, leaving patches of gray, sticky skin behind.
"Stop!" Embe pleaded, his voice losing its grand, courtly tone and becoming high and squeaky. "We are friends! We are travelers together! How will I get home? I cannot fly without the feathers!"
But the birds were deaf to his cries. They remembered their empty stomachs. They remembered their children at home, starving in the dry forest, while this greedy creature stuffed himself with the food of the gods.
The parrot was the last to step forward. He looked at Embe with his bright, intelligent eyes.
"Please, Bright Voice," Embe begged, his voice trembling. "You are my friend. Leave me just two feathers, just enough to glide down to the branches of the silk cotton tree. If I fall from this height, I will be dashed to pieces on the hard earth."
The parrot did not say a word. He reached down, took his bright green feather from Embe's neck, and plucked it.
Embe was naked. The beautiful, colorful bird of all colors was gone. In his place sat a gray, wrinkled tortoise, his belly bloated with food, his body covered in sticky, dirty wax, sitting on a high stool in the middle of the sky.
The birds turned their backs on him. They spread their wings, their own wings, which belonged to them by right of nature, and flew out of the blue hall, leaving the sky kingdom behind.
Embe crawled to the edge of the shining sky floor. He looked down. The earth was so far away, it looked like a dream. The forest was a dark, distant smudge, and his own village was nothing but a tiny speck of red dust. There were no clouds beneath him to catch him, only miles and miles of empty, whistling air.
"What shall I do?" Embe cried, his voice cracking with terror. "How will I reach the ground?"
Suddenly, he saw a single bird lingering near the gate of mist. It was the parrot. He was adjusting a feather on his wing, preparing for the long flight down.
"Parrot!" Embe screamed, stretching his neck as far as it would go. "Please, I beg of you, carry a message to my wife, Alim."
The parrot stopped. He turned his head, his sharp beak glinting in the light of the sky.
"A message, Embe? And why should I carry a message for you?"
"Because you are a bird of peace!" Embe wept. "Because if you do not, I will die! Please, go to my compound. Tell my wife to bring out all the soft things in our house. Tell her to take the grass mats, the bundles of unspun cotton, the soft straw from the roof, and the sheep skins. Tell her to pile them high in the yard, so that when I jump, I may land on a soft bed and not be broken."
The parrot looked at Embe for a long moment. His face was unreadable, but there was a sudden, sharp glint in his yellow eyes, a spark of the ancient mischief that all parrots carry in their hearts.
"Very well, Embe," the parrot said, his voice smooth and clear. "I will deliver your message to your wife, exactly as you have requested."
With a sweep of his green wings, the parrot dived into the clouds, leaving Embe alone in the silent sky.
The flight down was swift for the parrot. He did not have a heavy belly full of sky food, and his wings were strong. Within an hour, he was gliding over the forest canopy, landing with a soft rustle on the clay wall of Embe's compound.
Alim, Embe's wife, was sitting in the yard, her face thin and tired from the long famine. She looked up and saw the green bird.
"Ah, parrot," she said, her voice weak. "Have you returned from the sky? Where is my husband? Did he find food?"
The parrot perched on the edge of the wall, his head tilted.
"Yes, Alim, he found food. Indeed, he ate enough for ten animals. But he cannot fly down, for his wings are gone. He has asked me to give you a message."
Alim stood up, her eyes wide with concern.
"A message? What did he say?"
The parrot cleared his throat. He leaned forward, his voice loud and clear, so that everyone in the nearby compounds could hear.
"Your husband says he is going to jump from the sky," the parrot said. "He wants you to prepare for his landing. He says you must bring out all the hard things in your house. You must take the iron hoes, the heavy clay cooking pots, the grinding stones, the anvils from the blacksmith's shop, and the hard logs of Aroko wood. You must pile them high in the center of the yard, so that he has a solid place to land."
Alim was surprised. "The hard things? Are you sure, parrot? That sounds very dangerous."
"He was very specific," the parrot lied, his face as serious as a judge. "He said the soft things would not support his weight. He is very heavy with sky food, you see. He needs a solid foundation. If you love your husband, do exactly as he said."
Alim, though confused, trusted the parrot. She knew her husband was a creature of great intellect, and she assumed he had some clever plan that she did not understand. She went into the house. She dragged out the heavy iron hoes. She carried the thick stone mortars used for pounding yams. She went to the blacksmith's compound and borrowed the heavy iron anvils. She piled them all in the middle of the yard, adding grinding stones, hard logs, and broken pieces of pottery until there was a great, jagged mountain of iron and stone sitting under the open sky.
High above, Embe the tortoise was waiting. He looked down from the edge of the cloud. His eyes were not very good, and from that great height, the pile in his yard looked like a soft gray mound.
"Ah," Embe whispered, his heart beating fast. "She has done it. The sweet, faithful Alim. She has piled the soft cotton and the straw. I can see the gray mats from here."
He looked back at the beautiful sky kingdom, which had now grown cold and silent. He looked at his sticky, featherless arms. He had no choice. He had to trust his luck. Embe took a deep, shaking breath. He pulled his head, his legs, and his tail tight inside his smooth, shiny shell. He became a perfect black slate ball. And then, he let go.
The fall was long, and it was fast.
At first, there was only the sound of the wind, a low, whistling hum that grew into a roar as Embe gathered speed. He began to spin, tumbling over and over through the empty air.
"Whoosh!" The clouds rushed past him like white ghosts. The air grew warmer, thicker, and louder.
"Whoosh!" The green forest canopy rushed up to meet him like a solid wall. Embe could feel the heat of the earth rising. He could smell the dried dust of the red clay.
"Here I come!" Embe thought, his eyes squeezed shut inside his shell. "Into the soft cotton, into the sweet straw!"
He cleared the tree tops. He saw his compound wall. He saw his wife, Alim, standing by the door, her hands covering her face. And then, he saw the pile.
It was not cotton. It was not straw. It was a mountain of iron, stone, and hard, dry wood, glinting in the hot afternoon sun.
Embe's eyes went wide with terror.
"The parrot!" he screamed, but his voice was swallowed by the roar of the wind. "The parrot!"
"Crack!" It was a sound that shook the entire village. It was a sound like a thunderclap in the middle of the dry season.
Embe did not die, for this is a story of the forest, and Embe is a creature of ancient magic.
But his shell, his beautiful, smooth, shiny shell that had been his pride and joy, was shattered. It did not just crack. It broke into a hundred tiny pieces, scattering across the red dirt of the yard like broken pottery.
Alim screamed and ran forward. There, in the middle of the iron and stone, was her husband. He was alive, but he was a sad, soft, wrinkled thing. His body bruised, and his magnificent armor lying in a ruined puzzle around him.
Alim did not waste time crying. She ran to the village healer, the Debia, a wise old man who knew the secrets of the plants and the trees.
The Debia came to the compound, carrying a pot of strong, sticky gum made from the sap of the wild rubber tree. He sat down in the dirt beside Embe and began the long, patient work of putting the tortoise back together.
With great care, the healer picked up the pieces of the shell. He fitted them together, one by one, like a jigsaw puzzle. He glued the edges with the sticky tree gum, pressing them tight until the sap dried hard.
But the pieces had been broken too badly. Some had lost their sharp edges, others had been chipped or crushed by the iron anvils. No matter how hard the healer tried, he could not make the shell smooth again. There were gaps, ridges, and rough seams where the pieces did not quite fit.
When the work was finished, Embe stood up. He was whole, and he was safe, but he was changed forever. His shell was no longer a single, polished shield of slate. It was a rough, bumpy, patchwork dome, full of cracks and scars.
And that is why, from that day to this very afternoon, the tortoise walks with a cracked shell, a permanent map of his great fall from the sky.
The story of Embe's fall is told to children all over Nigeria, not just to make them laugh, though the image of a tortoise flying with borrowed feathers is indeed a funny one, but to make them think.
In the stories of the world, there are many tricksters. You may have heard of Anansi, the spider, who comes from the West African nations of Ghana and Cote d'Ivoire. Anansi is also a trickster, and he plays many jokes on the other animals. But Anansi's tricks often have a different purpose. When Anansi plays a trick, it is often to win the stories of the world from the sky god, so that everyone can share them, or to teach a lesson to a greedy king. Anansi's cleverness, though mischievous, often leaves the world a richer place.
But Embe's trick in the sky was different. Embe's cleverness served only his own hunger. He used his beautiful words not to bring the animals together, but to isolate them. He used his intellect to take everything for himself, leaving his friends, the very ones who had given him the power to fly, starving in the dark. And in the end, the very feathers that took him to the heights were the ones he lost, and the smooth tongue that got him into the sky could not save him from the hard stones of the earth.
It makes one wonder about the gifts we are given. Embe was born with a mind as sharp as a spear, and a voice as sweet as honey. Those are wonderful gifts, but they are also dangerous ones.
So, as you close your eyes tonight and let the quiet of the evening settle over you, think about this.
How does a clever person become a wise one? What is the difference between a mind that can solve any puzzle to get what it wants, and a heart that knows when to stop, when to share, and how to keep its promises?
Sleep well, and let your dreams be wise.