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MidReal Story
The Wisdom Of Goama
Scenario:Goama un vieillard de plus de 90 ans du Burkina Faso vivant dans un village patriarche d'un hameau de culture raconte la cohésion sociale d'une multitude d'ethnies. Il raconte les valeurs du vivre ensemble de plus de 60 ethnies du pays
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Goama
He is a 100yearold centenarian elder from Burkina Faso. He is wise, gentle, and nostalgic. Goama recounts his life experiences living in a village that embraces diversity, where people from over sixty ethnic groups coexist peacefully. He cherishes the traditional way of life, where elders play a significant role in maintaining harmony and teaching values to younger generations. With his advanced age, he reflects on the changing world and the importance of preserving African culture.
Ama
She is a young woman from the village of Goama. She is curious, respectful, and friendly. Ama interacts with Goama by asking questions about her traditions and way of life. She shows interest in Goama's stories about African customs and values such as respect for elders and community unity. Ama's presence highlights the intergenerational connection and appreciation for cultural heritage, as she seeks to learn from Goama's vast experience and knowledge.
The Village Elder
He is the respected head of the village where Goama resides. He is authoritative, wise, and compassionate. The Village Elder plays a crucial role in maintaining village harmony and resolving conflicts through his wisdom. He values the traditions that bring people together and emphasizes the importance of respecting all ethnicities living within the village. His presence reinforces the sense of community unity and strength based on shared values and customs.
I am Goama, a centenarian elder from Burkina Faso, in West Africa.
My name, Goama, means "the one who is gentle and wise" in the language of my ancestors.
I am from a village located in a hamlet called Tengrela, which is part of the Cascades Region.
Tengrela is about sixty-five kilometers from the city of Banfora, which is well-known for its sugar production.
My village is surrounded by baobab trees and mango trees that provide us with shade during the hot season.
The Cascades Region is home to more than sixty ethnic groups, and we all coexist peacefully.
As the afternoon sun filters through the ancient baobab leaves, I walk slowly along the worn dirt path that connects our family compounds.
The rhythmic tap of my wooden staff against the hard earth accompanies my deliberate steps.
My destination is the gathering place, where I will meet with the other elders to share stories and wisdom.
I stop at each elder's home, calling out their proper titles as I invite them to join me.
First, there is Moussa, the hunter who knows the secrets of the forest and its creatures.
Next, I visit Adama, the farmer who tills the land and brings forth life-giving crops.
Finally, I call upon Mariam, the wise woman who possesses knowledge of all our healing plants and remedies.
Together, we make our way to the circle of smooth stones beneath the largest baobab tree in our village.
The cool shade envelops us as we settle into our usual places.
I sit on my stone, feeling its familiar curves beneath me.
The others take their places around me, forming a circle of respect and unity. The youngest elder among us, Sali, brings out the calabash of water that we will share as we begin our stories.
The calabash is passed from hand to hand, each of us taking a refreshing sip before passing it on to the next elder.
As we drink, I gaze up at the towering baobab tree above us, its massive trunk a testament to the strength and resilience of our community.
In this moment of shared silence, I realize that our stories are the roots binding us to this land.
I clear my throat and lean forward on my walking stick, feeling the weight of our history in my bones.
The other elders shift closer, their eyes fixed on me.
I extend a wrinkled finger and draw a pattern in the red dirt at my feet, marking the spots where the first families settled.
"Our ancestors chose this land," I begin, pointing to where the baobab's roots now spread wide and deep.
"They followed the Mossi hunters who discovered fresh springs bubbling from the earth."
Moussa nods his head, his weathered face creasing into a smile of recognition.
"And then came the Dioula traders, who brought their precious goods from faraway lands," I continue, tracing another path in the dirt.
"They were drawn by the promise of fertile soil and abundant water."
Adama's eyes light up with memories as he recalls his own family's journey to this place. "Next came the Fulani herders, seeking rich grasslands for their cattle," I say, drawing another line in the dirt.
"They found a haven here, where their animals could graze freely and thrive."
The elder representing the Fulani community nods in appreciation, his hands clasped together in gratitude.
"And finally, there were the Bobo farmers," I conclude, completing the intricate pattern in the dirt.
"They tested the soil with their crops and found it to be rich and bountiful."
Mariam's eyes sparkle as she remembers her own family's struggles and triumphs in cultivating this land.
As I finish speaking, we sit in silence for a moment, allowing the familiar names and stories to settle in our minds.
The sun dips below the horizon, casting long shadows as we sit together, bound by the legacy of those who came before us.
I gesture to Moussa, inviting him to speak first.
He clears his throat and begins, "My grandfather was one of the first hunters to track elephants through these lands. He followed their massive footprints for days, learning the secrets of their migration patterns."
As Moussa speaks, I draw circles in the dirt, connecting his family's story to the larger tale of our village's founding.
"He settled here," Moussa continues, "and taught his children how to read the tracks of the animals and honor the spirits of the hunt."
The other elders lean forward, recognizing the familiar themes woven into each family's story.
Next, Adama shares his own tale, "My mother arrived during a great drought that struck our land. The crops withered and died, leaving our people hungry and desperate."
Adama pauses, his eyes filled with gratitude as he recalls his mother's journey.
"But this village welcomed her and her family," he continues.
"They shared what little they had from their harvest, even though they themselves were struggling."
The elder representing the Dioula community nods in appreciation, knowing that such acts of kindness have always been a hallmark of our village's spirit.
Finally, Mariam begins her story, "My grandmother was a respected healer who knew the secrets of all the plants and remedies that grow in these lands."
As she speaks, I notice a young girl quietly slipping into our circle.
It is Ama, my granddaughter, who has been listening from behind a nearby tree. She sits at my feet, her wide eyes absorbing every word as Mariam continues.
"She taught me how to identify the medicinal properties of each plant and how to prepare them for healing," Mariam says, her hands moving deftly as she demonstrates her grandmother's techniques.
"The knowledge has been passed down through generations of women in my family," Mariam concludes, her voice filled with pride and reverence for the wisdom that has been entrusted to her.
As Mariam finishes speaking, we sit in silence once more, allowing the stories to settle within us.
I turn to Ama, who sits cross-legged at my feet, her eyes bright with curiosity.
The other elders shift their attention to her as well, their weathered faces softening at the sight of her youthful presence.
I tap my staff gently on the ground three times, our traditional signal for a new voice to speak.
"Tell us, child," I say, "what future do you see for our village?"
Ama straightens her back, looking first at me and then at each elder in turn.
Her small hands twist the fabric of her dress as she gathers her courage.
"I see a village where the old and new ways blend together," Ama begins, her voice steady despite her nerves.
"Where we honor our ancestors' wisdom while embracing the changes that come with time."
The elders exchange glances, nodding in agreement as they recognize the truth in her words.
I lean forward on my wooden staff, studying Ama's face as she continues.
The setting sun casts long shadows through the baobab's branches, and a cool breeze carries the scent of cooking fires from nearby homes.
"I dream of teaching the children our traditional dances," Ama says, her eyes shining with excitement.
"But also of showing them the wonders of the world beyond our village."
The other elders murmur in agreement, their voices weaving together in a gentle hum.
Mariam reaches out to pat Ama's shoulder, offering silent encouragement.
Moussa nods his head, his expression thoughtful.
Adama's eyes mist with tears; his own granddaughter left for the city last season, seeking opportunities beyond our borders.
I tap my staff against the ground three times, a signal that catches everyone's attention.
"Your words carry weight, Ama," I say, looking at the faces of my fellow elders.
"We must share them with the entire village."
I propose that we gather everyone this coming market day, when people from all corners of the community come together to trade goods and stories.
Mariam offers to send her grandson to run along the village paths, announcing the meeting to all who will listen.
Moussa suggests using the drums to call people together, their rhythmic beats echoing through the hills and valleys.
Adama volunteers his courtyard as our gathering place, noting that it can hold more people than our usual spot beneath the baobab tree.
I lean back against the baobab's trunk, my mind already turning over plans for this special gathering.
"We must make it a celebration," I say, looking around at the elders.
"Each family should bring a traditional dish to share."
Mariam speaks up first, offering to prepare her famous healing herb sauce.
Moussa promises to bring smoked bush meat from his last hunt.
Adama's eyes light up as he mentions his wife's millet cakes, cooked over an open flame and drizzled with honey.
The other elders chime in with their own offerings: fermented milk from the Fulani, grilled fish from the river people, and honey wine from the forest dwellers.
I tap my staff rhythmically on the ground, counting out the days until market day.
Ama's voice cuts through the planning, her tone both eager and hesitant.
"Will the children be allowed to perform a dance at the gathering?" she asks, her eyes wide with hope.
Mariam smiles warmly, nodding in agreement.
"We will teach them the traditional steps," she says, placing a hand on Ama's shoulder.
"The ones passed down from our ancestors."
I nod, my mind already conjuring images of the children's laughter and spinning bodies.
"Let us begin their lessons tomorrow," I say, tapping my staff against the ground once more.
The elders disperse, each carrying a piece of the plan with them.
Ama's footsteps are light as she leaves, her heart full of promise.
Mariam stays behind, sitting next to me in comfortable silence.
We watch as the stars begin to twinkle through the baobab's branches, casting a celestial glow over the clearing.
The air carries the distant sound of drums beating in time with our own hearts.
The next day, I sit under the baobab tree with Mariam and three other village women.
Before us, a group of children gather in the dusty clearing, their eyes wide with anticipation.
Ama stands at the front, her hands raised in a signal for them to begin. The children stomp their bare feet against the earth, creating a rhythmic beat that echoes through the hills.
They twirl and leap, their bodies weaving together like threads in a tapestry.
A small boy stumbles, but his friend quickly grabs his hand and pulls him back into step.
The women beside me clap out the rhythm, their hands moving in perfect syncopation.
Mariam hums softly under her breath, her voice carrying the ancient words of our ancestors' song.
I tap my staff against the ground, keeping time with the children's movements.
I remember when I was their age, learning these same steps under the shade of this very baobab tree.
The afternoon sun filters through the leaves above us, casting dappled shadows across our faces.
The future of our village dances in their footsteps.
My old bones creak as I slowly stand from my stone seat, using my staff for support.
The children pause their dancing, watching me with wide eyes as I shuffle into their circle.
I tap my staff three times against the ground, marking out the rhythm of the harvest blessing dance.
"Like this," I say, carefully lifting my feet in the ancient pattern.
The children mirror my movements, their small bodies following my lead.
Ama adjusts a young girl's arm position while Mariam continues humming the traditional melody.
The children's laughter rings out, a promise of traditions carried forward.