My Creative Prompt

28 1 0
                                        

I have to write a creative prompt for my English class and I kind of hate it and it's due tomorrow (if only I was good at writing stories) but please read.

#12. A mother tries to tell her children about her homeland, a place that they have never seen.

"Mom, I don't want to talk about this right now." Titilayo expressed while my youngest Aja was eager to listen. "Titi, if you would give me one second you might learn a thing or two." I sighed putting the last of the dishes into the drain. I have watched both of my girls from the moment they were born, the way they talked, the things they did. Both very different but very intelligent with big things coming their way. They were very smart but both had something in common, they both knew none of themselves. While Aja was eager to learn, Titi was stuck in her ways, she has become accustomed to this culture. I fear if she doesn't learn now, it could be too late.

She has neglected her past as much as she can and that isn't good, yes she is very smart but how smart can you be if you do not know yourself. How much can you give the world if nothing has been given to you? You know not your origin, you know not your truest form.

"Titilayo," I started, pulling one of her buds out, "Today, you and your sister shall learn, I will tell you both an itan [1] of my homeland, Ile-Ile rẹ [2]." She looked at me knowing I wouldn't take no for an answer this time.

"Yes."

"We come from a great land than spans across Nigeria, Benin, and Togo. It is West African, it is Yorubaland. This land greater than any western-made borders. The Yoruba people are a proud people said to be derived from the land of 'Egypt'. We are no typical people," I say excitedly, "We had more than villages, we had strong and established, ilu [3]." I stopped to see if either of them had any comments.

"Momma, were we royalty." Aja smiled jumping up and down.

"Possibly, but we made a big mistake, trusting in strange people, blinded by values, and many of our own were stolen from our land, families torn apart, empires and cities destroyed. No unity, no family, just division. But, like use, we survived and had to rebuild and do what we could.

"The slave trade?" Titi asked wondering of the familiarity in the story. I nodded quickly moving on to the closing of the story. "You, Titilayo, Aja, and myself, we are lucky to know our roots, many in this new land don't. They have had to grow accustom to this for centuries, lost all they had, it is long gone. Keep what you know alive in honor of those who couldn't and who still can'."

From that day on, Titi walked different, talked different because she knew more. Both her and Aja appreciate their roots and I think that they appreciate that I passed it on to them.


[1] 'Story' in Yoruba.

[2] 'Your homeland' in Yoruba.

[3] 'Cities' in Yoruba.


Please tell me what you think guys.

Melanin Drops: A POC BookWhere stories live. Discover now