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Rule the Rhythm of Life. A Pan African movement reimagining life through African wisdom & creativity.
THE DUST AND THE DRUMS OF THE MARKETPLACE
Once upon a time
Long long ago
Before dust learned to rise in anger
Before the sun discovered how to scorch men unevenly
The marketplace of Tar-Akaa was the heart that beat for the whole kingdom
In that market lived Ihyembe
A poor mat weaver
Thin as dawn smoke
Quiet as a buried secret
He worked with the patience of a river carving stone
But no one saw him
People walked past him as though poverty made him transparent
He was greeted only by flies
And sometimes by the wind
Which seemed to pity him
The wealthy traders ruled the marketplace
Their stalls tall
Their voices louder than common sense
Their pride heavier than their goods
They mocked Ihyembe openly
Your mats look like tired snakes
Your hands smell of lack
Walk aside so those who matter may pass
And he did
Always
Without complaint
Then one season
The kingdom prepared for the Great Arrival
The kings uncle
Tor Burem a war general feared across four rivers
Was returning from victory
He must be welcomed with the finest mat in the land
The king sent Iyân the Royal Drummer
A man whose drum could scatter clouds
His mission was simple
Find the mat that honors a warrior
Or do not return at all
The marketplace erupted
Merchants pushed forward with embroidered mats
Mats dyed in royal reds and imported blues
Mats that shone like lies polished for guests
Iyân tested each
He bent them
They cracked
He pressed them
They sagged
He dropped them
They died like weak promises on the ground
The crowd murmured
Eyes shifting
Pride trembling
Then from the far corner
Where the poor gathered like forgotten baskets
The wind lifted a single mat
Light
Unpainted
But woven with intricate strength
It floated
Softly
Until it landed at Iyân’s feet
Silence seized the market
Ihyembe froze
The merchants growled
Who sent this rag?
Iyân ignored them
He lifted the mat
Ran his fingers over the weave
And his eyes sharpened
This this is crafted with truth
He snapped it
It refused to break
He folded it
It returned to shape
He dropped it
It landed like a living thing
Whose work is this
his voice thundered
All fingers angry reluctant pointed at Ihyembe
Bring him forward
Ihyembe stepped out
As though stepping out of years of invisibility
Hands shaking
Heart hiding under his ribs
Iyân asked
Why did you hide such mastery
Ihyembe replied
When you live among men who worship noise
Silence becomes your shelter
I let my work speak
Even when no eye cared to listen
The market stirred
Shame creeping into proud throats
Iyân faced the merchants
You polish your goods
But this man polishes his soul
And that is why his craft will carry a warrior
He raised the mat high
And the wind roared in approval
From that day
The market changed
Not because Ihyembe became rich
But because the people finally understood
That they had been walking past gold
Thinking it was dust
What Do We Learn
A society may ignore the quiet
But excellence cannot remain hidden forever
And sometimes
The wind itself becomes the messenger of justice
Moral of the Story
Respect the hands that work in silence
For greatness often enters the world without announcing itself
Visit House of TorMbe for more of such Didactive tales.
The Chameleon and the Mirror of the Moon
Once upon a time
Long long ago
Before the river learned to recognize its own reflection
Before the sun began to chase shadows across the land
Creatures of the world lived by the laws of pride and humility
There was a chameleon named Ormba
His skin could dance with all the colors of the forest
Sometimes green as new leaves
Sometimes brown as the tree bark after rain
But his heart was filled with vanity
Every market day the animals gathered by the watering hole
To drink to sing and to listen to the teachings of Tarka the Tortoise
Old and slow yet wise as the roots of the iroko
He would say
Power is like fire it gives warmth to the humble
But burns the proud who think they can hold it bare handed
Most creatures listened in silence
But Ormba laughed
He puffed up his chest and said
Who among you can command color like I
Even the rainbow borrows from me
He strutted before the others
Changing his skin to gold then red then deep royal blue
The younger animals clapped in wonder
The tortoise only smiled quietly
Then one night when the moon was full and clear like a silver drum
Ormba looked into the still pond and saw his reflection shining back
He was so amazed by his own beauty that he whispered
Surely I am greater than all creatures
Perhaps even the moon herself envies my colors
The moon hearing this arrogance decided to teach him a lesson
She sent down her pale light
soft but powerful
And the pond turned into a mirror
In that mirror Ormba saw not his glowing colors
But a dull shapeless shadow
He blinked and changed his colors again and again
Still the mirror showed only emptiness
Panicked he cried
Where is my beauty
Where is my power
Then the voice of the moon echoed across the night
Power that depends on the eyes of others is no power at all
You spent your days intimidating others and chasing attention not understanding
True strength shines even when no one is watching
At dawn humbled and quiet Ormba went to Tarka the Tortoise
He bowed his head and said
Teach me to see as the wise do
not through the eyes of praise But through the mirror of truth
The tortoise smiled slowly and replied
Now you are ready my son
The greatest color is the one that cannot be seen
The color of understanding
From that day Ormba no longer showed off his colors
He used them to blend to listen and to learn
And in time the animals came to respect him not for his skin
But for his quiet wisdom
What Do We Learn
Power without perception is like thunder without rain loud but empty
Those who seek only to be seen lose themselves in their own reflection
True power lies not in appearance but in awareness
Moral of the Story
Let your strength speak in silence
Do not mistake admiration for authority
The wise do not shine to be noticed
They shine to give light
Visit House of TorMbe for more timeless stories that whisper truth through the language of nature
09/11/2025
✊🔥 My Sincere Thoughts on the Outcome of Ijiir Tamen Held in Gboko Yesterday 🔥✊
First, let me say this: If I get a few things wrong here, please overlook them. My heart is in the right place: I’m only speaking as a proud Tiv son who wants the truth of our culture to shine again. Now, to the matter 👇
Women have always had inheritance rights in Tiv land: our ancestors weren’t blind to equality. But they were also wise. They allowed inheritance on spiritual and cultural conditions, not just emotions or modern sentiment. As Waya and Okanume (2017) observe, “Tiv customary law grants women certain privileges, but these are activated only through ritual affirmation within the paternal lineage.”
A Tiv woman could inherit ancestral property if the right rituals were performed: placing her sha tange or sha tse, depending on her lineage. And this wasn’t random, it had to be spiritually sanctioned.
Let’s not forget: case studies like Duku, Tsambe, and Ipav (if am not mistaking) still exist among us today. So, any law on inheritance must be interpreted in the light of our ancestral wisdom, not outside it.
You can’t just give ancestral land to a married woman who might later sell it off to Atoatiev (strangers), just to buy land in her husband’s place for her children. Neither can you give a married woman land in her father’s house that tempts her to abandon her marriage. Are we trying to encourage more breakups among Tiv homes?
When our forebears gave inheritance to women, it was mostly to those who: through powerful rituals, were declared to remain in their father’s home, or whose children were spiritually claimed by their father’s lineage. Ihuah (2021) reminds us that “such decisions were never arbitrary; they were cosmologically sealed through Swem and Akombo, ensuring moral balance within the clan.”
On marriage, as much as I love how the #100,000 bride price and lump sum sounds, I must say: ancestrally, it doesn’t add up. Tiv marriage was never about money; it was about human and spiritual exchange.
Originally, it was based on Yamshe (human exchange), then later on the cow. Fyanka (2018) notes that “the substitution of human exchange with the cow did not commercialize marriage; it merely symbolized continuity of ancestral value.” So let’s be realistic: can #100,000 buy a cow today? A better approach would be pe***ng it to the value of a cow, not cash.
As for the Ogogoro issue, let’s be honest: Ayashi (traditional liquor) has always played a vital role in our rites. Banning Ogogoro in particular is not a problem if there’s an alternative like it. Remember when HRM banned knockouts? It worked because there was a substitute.
So, if Ijiir Tamen must ban Ogogoro, let them also provide a pure, strong white Ayashi for libations. Otherwise, we are only playing. Ihuah (2021) also emphasizes that “ritual drink serves as a moral bridge between the living and the ancestors; when that bridge is removed without replacement, disorder follows.”
Now, about female kings: we must tread carefully. Traditionally, the Tiv had no “kings.” Our system was gerontocratic: led by elders.
We had Ashagbaaior (strong men of influence) and Igbianjov (mothers of morality and order). If Ashagbaaior have now become kings, what about the Igbianjov? Are we leaving a vacuum in the moral and spiritual grooming of Tiv womanhood? Let’s think deeply on this o! I don not suggest that we should make women kings (far from it)- I am simply saying that we need women who will be in charge of grooming and ordering the women, promoting societal purity and carrying out the ikyôr rites, this is ancestral. This is our way of life and we ought to formalize it with an official designation so as to encourage it.
As Terzungwe and Tongov (2024) explain, “The Tiv political system was a mosaic of councils and age groups; leadership was moral, not monarchical.” If we distort that balance, we risk creating confusion between sacred gender roles and imposed hierarchies.
Finally: and this one is key, what power are these pronouncements from Ijiir Tamen anchored on?
Is it Swem? Igbe? Agashi? Kpila Akombo?
Because one thing Tiv people know: a law not spiritually anchored is just expensive vue liam (empty talk). As Ihuah (2021) puts it, “To separate Tiv law from its cosmological foundation is to turn sacred command into empty speech.”
We must not deceive ourselves. If we truly understand Tiv culture, we’ll realize most of these new “laws” are not really new. They are ancient principles being brought back to light under the leadership of our erudite father.
And for that, I sincerely appreciate the revered Ijiir Tamen for reminding us of who we are: descendants of wisdom, order, and divine tradition.
May Tiv rise again in truth and understanding. ✊
References (embedded):
Waya, D. T. & Okanume, A. C. (2017). Evaluation of the Tiv and Igbo Marriage Systems. Journal of Culture, Society and Development, ISSN 2422-8400. iiste.org
Ihuah, A. S. (2021). Womanhood in Tiv Orature: A Deconstructive Analysis of Gender Roles in Africa. Philosophy and Praxis, Vol. 11 No. 2. acjol.org
Fyanka, B. (2018). The Evolution of Marital Practices among the Tiv. RUN Journal of Cultural Studies. repository.run.edu.ng
Terzungwe, E. I. & Tongov, J. N. (2024). Tiv Traditional Political Systems: Governance and Social Order. POLIS, Vol. 2 No. 1. journals.casjournals.com
The Weaverbird and the Rainstorm
Once upon a time
Long long ago
Before fire learned to sit quietly inside stones
Before the wind discovered how to whisper through the trees
Birds beasts and men lived under the same laws of foresight and patience
There was a weaverbird named Ikyarem
His wings were bright as new millet
His song was sweet like ripe pawpaw
But his heart was restless and careless
Every season the elder birds would gather under the great iroko tree
They would speak of the coming rains
And remind the young ones to weave strong nests before the storms arrived
One old crow named Aondohemba always spoke last
His feathers were black like midnight
His voice cracked like dry wood in fire
But his words carried the truth of many seasons
Children he would say
Rain does not warn twice
Plan your shelter when the sky is clear
Or you will sleep under the teeth of the storm
Most birds listened and began weaving early
But Ikyarem laughed
Why rush he chirped proudly
The sun is still shining the days are sweet
I will build when I am ready
For now let me sing and fly
The days passed
The clouds gathered slowly in the horizon
Still Ikyarem danced from branch to branch mocking the others
When asked he whistled
Tomorrow will be enough for my nest
Then one night the storm came
The sky broke open with thunder
The wind roared like a thousand drums
The rain fell with the anger of rivers escaping their banks
The weaverbirds who had planned slept safely in their woven nests
Swinging gently but secure
But Ikyarem had nowhere to hide
The storm beat him mercilessly
His feathers clung to his body
His wings grew heavy with water
Shivering he cried out into the darkness
At dawn when the storm was gone
He perched weakly under a broken branch
His song was gone his pride washed away
Old Aondohemba flew down beside him and said
My child
The time to prepare is not when the rain begins to fall
The wise plant yam before hunger comes
The foolish wait for famine before tilling the ground
From that day Ikyarem never wasted the clear days again
He became the first to weave his nest when the sun was still smiling
What do we learn
Planning is the shelter that protects us when the storm arrives
Delay and carelessness invite suffering
Moral of the Story
Never waste today thinking tomorrow will wait
Those who plan ahead find rest
Those who refuse to plan learn their lesson in the hardest way
Visit House of TorMbe for more of such didactic tales.
The Proud Calf and the Old Cattle Keeper
Once upon a time
Long long time ago
Before grass learned to bend with the wind
before rivers discovered the path to the sea
animals and men lived together under the same laws of respect and humility
There was an old cattle keeper named Torbee
His beard was white like cotton
his eyes carried the weight of many seasons
He was gentle but firm
He spoke few words but each one dropped like a stone into still water
In his herd was a calf named Nyia
He was strong with shining horns just beginning to grow
He ran faster than the other calves and often lifted his head high as if to challenge the sun
One evening when the moon rose round and full
Torbee called the calves to follow him to the stream
The others obeyed but Nyia stamped his feet and said with a snort
Why should I follow this old man
His legs are weak his back is bent I can run faster than him
I can drink when I want
The other calves looked at him in silence
Torbee heard the words but said nothing
He only walked slowly to the stream
The herd followed except Nyia who turned proudly toward the tall grasses
As he pushed through the thicket a leopard hiding in the shadows leapt
The calf ran
He ran faster than wind itself
His young legs pounded the earth like drums
But the leopard chased harder and harder until Nyia’s breath burned like fire
At last when his strength failed he stumbled into a shallow ditch
There he cried loudly for help
Torbee who was by the stream heard the cry
He lifted his staff and ran though his legs were heavy
He struck the ground three times with the staff calling on the spirits of the bush
The leopard stopped its chase and slipped back into the darkness
Nyia lay trembling
His horns no longer proud
His eyes full of tears
Torbee stood over him and said in a calm voice
My child
speed is nothing without wisdom
Strength is useless without humility
If you forget respect for those who guide you you will walk into the jaws of danger
He lifted the calf gently
placed herbs on his wounds and led him back to the herd
From that day Nyia never raised his head too high again
He walked close to Torbee’s staff like a shadow and listened whenever the old man spoke
What do we learn
Humility is the shield that protects us from dangers we cannot see
Pride blinds the eyes but respect opens the path to safety
Moral of the story
Never look down on those who guide you
Even the weakest elder has strength hidden in wisdom
A proud heart may run fast but it often runs straight into the trap of destruction
Visit House of TorMbe for more of such didactic tales.
The Hungry Dog and the Kind Hunter
Once upon a time
Long long time ago
Before fire learned to sit inside lamps before drums learned to echo in churches the animals of the earth lived like men with families councils and oaths
There was a hunter named Ioryina He was strong but gentle He hunted only what his family needed and always poured libation to thank the forest spirits He was known for his kindness
One harmattan evening as he returned from the bush his bag was light His traps had caught nothing His children waited at home with empty stomachs
On the path he saw a dog thin like broomstick ribs showing like yam ridges The dog’s eyes were weary but hopeful
The hunter felt pity He broke the last piece of dried meat he carried and gave it to the dog
From that day the dog followed him like a shadow He guarded Ioryina’s compound barked at night to scare thieves and played with the children The family grew to love him
But as moons passed and rains returned the dog grew fat and strong His hunger was gone but his heart grew proud
He began to sneak into the barn He tore open bags of maize He stole eggs from the hens The children complained but the hunter said maybe he is still learning trust
One night thieves came The dog was sleeping after eating too much He did not bark The thieves carried away yam tubers and goats The family wept
Still the hunter forgave He said perhaps tomorrow he will remember the meat I once shared with him
But instead the dog grew worse He snapped at the children He bit visitors who came with greetings
At last Ioryina said with tears You were hungry and I fed you You were homeless and I gave you shelter You were weak and I gave you strength But now you repay kindness with teeth
He tied a rope around the dog’s neck and led him far into the forest He left him there among hyenas and jackals
The dog cried but no one listened He remembered the taste of that first meat and the warmth of the children’s hands but it was too late
Back in the village people asked the hunter Why do your eyes look so heavy
He said Because the deepest wound is not from arrow or spear but from ingratitude A man can heal from hunger but not from betrayal of kindness
What do we learn
Gratitude multiplies blessings Ingratitude burns bridges that no river can rebuild
He who forgets kindness is like a roof that leaks on the very house that gave it shelter
Moral of the story
Be grateful for every hand that lifts you for tomorrow you may need that hand again
Even the smallest kindness is sacred do not repay it with harm
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05/09/2025
WHO EXACTLY IS FOOLING WHO?
They say the old order has passed away. They say it is no longer important. But if it has truly passed away, why does Vuekombu still hold sway over our children? Why does Akombo Dam still manifest? And why, above all, does Swende still afflict so many people in silence?
They say women are now free to witness burials and even carry corpses because of Christianity. But why do we keep seeing victims of Waa Akombo rise daily- most of them not even aware that this is exactly what is disturbing them.
They say we no longer use Agbe to bless the land because the era of Igbe is gone. Yet, people still battle with the Igbe sickness every day.
They say we are now free to kiss our women and use any bed style we want, including D*gy, Yet Megh has only multiplied in our communities.
So let us ask ourselves plainly: if you stop being careful, does that mean the danger has ended? If you change your name to a European name, has your blood ceased to be Tiv?
The real problem is this: the solutions of our fathers have been dismissed as “archaic,” yet the problems those solutions were designed to effectively solve still remain. And I have not seen any effective alternatives- only powerless rhetoric and plagiarized and corrupted doctrines meant to enslave and control minds.
So I ask again, with all seriousness: WHO EXACTLY IS FOOLING WHO?
It is time to wake up. Time to stop living in denial. Time to recognize that no matter how far we run, our roots, our heritage, and the realities of our forebears and our land remain with us.
The Leopard and the Old Drum
Sonnet of the Banished Gods
They write new laws to shape the tender mind
With CRS for one IRS for two
Yet not a thought for shrines they left behind
Whose house it is yet mocked and overthrew
No white hand drafts this dark erasing scroll
But black men ink the death of their own song
They carve out space for faiths that stole the soul
And leave their mothers gods condemned as wrong
O land of fools who spurn your breathing source
Who feed on bread yet burn the fertile field
You beg strange hands to chart your nations course
And cast the staff your fathers once did wield
Awake my kin the syllabus is fraud
They teach you man but never teach you God
The Tortoise and the Gossip of the Parrot
Once upon a time
Long long time ago
Before humans began to plough the land with hoes before yams learned to grow deep roots the animals of the bush lived like men with laws families and villages
There was a tortoise named Mbatsav He was slow but wise and gentle and had a good farm and a peaceful compound
He was friends with Gbegha the grey parrot Gbegha had shiny feathers and a sweet voice but his mouth was like a drum that never tired He heard one thing and told ten He flew from tree to tree from village to village spreading stories like wind spreads dry leaves
Now in another part of the forest lived a strong antelope named Terwase He was proud but honest and a hard worker He never troubled anyone
One evening while Mbatsav was tending to his yam mounds Gbegha flew down
He looked around then leaned close and said
I saw Terwase with some hyenas They were whispering and laughing behind the tall grasses I think he is planning something against you
Mbatsav was shocked
He and Terwase had never fought They shared palm fruits and water from the same stream
But because Gbegha looked so serious Mbatsav believed
From that day Mbatsav stopped greeting Terwase He avoided the stream when Terwase was there He warned other animals to be careful
Soon the news spread across the forest Mbatsav says Terwase wants to harm him
Terwase was confused He asked why the tortoise had turned cold No one told him
Gbegha flew again and said to Mbatsav
Terwase is now gathering animals They are planning to attack your farm at night
Mbatsav became afraid He stopped going to farm He began hiding inside his shell all day
Then one day Wuan the wise toad visited Mbatsav
He said my friend what is troubling your soul
Mbatsav told him everything
Wuan shook his head and said
Let us find out the truth with our own eyes
That evening they followed Gbegha secretly
He flew to Terwase and told him
Mbatsav said you are planning to steal his yams
Terwase was angry He shouted I never said such a thing Mbatsav is my friend
Then Gbegha laughed and flew off
He flew to a group of goats and said Terwase and Mbatsav are fighting stay away
Mbatsav and Wuan looked at each other
They now understood
It was Gbegha all along planting lies like bitter herbs in every ear
The next morning Mbatsav went to Terwase
He said my brother forgive me I listened to a bird and never asked you myself
Terwase forgave him and they shared yams that day
As for Gbegha no one believed him again His voice became useless like an empty pot
What do we learn
Always ask questions before believing what you hear
A story grows wings when it passes from ear to ear
Truth is like fire if you hide it long enough it will still burn through the leaves
Moral of the story
Do not build hatred on the foundation of gossip
Even a sweet voice can carry bitter lies
Wise people verify with their own eyes and ears before they act
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