The Song of the First Son: A Tale of Love, Loss, and Divine Renewal — As told by the Ancient Sage of Umudim, in the golden days of African glory. Written by Jeremeeh Kousse, a Nigerian storyteller Come closer, my child. Sit beneath the baobab tree where the wind remembers the names of old, and let me whisper to you a tale older than war, softer than a lullaby, stronger than iron. In the time before kings and kingdoms, when men still walked with the wisdom of the gods and the rivers spoke the truth, there lived a young boy named Nnamdi — the First Son of the sun-drenched village of Ifite. Nnamdi’s heart beat with the rhythm of the earth, but it was his mother, Nneka, who gave that rhythm its first melody. She was the dawn that kissed his forehead each morning, the voice that called him in the rain, the hands that wove courage into his spirit. Her love was not a lesson. It was the law. It was the fire in the hearth, the oil in the lamp, the salt in the soup. Nneka was his first true love. The elders used to say, “The first son does not love his mother — he worships her.” And so it was with Nnamdi. In her eyes, he found his worth. In her arms, he found his peace. But the gods are jealous of such love. And when Nnamdi was just becoming a man, when his voice had started to carry the weight of thunder and his steps echoed like the lion’s — Death came quietly, in the night, and took Nneka away. The wails of mourning shook the red earth. Nnamdi wept like the sky in the season of sorrow. And for a long time, he was not seen in the marketplace, nor heard singing by the river. His heart had fallen silent. For how does a first son live when the fire that lit his soul is gone? Many moons passed. Seasons changed. The trees forgot, but the wind still carried her name. And then, as if whispered by the ancestors, grace found Nnamdi. Not loud, not sudden — but like the first rain on dry ground, slow and healing. One day, a woman named Adaora came to the village — strong, wise, and full of laughter that reminded him of sunlight through leaves. She did not replace Nneka. No. She honored her by loving the part of Nnamdi that was still broken. Slowly, patiently, she became his home. And when he married her, the gods smiled. But that was not the end of his blessing. Adaora’s mother, Mama Ifeoma, welcomed Nnamdi not as a son-in-law, but as her own first son. She cooked for him with the same care. She prayed for him with the same fire. She looked into his eyes and saw both the man he was and the boy who had lost his mother. Now listen, child. The old ones say: "When you lose your first true love and God gives you two new ones — your wife and your mother-in-law — know this: You will rise higher than you ever did before." And it was true. Nnamdi built a house so large it held the laughter of generations. His fields yielded crops that sang with abundance. His name was sung by griots, not for his wealth alone, but for the love that surrounded him — a love that death could not destroy, a love that found him again, doubled and deepened by divine mercy. So, my child, if the day ever comes when you feel the ache of loss so deep it silences your drumbeat, remember the tale of Nnamdi. Remember that the first true love of a first son is his mother. And remember, too, that when the winds of sorrow blow hard, Grace may still find you… …with a wife who understands your silence, …with a mother-in-law who speaks your mother’s blessings into your bones. And if that happens, walk tall. For you are chosen to make it better in life than you ever did before. This, the ancestors say, is the second miracle of a first son. And now, go. Let your heart sing again. Disclaimer: Because of my religious convictions i do not believe in ancestors worship and the belief of many gods.