The Boy Who Lost His Roar

A story told by Uncle Rwamiti

Once, in the valley of Ntwetwe, where the hills whispered and the cows mooed like they were gossiping about village secrets, there lived a boy named Mugisha. Now, Mugisha was not just any boy. He had a roar—a voice so strong, so clear, it could silence quarrels and lift spirits. When he spoke at the village debates, even the elders leaned forward. His words carried weight, like rain clouds promising a good harvest.

But something changed.

Mugisha went to study in the city. The buildings were tall, the cars honked like angry goats, and people hurried like they were chasing their shadows. He was told:

“Tone it down. Don’t speak too passionately—it intimidates others.”
“Don’t use village proverbs—they’re too backward.”
“You’re too intense. Be cool, like everyone else.”

So Mugisha began to shrink himself. He laughed on cue, nodded at nonsense, and swallowed his questions. Slowly, his roar faded. One day, during a meeting at work, someone said something wrong—deeply wrong—but Mugisha just smiled and sipped his tea.

That night, he couldn’t sleep. He dreamt of his grandfather, Mzee Kajumba, sitting under the jackfruit tree, saying:

“When the lion forgets its roar, even the goat dares to laugh.”

Mugisha woke up in sweat. The next morning, he walked to the lake. He sat under a tree, the kind that remembered stories. He didn’t scroll his phone. He listened. To the wind. The water. His heartbeat.

And slowly…
Something stirred.
Something ancient.
Something his.

He stood up. Took a deep breath. And spoke aloud:

“I am Mugisha. Son of Kajumba. I speak with fire, not for applause, but for truth.”

And the trees clapped.
And the birds nodded.
And the roar returned.

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Uncle Rwamiti says:

“The world may ask you to whisper, but never forget—you were born with a roar. Use it wisely. Use it well.”

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