From Folly to Fortune: The Joroje Bannet Chronicles

By and large, Africans seem not to excel in bedtime stories. However, they are prolific storytellers, albeit not always confined to bedtime. An African mother can weave tales that elicit laughter while walking to the market, gardening, or attending to household chores. This particular tale, a beloved favorite from my childhood, is notably popular in Francophone countries around East and Central Africa. It recounts the story of Joroje Bannet, the seemingly foolish boy who inadvertently made his single mother very wealthy.

His mother often likened her prolonged widowhood to martyrdom, enduring a lengthy period to provide her son with pure love and undivided attention. Any foolishness that results in wealth typically doesn't qualify, except in this peculiar case. Joroj Bannet found himself serving a 5-day school suspension for pricking the ears of a school dog. Now, Joroj is tasked with fetching fire from the neighbor's house. To my city-dwelling relatives; in rural areas, we borrow fire to kickstart our own. We collect a few pieces of burning residue, remnants of burnt wood, to help ignite a fire at home. The boy gathers the residue and wraps it in his shirt, reminiscent of how he used to collect mangoes. Unfortunately, he loses his only shirt to the fire. His mother instructs him on the art of collecting fire, utilizing well-dried grass that ensures an immediate and efficient start. The following day, he's dispatched to purchase a sewing needle, wrapping it in finely dried grass and carefully unwrapping it from the home veranda in a search for the borrowed needle. The loving mother imparts more wisdom. He's sent once more, this time to fetch a pot, which he adorns with a rope around its neck before dragging it back home in pieces. "Dear son, a pot is traditionally carried on the head," Joroj learns and unlearns in quick succession. The impoverished widow emits deep, inarticulate sounds of despair, shame, and displeasure, pondering how she'll recover from the notion of having an ill-fated son. Yet, day four isn't far off when Joroj attempts to carry a piglet on his head, resulting in the loss of his left ear. On the same day, he startles their hen, which hasn't moved from its eggs since morning. The panicked Joroj scares it away, only to realize later that the hen hasn't returned.

Joroj perches on the door, incubating the eggs. Later that night, a village robbery occurs, and they are compelled to flee the house. In their haste, as they exit, Joroj's mother instructs him to lock the door. Instead, Joroj yanks the door out and carries it with him. "What have you done, son?" she yells. "You are supposed to protect the house!" Burdened by the weight of the door, preventing them from reaching the village resource center—a renowned neutral and respected refuge—they opt to hide in the bush. They climb a towering tree, intending to wait out the precarious night hours. Underneath the tree, the gang gathers to count their money. As pressure and panic intensify above, Joroj, shivering and fidgeting, almost succumbs to the challenge. The door's weight becomes unbearable, and he begins to urinate endlessly. The air around the gang changes, prompting them to scramble away from the heavy smell of the disgusting "tropical rain." Sooner than expected, Joroj releases the door—he couldn't endure it any longer. The gang scatters further as the door crashes through the branches of the tree, a chaotic darkness enveloping them. They all run for safety after the final resounding impact of the door, leaving behind all the money.

As the sun rose the widow collected all the money under the fine shade of the tree of her fortune.