The Day Grandmother’s Face Became a Map to Treasure – An African Re-Telling of Wrinkles, Wisdom and Worth
The Day Grandmother’s Face Became a Map to Treasure
“See? Every line is a road someone else will travel when they need to find their way home.”
The compound was quiet except for the crackle of the firewood and the distant laughter of children chasing fireflies.
Toni sat with knees drawn up, staring at the ground. They had come all the way from the city because the mirror had finally won—the city mirror that magnified every line, every darkening spot, every betrayal of time.
Mama Ekualo, ninety-something summers old, eased herself down beside them. Her face was not smooth. It was a whole continent of rivers and valleys, every wrinkle deep enough to plant maize.
“You are crying because your face is learning to speak our language,” she said, voice soft like harmattan dust.
Toni wiped their eyes. “I don’t want it to speak. I want it to shut up.”
Mama Ekualo laughed so hard the crickets paused.
“Come, city child. Let me tell you why we begged the Creator for these lines you are trying to iron away.”
She poked the fire. Sparks flew up like little ancestors rushing to listen.
The Night the Ancestors Asked for Wrinkles
When the first humans were made, their skin was tight and shining like a new drum. They danced, they loved, they fought, but when they died there was nothing to show where their stories had been.
The ancestors gathered under the iroko tree and sent a delegation to the Creator.
“We want something that keeps our stories after we are gone,” they begged.
The Creator smiled the way grandmothers do when they are about to win an argument.
“I will give you rivers on your faces,” She said. “Every joy will dig a gentle stream. Every sorrow will carve a valley. Every time you laugh too hard, I will draw a small bridge across your cheeks so that those who come after can cross over into your happiness. When you lose someone you love, I will etch a deep canyon so their name has somewhere to rest forever.”
The ancestors danced. They could not wait to grow old.
But one young woman stepped forward—beautiful, skin like polished bronze, not a mark on her.
“What if we don’t want rivers?” she asked. “What if we want to stay smooth and unwritten?”
The Creator looked sad. “Then when you die, your story dies with you. No child will read it. No stranger will find shade in it. Your face will be a closed book burning in the fire.”
The young woman thought of her mother’s laughter, her father’s frown when he concentrated, the way her little brother’s eyes disappeared when he smiled. She stepped back into line.
That very night the ancestors started collecting stories on purpose—staying up late to laugh, crying long enough for rivers, squinting at the sun so the light would write its name across their foreheads.
And that, my child, is why we call wrinkles grandmother writing. Every line is a sentence. Every crease is a chapter.
Toni’s Turning
Mama Ekualo reached over and touched the corner of Toni’s eye where the first small river had begun.
“This one,” she said, “is from the night you stayed up worrying about tomorrow instead of sleeping. And this one,” tracing downward, “is from the day you smiled at a stranger and they smiled back. You just haven’t learned to read in the old language yet.”
Toni looked at her, tears shining. “So… I’m not falling apart?”
Mama Ekualo threw her head back and laughed again.
“Falling apart? Child, you are finally being built correctly. A face with no rivers cannot carry anyone across to the other side. One day your great-grandniece will trace these lines and walk straight into your courage without you saying a word.”
She stood up slowly, joints popping like firewood.
“Now come. The moon is high and the children want to hear the next chapter. Bring your new face. It has already started speaking wisdom—we just need to teach you how to listen.”
The elders are the library the village reads by firelight.
A smooth face is a closed book.
Only the wrinkled one can be read by candlelight.
— Kikongo proverb
