The story you are about to read is a folk tale. It is a story told by an elderly person to children, especially on a night when the moon is high and bright in the sky. The children would gather and sit at the foot of the elderly man or woman and listen to the story. Sometimes they make a fire and sit around it. The story could also be told in the safety of their homes by their parents. For this tale, the original narrator is unknown. Most folk tales contain songs sung by the narrator and children between the story. This one, on the other hand, doesn't have one. It is familiar to the Igbo tribe of eastern Nigeria. I combined the folk tale with my own story. I told it my way, but the original story is still intact. It is a work of fiction. Any similarities in names and characters are purely coincidental. Say no to plagiarism. Get a tailor-made essay on “Why Violent Video Games Should Not Be Banned”? Get the original essay The child murmured in her sleep, then opened her eyes, awakened by the cries and songs of other children coming from the nearby compound. She was lying on a raffia mat in front of a small cabin. There were two cabins in the compound. The taller one stood in the center, partially flanking the other. She turned onto her stomach and placed her right arm under her chin. To the far right of the smaller cabin, a fire burned slowly under a small pot, held together by three large stones. A woman would stir the contents of the pot, then place a wooden spoon on top to keep the boiling water from boiling over. The child caught the strong scent and wrinkled his nose. She looked longingly at the full moon, listening to the songs of the full moon which were now higher pitched and more intense. Slowly, she got up and sat down. His head felt a little dizzy. Mom, she said softly. The woman turned around. She dropped the small wooden bowl she was holding and walked over to the child, tying its loose wrapping over her breasts. You're awake, said the woman, smiling. Can I go there? » asked the child, pointing in the direction of the noise. Not tonight, she touched the child's forehead. Your fever has broken but you are not strong enough. I'll get your medicine. The medicine was the contents of the jar. The child watched as the woman poured some into a cup and let it cool. She closed her eyes and began to sing with the children. Drink, said the woman. The child opened her eyes and looked at the brown liquid in front of her, prepared from herbs whose names she barely remembered. She brought the cup to her lips, closed her eyes again and gulped it all down. The moon was now high and fuller. The child glanced at it and made the woman laugh as she rinsed the cup. She dropped him face down on a small clay water pot, then picked up the stool she had been sitting on by the fire, dropped it on the rug, and lowered herself onto it. Would you like a story? » she asked softly. Yes, mom. Tell me about the turtle. No, no turtle stories tonight. I have another story to tell you. The child nodded and rested his head on the woman's lap, anticipating the first sentence. Talk to me to make me happy. A long time ago, the woman began, there lived a very beautiful girl. Her name was Olaedo. She was the most beautiful person in her village. Every eligible young man wanted her as his wife. Men from all over came to marry her, but she refused them all. She began to feel proud of her beauty. No one was his opponent anymore. Her father tried everything to get her to choose one of the suitors, but he was unsuccessful. The story of her beauty.