When night gathers again, and it will,
remember the weaver who did not hoard the seed,
the village that named a sun after a question,
and the children who learned that every shadow proves the light has come.

Come, let me tell you a story.
Before daylight existed, a glowing seed drifted into our night village. Adaora the weaver pressed it to her heart 
gold threads ripped the sky, birthing dawn. 
We named the sun Ọdụm: Answer-That-Keeps-Asking. 
When darkness returns, be small, be bright, be brave.