Zora and the Song of the Ancestors

Zora Johnson had always felt different. Not just because of her deep brown skin or the coily crown of hair that refused to be tamed—but because sometimes, when the world grew quiet, she could hear music no one else seemed to hear.

It started on her twelfth birthday, beneath the old magnolia tree in her grandmother’s backyard. As the breeze whispered through the branches, a soft hum drifted into her ears. It wasn’t coming from any phone, radio, or car. It was coming from the ground, the air, the roots.

“Can you hear it?” she asked her grandmother, Mama Rose, who just smiled knowingly and handed her a slice of cornbread.

“That’s the song of your ancestors, baby. Been waiting for you to hear it.”

Zora blinked. “My ancestors sing?”

Mama Rose nodded. “Oh yes. Our people carried songs through pain and joy. Through cotton fields and Sunday pews. They sang in secret, they sang in pride. And now, one of them sings through you.”

From that day on, Zora’s world changed. When she felt scared at school, the songs wrapped her like a warm blanket. When she stood up for herself or others, the rhythms pounded in her chest like drums, steady and strong.

One day, she stood on the stage for the school talent show, trembling. All around her were polished acts: dancers, comedians, even a kid doing a full magic show. Zora only had her voice.

But she opened her mouth and sang a lullaby her grandmother had taught her—a song Mama Rose said came from deep in their family line. The room stilled. A hush fell over the crowd. Her voice wasn’t loud, but it was powerful. It carried the weight of generations, and when she finished, even the teachers had tears in their eyes.

That night, Mama Rose hugged her tight.

“You’re a keeper of the song now,” she whispered. “Don’t ever let the world make you forget who you are.”

Zora never did.