Until the lion learns to write, every story will glorify the hunter.

This African proverb captures the heart of why stories matter: they preserve perspective, protect heritage, and shape identity.

For centuries, communities across the world have relied on storytelling not just to pass time, but to pass down themselves. Today, in an era of globalization and digital saturation, storytelling remains a bridge between the past and the future. How we tell stories may have changed—from firesides to Facebook feeds—but why we tell them has not.

Why stories matter

Stories are humanity’s oldest classroom. They explain who we are, where we came from, and what we value.

A child listening to their grandmother recount life during a political struggle, or a community retelling a myth of its origins, gains more than information—they inherit identity. Unlike statistics, stories stir emotion. They transform culture into something lived rather than simply studied.

Stories are also survival tools. Folklore warned communities of dangers, myths carried moral lessons, and proverbs condensed generations of wisdom into a single line. To forget these stories is to weaken the threads that hold identity together.

From oral tradition to written records

Long before books and screens, storytelling was a living, breathing event. Families gathered around fires, children leaned in as elders recited epics, and communities sang songs that echoed their struggles and victories.

Oral traditions had rhythm. They carried memory not just in words, but in tone, repetition, and gesture. An elder’s pause, a mother’s chant, or a griot’s drumbeat made the story unforgettable.

Then came written records. Literature ensured permanence. Tales that might have vanished with time found a home in paper and ink. From Homer’s Odyssey to African epics like Sundiata, writing preserved what memory alone could not. But something subtle shifted—stories became less communal performance and more private experience.

The digital turn

Fast forward to today, and for storytelling, one needs to be a published author to share their voice. A grandmother’s recipe, a teenager’s spoken-word piece, or a migrant’s vlog becomes part of a collective archive accessible worldwide.

But the shift also comes with noise. For every story told with intention, there are countless lost in the endless scroll. The challenge now is not just preserving stories but ensuring they carry meaning.

The challenges of forgetting

Globalization and migration bring opportunities—but also risks. Languages fade when children are taught only in dominant tongues. Cultural practices disappear under the pressure of modernization. And as generations become more distant from their roots, stories risk being silenced.

Without these stories, identity becomes fragile. What is lost is not just entertainment, but belonging. A proverb forgotten is not just a sentence gone—it's wisdom erased.

When stories disappear

When a story is lost, a piece of identity fades with it. Languages vanish, songs go unsung, and names lose meaning. In some communities, the death of an elder marks the death of an entire library of wisdom never written, lessons never learned.

UNESCO estimates that a language disappears every two weeks. With each one goes a worldwide rhythm of life, a way of seeing the world that will never return. This isn’t just nostalgia; it’s a cultural emergency. Storytelling, then, becomes not just art but survival.

A modern revival

Yet, there’s hope. Across the world, younger generations are reclaiming storytelling.

  • African filmmakers like Wanuri Kahiu use cinema to retell African myths with modern flair. Podcasts such as Afroqueer document untold stories often missing from mainstream media.

  • Indigenous communities’ projects like the First Nations Story Archive digitize oral histories, ensuring they survive colonization’s silencing.

  • Diaspora second- and third-generation immigrants write novels, poetry, and scripts centring their hybrid identities. Writers like Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie remind us of the “danger of a single story.”

  • Global youth TikTok creators remix folklore into relatable 60-second skits. Instagram illustrators reimagine ancestral myths in vibrant art.

This revival is not nostalgia—it is resistance. It says, "We are still here and our voices still matter."

Why it matters now

In times of crisis, people return to stories. During the pandemic, communities turned to books, films, and oral traditions for comfort and perspective. Stories became therapy, a reminder that humanity has faced uncertainty before and survived.

Today, as societies wrestle with migration, political shifts, and identity struggles, storytelling offers connection. It bridges divides, offering a shared language of memory and hope.

The future of cultural storytelling

We’re entering an era where tradition meets technology. Artificial intelligence, virtual reality, and digital archives are transforming how we record and share stories. Imagine walking through a virtual African village, listening to folktales told in original dialects preserved for generations yet unborn.

But technology is only as good as the intention behind it. The real challenge is not letting innovation dilute authenticity. We need stories told by us—not about us. Communities must own their narratives, guard them, and pass them forward with integrity.

Storytelling will always evolve, but its soul must remain rooted in truth and connection.

Stories as bridges

When we tell our stories, we build bridges between generations, across continents, and through time. They remind us that though the world changes, our humanity doesn’t.

To tell a story is to resist erasure. It’s to say, "We were here.” And to listen is to honour that existence.

As the fireside becomes a livestream and the folktale becomes a podcast, our responsibility remains the same: keep the stories alive. Because long after the storytellers are gone, the stories will continue to speak, carrying the echo of who we were, who we are, and who we might yet become.