The Whispering Iroko

The Legacy of the Leaves

Chapter 10: The Legacy of the Leaves

Years passed. Seasons cycled, and the Iroko remained, its roots deep and its canopy vast. Children who once played at its base grew into adults, and those adults passed stories on to the next generation. In the heart of Ubia, the tree stood as both monument and memory—a beacon of what was, and what must never be forgotten.

The village had changed. New homes had been built with reverence for the land. Farming techniques shifted to preserve soil and water. Festivals were now held not just to celebrate harvest, but to honor ancestors and spirits. Where once the sacred tree had been a tale told in whispers, now it was the foundation of Ubia’s future.

At the center of this change was the Circle of Listeners. Formed in the wake of Ada’s sacrifice, the Circle had grown into a sacred order of guardians. They were not warriors or rulers, but seers, dreamers, herbalists, and storytellers—men and women from every corner of the kingdom who had felt the touch of the sacred, the whisper of the trees.

Among them was Zoba, the girl who had once heard Ada’s voice at the base of the Iroko. Now a young woman, Zoba had taken on the mantle of spiritual apprentice to Baba Ogun, whose steps had slowed but whose mind remained sharp as obsidian.

“Do you hear her still?” he asked one morning, as they sat beneath the Iroko’s shade.

Zoba nodded. “Every day. Not in words—but in feelings, in signs. When I sleep, she shows me roots made of light. When I walk, the wind carries her laughter. When I speak, I know which words she would choose.”

Baba Ogun chuckled. “Then you are more than a listener now. You are a weaver—of spirit and earth.”

As Zoba rose to join the children gathering nearby for storytelling, Baba Ogun watched her with quiet pride. The legacy Ada had planted was growing.

Elsewhere, the kingdom had not forgotten either. The Replanting Days had evolved into an annual pilgrimage. Entire families traveled across the savanna to spend time beneath the Whispering Iroko. The land surrounding Ubia was now a protected heritage forest, declared so by King Esan before he stepped down from the throne to become the realm’s first Elder Listener.

He spent his last years in a modest hut on the village outskirts, offering wisdom and keeping records of the land’s healing. Before his passing, he wrote a final decree:

> “Let no hand lift axe against root Let no fire burn the sacred shade For the land remembers, and the land speaks And in that voice, the kingdom finds peace.”

The words were carved in stone and placed beside the Iroko.

But even peace, once won, must be protected.

One season, news arrived of a mining caravan encroaching on the southern edges of the kingdom—outsiders drawn by rumors of minerals buried deep beneath the sacred hills.

Zoba was sent as an emissary, accompanied by a small group of Listeners. When they reached the site, they found machines already tearing into the earth, felling young trees and driving away the animals.

She stood in front of the machines, arms raised, and sang a song only the spirits knew.

The wind rose. Dust spun into a funnel. Birds screamed overhead. One of the machines sparked and stalled. Then another. The workers, seeing this young woman clad in leaves and feathers commanding the very elements, dropped their tools and fled.

The mining company never returned.

Word spread again—not of war, but of wonder. The story of Ada, now retold through Zoba’s actions, gained new meaning. Scholars came to learn the spiritual ecology of the Whispering Iroko. Healers came for guidance. Poets came to listen.

And every time someone placed their palm against the bark, a soft warmth met their skin. Some cried. Some laughed. Some heard nothing—but all felt changed.

Zoba continued her work, training new Listeners, exploring distant villages, reweaving lost myths, and restoring ancient paths. Yet she always returned to Ubia, to sit beneath the Iroko and listen.

One twilight, as the sun sank low and the air turned copper-gold, she heard a familiar voice.

“You’ve done well.”

She turned. A figure stood beside her—translucent, radiant, smiling. Ada.

“You’re real,” Zoba whispered.

“As real as the wind. As real as roots.”

Zoba lowered her head in reverence. “I’ve only followed your path.”

“You carved your own,” Ada said gently. “And in doing so, you’ve made mine eternal.”

They sat in silence for a while, watching stars bloom in the sky.

Then Ada stood. “Soon, I will fade into the deeper earth. My task is done. But yours is only beginning.”

Zoba reached for her, but Ada shook her head.

“Do not mourn. I will always be here—in the stories, in the leaves, in the little girl who one day will take your place.”

Zoba nodded, her heart full.

When she looked again, Ada was gone.

But the tree glowed faintly, its leaves rustling with a voice older than time.

That night, a new story began to take root.

And so, the cycle continued.

For as long as the Iroko stands, and the wind carries tales, the land will remember.

And the Whispering Iroko will never fall silent.

End!!