The Whispering Iroko

The Gathering storm

Chapter 5: The Gathering Storm

Morning arrived with a sky painted grey and heavy with unfallen rain. The village of Ubia stirred with unease, the kind that creeps into bones before the first thunderclap. Children played quietly, elders muttered prayers under their breath, and even the goats bleated as if sensing that something unnatural approached.

Ada felt it strongest of all.

She stood before the fire circle, eyes scanning the faces of the villagers who had come at her calling—young and old, skeptical and faithful. Baba Ogun stood beside her, leaning on his staff like a mountain that refused to fall. Old Mala clutched her prayer beads, lips moving in silent incantation.

“The spirits have spoken,” Ada began, her voice clear despite the tremble in her hands. “The Iroko must not fall. If it does, our land will bleed. Our ancestors will turn their faces from us.”

Murmurs rippled through the crowd.

“What can we do?” someone asked. “The king’s men come tomorrow. They bring axes and fire.”

“We protect the tree,” Ada said. “Not with blades, but with belief. With stories. With unity.”

She held up the amulet her grandmother had passed down—carved from old wood and etched with sacred sigils. “This belonged to Nana Ife. She told me that stories live, that they remember us if we remember them. Tonight, we remind the tree that it is not alone.”

As twilight fell, the village prepared. Mothers wove garlands of kola leaves and red cloth. Children scattered stones marked with symbols of protection. The drummers oiled their skins and tuned the ancient rhythms. And when the moon rose, the people of Ubia gathered.

They formed a circle around the baobab, torches held high, their shadows dancing like spirits upon the earth. Baba Ogun poured libation at the roots, murmuring the names of ancestors long gone. The air grew thick with incense and reverence.

One by one, villagers stepped forward to tell their stories—memories of the tree’s shade during famine, of healing herbs gathered beneath its roots, of dreams shared in its silence. Each story was like a thread, binding them tighter to the tree, to each other.

As the drumming reached a fevered pace, a strange thing happened.

The bark of the Iroko shimmered, faintly at first, then brighter—pulsing with golden light like a heartbeat. The leaves rustled though there was no wind. A warm breeze circled the gathering.

And then, a voice rose—not human, not spirit, but something in between.

“Protect the root. Protect the land.”

Gasps rang out. Tears welled in the eyes of the old. Even the doubters fell silent.

But just beyond the firelight, hidden among the tall grass and brush, eyes watched. The king’s scouts, cloaked in silence and shadow, had witnessed it all.

At dawn, one scout sprinted back to the palace. His skin was pale with fear.

“They chant around the tree, my king,” he reported, kneeling before the throne. “They summon spirits. They speak with it.”

King Esan narrowed his eyes, the veins in his neck taut. “Fools lost in superstition,” he spat. “If they choose trees over their king, then tomorrow, we bring fire.”

In the village, Ada had not slept. She stood beneath the Iroko with her hand on its trunk.

“We are ready,” she whispered. “You are not alone.”

Above her, the ancient branches swayed gently, not from wind, but something older. Something alive.

The storm was no longer approaching.

It was here.

And so was the strength of Ubia.