The Whispering Iroko

The Royal Decree

Chapter 3: The Royal Decree

Word spread like wildfire: King Esan was expanding his palace.

Drummers marched into the village square, pounding rhythms of announcement. Behind them, royal messengers in red-and-gold wrappers held scrolls high and read aloud with booming voices.

"By order of King Esan, sovereign ruler of the northern savannas, guardian of the riverlands, protector of the throne—land shall be cleared on the outskirts of Ubia to make room for the new royal compound. The sacred tree shall be removed."

Gasps rippled through the crowd. Mothers clutched their children. Elders exchanged troubled glances. The Iroko was not just a tree; it was the heart of the village.

"You can’t remove the Iroko!" shouted Old Mala, the basket weaver. "It is Okwe’s resting place!"

"You court disaster!" cried another.

But the messengers ignored them, rolling their scrolls and marching off with smug pride.

Later that day, a group of villagers marched to the palace. They were led by Baba Ogun, who leaned heavily on his staff, his eyes fierce.

"Your Majesty," Baba Ogun said when they were granted audience, "this tree has stood longer than your bloodline. It is sacred. To harm it is to invite the wrath of the ancestors."

King Esan sat upon a throne carved of ivory and gold, flanked by warriors and courtiers in bright silks. He waved his hand dismissively.

"Old stories do not feed mouths," he said. "My builders say the tree’s roots threaten the palace foundation. We must look to the future."

Ada, who had slipped in with the group, stepped forward.

"The Iroko is more than a root. It’s a guardian. If you strike it down, you may destroy us all."

King Esan narrowed his eyes.

"And who are you, little girl, to question a king?"

"One who listens. One who hears the land speak."

Laughter echoed through the chamber, but Baba Ogun did not laugh.

That night, Ada sat on the steps of her grandmother’s hut, listening to the wind rustling through the palms. Her heart was heavy. She dreamt again—of fire, of crying villagers, of the Iroko wailing as it fell.

In the dream, the roots of the tree reached out to her like arms.

"Save us," it whispered.

She woke with a start, her skin damp with sweat.

The sun had not yet risen, but Amina knew what she must do. The king had declared war on the sacred, and she would answer—not with weapons, but with wisdom.