The Whispering Iroko

A kingdom Replanted

Chapter 9: A Kingdom Replanted

Weeks passed since Ada’s transformation. The Iroko still stood in the heart of Ubia, but now it pulsed with a golden hue, its branches stretching wider, its roots deeper, as if nourished by something divine. Birds made their nests in its arms, and the wind that passed through its leaves carried not just sound—but meaning.

The villagers had not stopped visiting. Each day they came—offering stories, songs, calabashes of honey, and moments of silence. Children played in its shade, their laughter blending with the soft rustle of the leaves. The elders sat beneath it, retelling the stories of Ada and Okwe, making sure the young never forgot.

But far beyond Ada, the land was changing too.

King Esan had returned to his palace—but not as the man he once was. He no longer wore red and gold, but simple woven robes dyed with natural colors. The throne room, once a place of pomp and pride, was now quieter. The ivory carvings had been taken down, and in their place were wall hangings of the old stories—the Iroko, the drought, the spirits.

He had called together the regional chiefs and elders from distant villages, many of whom had once feared or mistrusted his rule.

“My people,” he said, standing before them without a crown, “I have come not to rule, but to listen.”

They exchanged wary glances. No king had ever spoken so before.

He told them the story of Ubia. Of Ada. Of Okwe. Of Commander Dogo’s treachery. Of the spirits who had shown him the truth.

“I have wronged the land,” he confessed. “And now, I must help it heal.”

At first, some scoffed. Others remained silent. But as the king continued, tears welled in his eyes, and the room was struck still by the weight of his remorse.

One by one, the elders stood.

“We have land that has dried,” said an elder from the east. “Forests we cleared that no longer bear fruit.”

“We too forgot the old ways,” said another. “Perhaps it is time to remember.”

So began what came to be called the Replanting Days—a time when villages across the kingdom began restoring their sacred groves, rebuilding shrines to the river spirits, and telling stories that had gone quiet for too long. Esan decreed that no sacred tree be touched without the blessing of the village and its elders. He established the Circle of Listeners—a council made up of spiritual seers, storytellers, and earth guardians to advise the kingdom’s decisions.

But most importantly, he returned often to Ubia.

Each visit, he sat before the Iroko in silence. He would whisper into its bark, as Ada once did, and wait for the wind’s reply. Sometimes it came as a soft breeze; sometimes as the sound of distant drums. Though she did not appear to him, he felt her presence—watching, guiding.

On the anniversary of her merging, the village held a great festival: The Day of Root and Flame.

People came from every corner of the kingdom, bringing gifts and songs. Dancers circled the Iroko, telling the story of the girl who became the voice of the land. Children wore leaves in their hair, and women painted their skin with symbols of earth and sky.

King Esan stood before the gathered crowd, a new staff in hand carved from a fallen branch of the Iroko itself.

“She was a child,” he said, “but she taught a kingdom.”

He placed the staff at the base of the tree. “May her voice continue to guide us.”

That night, as the people slept, a breeze stirred the leaves. Some say they heard laughter—light and warm.

Ubia flourished. The rains returned. The river swelled with life. Crops grew thicker, and wild herbs once thought extinct returned to the groves. People said it was Ada’s spirit, blessing the land.

But not everything returned to how it was. Something had changed in the hearts of the people.

Children now learned the old songs as eagerly as they learned to fish. Farmers began to consult spirit-dreamers before clearing land. And in every village, a small Iroko was planted in honor of the one in Ubia—a living reminder that some roots must remain untouched.

One day, a girl named Zoba, no older than Ada had been, approached the tree. She placed her hand on the bark, closed her eyes, and listened.

Her face lit up.

“She said hello,” Zoba whispered.

Baba Ogun, older now and slower, smiled. “Then she has chosen a new listener.”

And so, the story continued—not ended.

For as long as there are those who listen, the Iroko will whisper.

And Ada’s voice, woven into wind and wood, will carry through the ages.