THE BAOBAB THAT REMEMBERED NAMES

The Baobab That Remembered Names

Long ago, in a village cradled between red earth and whispering grasslands, there stood a baobab tree so old that even the ancestors called it Grandmother. Its trunk was wide as a council house, its roots twisting like sleeping serpents beneath the soil. The elders said the baobab remembered every name ever spoken beneath its shade.
In that village lived a boy named Sadiq, born during a night storm when thunder spoke louder than drums. Sadiq was quiet, the kind of child who listened more than he talked. But there was something strange about him—when he slept, he spoke in languages no one taught him.
One dry season, the river Kuwara vanished overnight. Fish lay stiff in cracked mud, crops withered, and fear crept into the village like a shadow at sunset. The elders gathered beneath the baobab and poured palm wine into the soil, calling on the spirits.But the tree did not answer.That night, Sadiq dreamed of the baobab bleeding white sap like tears. A voice rose from its hollow belly:“Bring me the name that was stolen.”At dawn, Sadiq walked alone to the forest edge, carrying only a calabash and courage. There he met Nyembe, the old forest woman whose eyes glowed like embers. She told him the truth—the river spirit’s true name had been forgotten, stolen by greed when strangers dammed the water upstream.“A spirit without a name becomes a ghost,” Nyembe said.Sadiq followed the dried riverbed until the earth turned black and cold. Beneath the broken stones, he heard whispers. He knelt, pressed his ear to the ground, and spoke every name he knew—his parents, the ancestors, the wind, the rain.Then his tongue moved on its own.
He spoke a name so ancient the earth trembled.
The ground split. Water roared back into the riverbed, alive and laughing. The spirit rose like mist and bowed before the boy.When Sadiq returned, the baobab bloomed overnight—white flowers glowing in the dark. The elders watched in silence as the tree finally spoke:
“This child carries memory. Guard him well.”
From that day, Sadiq became the village storyteller, keeper of names, protector of forgotten spirits. And the baobab still stands—listening, remembering—waiting for the next name the world dares to forget.