OLA AND THE PALM TREE OF ORISA

Ola and the Palm Tree of the Òrìṣà
Long before the white road cut through the forest, before iron roofs touched the sky, there lived a palmwine tapper named Ola-Agbẹ̀ in the ancient Yoruba land of Ilé-Òkè. His hands were blessed by Ògún, god of iron and labor, and his feet were light like those of a forest antelope. No palm tree was too tall for him.Among all the trees stood one feared above the rest—Ìgi-Ẹ̀mí, the Spirit Palm. The elders said it was planted by Ọbatálá himself, and that Ẹ̀mí-Ọ̀rún, the breath of heaven, rested in its crown. No man was to climb it without prayer.
But hunger deafens wisdom.
One twilight, as Òṣùpá (the moon) rose pale and watchful, Ola-Agbẹ̀ tied his rope and climbed the sacred palm. Halfway up, the forest went silent. Even the crickets bowed their heads.When Ola tried to descend, the tree tightened its bark around his ankles.
“Ola-Agbẹ̀,” a voice echoed—not from the sky, not from the earth, but from within the tree itself. “Do you not greet your elders before taking their blood?”
Cold fear seized him.
“I greet you now,” Ola cried. “Spare me!”
The palm tree shook, and from its crown descended Ajẹ́, the night spirits, their eyes glowing like fireflies trapped in calabashes. The wind carried the laughter of Èṣù, the trickster, who delights in lessons learned the hard way.
“Every gift has a cost,” Èṣù said. “You climbed without honor.”The bark opened like a mouth, trapping Ola’s waist. He could not move. Below him, the earth spun into visions. He saw his ancestors tapping palms with songs and libations. He saw palms cut and abandoned, spirits crying as forests died. He saw himself reborn again and again—each life poorer than the last.
Then appeared Ọ̀sanyìn, the keeper of leaves, leaning on his one leg.
“The palm is not wood alone,” Ọ̀sanyìn said. “It is medicine, wine, shelter, and spirit. Break its balance, and the land breaks with it.”
As dawn neared, Ola-Agbẹ̀ sang a broken prayer, offering his orí—his destiny—back to the land. He promised to tap with restraint, to pour palmwine to the roots, and to teach the young ones respect.
The spirits withdrew.
The rope loosened.
Ola climbed down before the cock crowed. He never climbed without chanting again. Before every cut, he poured wine for Ègúngún, the ancestors. The Spirit Palm still stands, untouched.
And the elders say:Any tapper who climbs without greeting the unseenwill one day be tapped by the tree itself.If you want, I can:make it scarier and darkeradapt it as a short oral folktaleor turn it into a legend told by village elders