Whispers Beneath the Iroko Tree

The village of Irawo had long forgotten the sacred songs. The drums were silent, and the river Orun ran dry where the elders once poured libations. Only the wind remembered. Only the Iroko tree remained.

Nia was born under that tree—during a thunderstorm, when Sango danced across the sky in fire and roar. Her grandmother, Yeye Morounke, whispered that the lightning had not struck in anger, but in greeting.

By the time Nia turned twenty-three, she had long traded cowrie shells for cell phones, and palm oil for coffee lattes. She lived in Atlanta now—half a world away from the shrines of her ancestors. Yet, on the eve of her birthday, a dream came.

A man with eyes like obsidian and skin carved from ancient bark stood before her.

“I am Orunmila,” he said. “You have forgotten your name.”

She awoke breathless. All morning, the symbols haunted her: a circle of Ikin palm nuts, a black hen, and the rhythmic tapping of Opele.

She tried to shake it off. But when she walked into her favorite bookstore that afternoon, a worn book caught her eye.

"The Voice of Ifa."

She opened the first page. There it was—the same man—Orunmila, sketched in charcoal, watching her through the page.

That night, she lit a white candle. She didn't know the chants. She didn’t know the offerings. But she spoke.

“I don’t know if I’m worthy… but I’m listening.”

The candle flickered.

The next day, she searched “Ifa Divination.” She found a site called Divination With Ifa. She booked a reading. The Babalawo, calm and wise, told her what she had always felt: “Your Egbe called you back. You are a daughter of the path. Orunmila never forgot you.”

The tears came softly. For the first time, they felt like home.

🌿 If you’ve ever felt a pull to something ancient, sacred, and true—maybe it’s not your imagination. Maybe it’s your spirit remembering. Maybe it’s time to listen beneath the Iroko tree.