UNDER THE BAOBAB TREE

**Under the Baobab Tree**

The baobab tree stood alone at the edge of the village—wide-bellied, ancient, and dignified, as though it had been planted by the first breath of the world. Children claimed its roots were alive, shifting at night like the coils of a sleeping giant. Elders insisted its trunk held memories the way a clay pot held water: quietly, patiently, without complaint.

To Amari, it was simply home.

Every evening, once her chores were done and the sun began melting into amber, she slipped away from the compound to sit beneath the baobab’s sprawling branches. The bark was rough and warm against her back. Here, she could think. Here, she could breathe. And here—she could listen.

Because the baobab spoke.

Not in words. Not exactly. Its voice was more like the hush of wind through tall grass, or the soft thrum of distant thunder. When Amari first told her grandmother about it, the old woman merely smiled and said, “Some trees speak only to those who need to hear them.”

Tonight, the air felt heavier than usual. A dry wind carried whispers of a coming storm, though the sky was still clear. Amari rested her palm against the tree’s bark.

“I’m leaving tomorrow,” she said softly. “They want me to go to the city for school.”

The baobab’s branches stirred though the wind had quieted. A leaf fluttered down, landing at her feet—golden at the edges, as though kissed by fire.

“I know,” she sighed. “It’s a good thing. Everyone says so.”

And it was. A scholarship was rare. A future even rarer. But still, Amari felt as though a thread inside her was pulling in two directions at once.

“What if I forget this place?” she asked. “Forget you?”

The baobab creaked. Its trunk expanded, almost imperceptibly, as if taking a slow breath.

“You’re right,” she murmured. “Roots are roots. They don’t vanish.”

She closed her eyes. For a long while, she simply listened—to the rustle of branches, to the heartbeat of the earth beneath her, to the quiet that felt like an embrace. The baobab had always given her courage, though it did so wordlessly.

A distant rumble of thunder rolled over the plains.

“You feel it too, don’t you?” she said. “Change.”

The tree remained still. Then—almost tenderly—a small fruit dropped beside her. Baobab fruit. A gift.

Amari smiled. She picked it up, feeling its weight in her hands. Inside, she knew, was pulp that villagers used to make drinks, medicines, even sweets. But tonight, it felt like something else: a reminder she could take with her.

“Thank you,” she whispered.

The storm broke while she walked home. Fat drops of rain splashed against her cheeks, warm and honest. She held the baobab fruit close to her chest, sheltered beneath her shawl. Lightning cracked in the distance, illuminating the tree behind her, standing firm as the world shifted around it.

Her grandmother waited on the porch.

“You said goodbye?” the old woman asked.

Amari nodded. “It… listened.”

“As it always has,” her grandmother said. “And it always will. Trees don’t forget their children.”

That night, Amari packed her small suitcase. Clothes, books, a carved wooden comb. And wrapped carefully in cloth—the baobab fruit.

When dawn came, a cool wind swept through the village. Amari climbed into the dusty bus that would take her to the city. She pressed her forehead to the window, watching the familiar landscape slide by in shades of gold and green.

As the bus curved around the last bend, she saw it: the baobab tree, towering and unshaken. Sunlight struck its trunk, making it glow as though lit from within.

Amari lifted her hand in farewell.

And though she could not hear it from the road, she imagined the baobab’s branches lifting slightly—blessing her journey, steady as roots, vast as time.