The girl that spoke to trees

In the quiet village of Umu-Ala, where the sun rose lazily and the trees whispered in ancient tongues, there lived a strange girl named Awele. She was not like the other children. While others ran in the fields and fetched water, Awele sat under trees, eyes closed, lips moving softly.

People said she was cursed. Some said she was mad. But Awele didn’t care. She had a secret—one no one in the village knew.

She could hear trees. And they could hear her too.

It started when she was five. She had wandered too far from her mother’s farm and got lost in the forest. The wind blew hard, and night came fast. Just when fear crept into her bones, a deep voice echoed:

“Don’t cry, child.”

She looked around. No one. Then again,

“You are safe. Rest beneath me.”

It was the Iroko tree—tall, wide, and older than memory. That night, the tree sheltered her with its roots and lulled her to sleep with stories of the earth.

From that day, Awele would return to the forest every evening, speaking to trees, listening, learning. They told her things—where to find herbs, which farmer’s goat had gone missing, and even who among the villagers had a bitter heart.

But the people did not understand.

"She talks to leaves," they whispered.

"Makes friends with wood," they mocked.

Even her mother, Mama Njideka, began to worry. “Your mates are marrying, Awele. You, you are talking to trees!”

Still, Awele smiled and returned to the forest.

One day, the village woke to tragedy. The river had dried up.

Crops withered. Wells cracked. The people wailed, prayed, and sacrificed to no avail.

Then, Awele stood in the village square, her bare feet dusty, her eyes calm.

“The earth is angry,” she said.

“The river spirit has turned away.”

The elders scoffed. “What do you know, tree-talker?”

But when the drought worsened, desperation forced their pride down.

So, one morning, the elders followed Awele into the forest. She stopped before the ancient Iroko. She bowed, touched its bark gently.

The wind stilled. The forest hushed. Then the tree spoke through her.

“Long ago, this land was sacred. Now, the trees are cut, the land bled, and the spirits ignored. Return what you have stolen. Honor the old ways. Only then will the waters return.”

Fear gripped the elders. They remembered. They apologized.

That week, a sacred cleansing was held. Offerings were made. Trees were replanted. And on the seventh morning, the river gushed again—louder, clearer, prouder than ever before.

From that day, the villagers no longer mocked Awele.

They called her “Nwanyi osisi” – The Woman of the Trees.

People from other villages came seeking her guidance. Some came for healing. Some to confess. And some, just to listen to the trees through her voice.

And so, Awele lived a long, quiet life, under the canopy of leaves, where the wind carried stories and the trees remembered.

Even after she passed, children claimed they saw her dancing in the forest, laughing with the wind, and whispering to the trees.

---

Moral of the story:

Respect the old ways. Listen deeply. Sometimes, the quietest voices hold the loudest truths.