The forest slept — but not peacefully.
It was the kind of darkness only the bush knew. Thick. Heavy. Alive.
Above, the sky stretched like black cloth torn by scattered stars. The moon, half-hidden behind drifting clouds, cast a silver hue that barely touched the forest floor. Below, the earth breathed — wet from evening rain, covered with cracked leaves and creeping vines that slithered like fingers trying to hold the night together.
Trees stood tall and unbothered — giant iroko, mahogany, and odan trees towering like ancient gods. They whispered to each other through their leaves, their voices carried on the wind. The air was damp and filled with the scent of wet bark, crushed grass, and distant rot.
In the far distance, a low rumble echoed — thunder perhaps, or the belly of something wild. Closer, the chirr of crickets pulsed like a heartbeat, weaving into the croaks of tree frogs and the shriek of a night hawk overhead. Something moved in the undergrowth — a rat, a lizard, or worse. Something unseen but watching.
The forest was awake. Watching. Listening.
And then — footsteps.
Soft. Hesitant. Wrong.
A woman emerged from the shadows of the bush path, her movements stiff, every step betraying a heavy burden. She was barefoot, her wrapper soaked from the knees down. Her blouse was stained with sweat and tears. On her head, a faded scarf barely held her hair together, frizzed and tangled from days without care.
In her arms, wrapped tightly in a bundle of Ankara cloth, was a baby.
The child was quiet. Asleep. Breathing softly against her chest.
She paused under a tall iroko tree — one of the oldest and most feared trees in the forest. Locals avoided it, especially at night. They said spirits lived in its hollow trunk. That it whispered names in the dark.
But tonight, the woman had no fear left in her heart. Only a pain too deep for words.
She dropped to her knees.
The ground was wet, but she didn't care.
"I'm sorry," she whispered, her voice thin and broken. "I'm so, so sorry…"
Her tears fell freely now, dripping onto the cloth wrapped around the child.
She looked down at his face. His cheeks were round. His eyelashes curled like his father's. His lips moved slightly, dreaming perhaps of milk or warmth or safety — things she could no longer offer.
"There's no more food," she said, rocking him slightly. "I've begged. I've sold everything. Nobody wants to help a girl like me. They look at me like I'm dirt."
Her voice cracked.
"I thought I could do it. I thought I could raise you. I really believed I could. But now…"
She looked up at the sky. The moon had disappeared behind clouds. The forest had grown darker.
"But now I'm just afraid you'll die slowly. And I can't watch that happen."
She bent forward and kissed his forehead.
"I pray someone finds you. Someone kind. Someone strong. Someone who won't leave you like I'm about to."
She laid him gently at the base of the iroko tree, careful to cushion his head with a folded scarf. He stirred. Made a soft, innocent sound. But did not cry.
She stood quickly — too quickly — as if afraid her legs would betray her if she lingered. Her breath came in short, fast gasps. She took one step back. Then another.
Then she turned — and ran.
Branches clawed at her clothes. Thorns pierced her feet. But she didn't stop.
She never looked back.
Because if she did… she knew she wouldn't leave.
Further away, at the edge of the forest where the trees thinned into clearing, a faint orange light flickered in the window of a worn-down mud hut.
Inside, an old man sat on a wooden stool, a rusted hunting knife in one hand, a whetstone in the other. Each scrape echoed in the quiet room like a whisper of a forgotten war.
His name was Baba Gani.
Once, he had been a hunter of renown. A man who faced panthers with nothing but a spear. Who could track an antelope through three villages without rest. But time had caught up to him. His back was bent. His beard white. His hearing sharp, but not as fast. The villagers had stopped asking for his help. He had become background — a tale told to grandchildren, a relic of the past.
But the forest still respected him.
He paused.
A sound.
Faint, but distinct.
A cry.
Low. Weak. A baby's cry — or the mimicry of one. The kind of sound only spirits or desperate mothers left behind.
He rose slowly, listening. The cry came again — clearer now.
He lit his lantern and stepped outside.
The night greeted him with a gust of wind. Leaves rustled in protest. The path ahead was barely visible, but Baba didn't need to see. His feet remembered every bend, every root, every hidden trap of the forest.
He walked with purpose, the cry guiding him like a drumbeat in the dark.
He reached the Iroko tree minutes later.
There, bathed in a slice of moonlight, lay the bundle.
The baby was awake now. Small fists flailing lightly. His lips moved as if calling out — not for food, but for presence. For warmth.
Baba Gani crouched beside him, his knees creaking.
"Hmm," he muttered. "So it's true. Even the spirits have gone mad."
He looked around. No mother. No footprints. Only the mark of knees in the mud where someone had knelt.
"Who would leave a child here?"
The baby met his gaze.
And smiled.
Baba's chest tightened. He hadn't seen a smile like that since… No, it didn't matter. That was the past.
He reached down and lifted the child gently.
He was light. Too light. Skin hot, but not feverish. Wrapped too tightly. He loosened the cloth.
"Boy," Baba whispered. "You are either a curse or a gift."
The baby cooed in response.
Baba Gani turned toward the bush path and began the slow walk home.
Back in the hut, he lit the fire and placed a small pot on it. He stirred pap in a wooden bowl and blew to cool it. Using a tiny spoon, he fed the baby slowly. The child drank without fuss, eyes wide open, following Baba's every movement.
"You don't cry much," he observed. "Most children cry until the moon tires of them. But you… you're watching me. Studying."
He grunted.
"You'll be strong. I can tell already. But strength means nothing without wisdom."
He finished feeding the boy, wiped his mouth with a corner of the cloth, and laid him beside the hearth on a goatskin mat.
"You'll need a name," he said, sitting beside him. "But the village will name you before I do. They always do."
He chuckled quietly.
"They'll call you Bush Baby. They'll say you came from the trees. They'll laugh, whisper, insult. That's how they are."
The baby yawned.
"But let them laugh," Baba added. "The bush may be where you're from, but it doesn't mean it's where you'll stay."
In the days that followed, Baba Gani didn't tell the villagers about the child. He went to the market, bought small tins of milk and fresh yam. People asked questions, but he gave no answers. Some thought he'd gone mad. Some said he was raising a spirit child. Others believed he had finally adopted.
The baby grew quickly. Strong. Quiet. Always watching.
He took his first step before he was one.
He didn't speak much, but when he did, his words were clear.
And the nickname stuck.
Bush Baby.
At first, it was a joke.
Then a label.
Then a legend.
Because no one knew — not even Baba Gani himself — that the child they called Bush Baby would one day stand before the world, fists clenched, face unshaken, and show them all what a boy from the forest could become.