The bell rang again, shrill and impatient, cutting through the morning haze of the small town. Its sound bounced between the walls of our school like a restless spirit, urging every child to spill into the schoolyard. I lingered, as I often did, near the central baobab. Its trunk, massive and scarred, seemed almost alive beneath my hands, and I pressed my fingers into the deep grooves, feeling a rhythm that wasn't my own. The bark was rough, splintered, aged by centuries of sun and rain, but I imagined it holding secrets ,whispers of children who had clung to its shade long before I was born, and perhaps even secrets older than any living soul in our town.
Today, though, the tree felt different. Heavier. Watching.
My morning had been, as usual, a storm of anger. I hadn't meant for it to explode like that. One moment, it had been a small argument over a lost pen; the next, my fists were clenched, my voice sharp as a whip, and I was backing a classmate into the corner near the dusty wall. The anger that always burned within me flared, hot and unyielding, and even when it ended, the echo of it lingered, making my chest feel tight and my stomach churn.
Ama, of course, had noticed. She always noticed. Ama had a presence that seemed to anchor everyone around her, and even though she was smaller than most children in our class, she walked with a kind of certainty that made her impossible to ignore. Her hair was pulled back neatly, though a single strand always managed to escape and tickle her cheek. Her eyes, wide and sharp, found me immediately after the fight, and her approach was soft but deliberate.
"Are you… okay?" she asked, though her tone suggested she already knew the answer.
I shook my head, but words failed me. Trust was a luxury I hadn't afforded myself in a long time. Not with the teachers' scolding, not with the whispers of classmates behind my back. My anger had become a shield, but shields were heavy and lonely, and I felt the weight of it pressing against my chest.
Turning back to the baobab, I felt the shadows of its massive branches stretch across the yard, warped by the shifting sunlight. I pressed my hand again against the rough bark. Each ridge and crevice seemed to vibrate faintly, like the tree had a heartbeat of its own. I shivered at the thought but couldn't pull away. The tree had always been a comfort, a quiet presence in the chaos of my life.
Then came the whispers.
Soft at first, almost imperceptible, curling around the edges of my mind. I froze. The schoolyard carried on around me : children screaming, feet scraping the dusty ground, distant calls of vendors setting up in the market beyond ,but near the hollow at the base of the central baobab, there was a strange stillness. The whisper slithered through my thoughts, not in words I could recognize, but in tone and rhythm, a presence that made the hair on my neck prickle.
"Ayo…" it murmured.
I jerked back, eyes wide, heart hammering. There was no one there. Only the hollow, dark and patient, beckoning. Ama's hand brushed my arm.
"I heard it too," she said, quiet and steady. "It's not the wind. Not a bird. Not anything we know."
I swallowed, mind racing. My father's stories flickered in my memory ,tales of the baobabs, of spirits hidden in their hollows, watching children, testing them. He had said that some children were sensitive, able to hear what others could not. Magic, he called it, though I had laughed at him then. I wasn't laughing anymore.
The hollow seemed darker today, almost swallowing the light. A thrill and a shiver coiled in my stomach. The tree… it was pulling at me, tugging at the edges of my mind, whispering secrets just out of reach. Part of me wanted to step back, to return to the familiar safety of the classroom, to ignore the strangeness. But curiosity, that stubborn ember that had always burned within me, refused to let me retreat.
"Don't… don't go too close," Ama warned, her voice low, eyes scanning the hollow like a scout on watch.
I nodded, though I couldn't move. My hands itched to touch the hollow, to feel whatever lay within. There was something patient and expectant in the air, almost alive.
Ama placed her hand on the rough bark. It trembled slightly beneath her fingers. "Feel that?" she whispered.
I pressed my hand beside hers. A faint vibration rippled through my fingertips, steady yet subtle. My pulse quickened.
"I… I think it knows us," I breathed, almost afraid to say it aloud.
Ama's face grew serious. "Maybe. And maybe it's testing you. Not just the tree, but… you. All of you. What you feel, what you think, what you fear ,maybe it notices."
I shivered. The wind rustled the branches above, and a scattering of leaves twirled down like tiny shards of sunlight. For a fleeting moment, I could swear a shadow at the hollow's edge moved independently, twisting like a hand stretching toward me. My stomach flipped, a mixture of terror and exhilaration.
"What… what is it?" I whispered.
Ama didn't answer. She didn't need to. Her eyes followed the movement, sharp and unwavering.
Part of me wanted to flee, to hide in the familiar noise of the playground. But the other partb,the part that had always longed for the extraordinary urged me closer.
I remembered my father's words: "The baobabs know the hearts of children. They guard more than we can imagine. And one day, you will see their truth, Ayo."
Now, those words felt less like stories and more like a challenge.
The whispers grew, weaving through my thoughts like delicate threads. Not words, not yet, but hints ,teasing, questioning, almost laughing. They pressed against my mind in the softest way, making me aware of every emotion, every pulse of my heartbeat. Excitement, fear, curiosity, longing ;they were all tingling in response.
Ama broke my trance. "Control it. Don't let it overwhelm you."
Control. I scoffed silently. Control had always slipped through my fingers. My anger had isolated me, had made teachers wary, had driven classmates away. And yet, facing this unknown presence, I realized control might be the only way to understand, the only way to survive or perhaps even communicate.
I inhaled deeply, letting the dust-tinged air fill my lungs, slow and steady. My fingers pressed into the bark, feeling every ridge, every knotted groove. The vibrations responded, as if acknowledging my attempt to still my mind. The twitching shadow at the hollow paused, as if listening.
"You see?" Ama whispered. "Even a little control matters."
I nodded. The thrill in my chest refused to subside. The hollow seemed to hum, quiet but insistent, like a living thing waiting.
The bell rang again, signaling the start of the next class. Reluctantly, I tore my hand away from the trunk. Every lesson that followed felt distant; my mind kept returning to the hollow, to the whispers, to the pulse beneath my palm. Even numbers and letters blurred as I imagined the shadows moving, leaves twisting, and the soft teasing murmurs curling through the air.
Lunch came, and I found myself walking back to the baobab, Ama close behind. The schoolyard was alive with shouting, kicking stones, and laughter, but I saw nothing of it. Only the hollow. Only the mystery.
I pressed my ear again to the trunk, heart racing. The whispering returned, soft, almost playful, teasing me with secrets I couldn't grasp. It brushed against my memories, dredging up recollections of my father, the stories he told, the nights we spent under the baobab's shade.
A sudden breeze swept across the yard, cold against my neck, making me shiver. Ama's hand rested on my shoulder. "Do you feel it?" I asked, almost afraid of the answer.
She nodded, her gaze steady. "Yes. It's alive. Not just the tree, but… something more. Something connected to us. We don't understand it yet, but we will. And we have to be careful. Curiosity is a call, yes ,but some calls are louder than others."
Time slipped by unnoticed. The shadows at the hollow twisted and danced in patterns I couldn't decipher. The soft pulse hummed beneath my fingers, steady, insistent. By the time the bell rang for dismissal, my feet carried me almost automatically to the hollow. Ama followed silently.
"Tomorrow," she said softly, "we come back. But promise me no rushing. The baobab shows its secrets when it chooses."
I nodded. Her words weighed on me like a gentle command, but beneath it, the pull of the hollow was irresistible. Something was coming ,something beyond what I could see or hear and I knew, in that instant, that my life, my understanding of the world, would never be the same.
That night, lying on my mat, the dim glow of the streetlamp casting shadows through the small window, I could still hear it. The whispers. Soft, teasing, patient. Waiting.