I'm an old baobab tree

I am the baobab tree that shelters Mbuya Nyatsuro, an old woman whose hut is in the middle of an African compound. The villagers think I am a strange-looking tree, yet I have been their source of life in all seasons for as long as I can remember. Mbuya is a widow who minds her own business in her lean-to hut, resting precariously against my large tree trunk. Children call me all sorts of names, including the ‘upside-down tree’ because when I shed my leaves, I look as if a giant has uprooted and replanted me upside down with my branches resembling roots.  Some say I germinated in their settlements as if by magic. But little do they know that animals are responsible for carrying my seeds, and I have relatives even as far as Madagascar, Africa and Australia. Wherever my seed germinates, someone finds a story to tell about me. Even articles have been written about one old baobab tree’s claim to fame in Zimbabwe, with its hollow trunk which can shelter up to 40 people.

As the seasons come and go, hot, cold, then dry, Mbuya Nyatsuro and I have survived the elements, despite diseases and bush fires. We share memories of a year when there was drought as far as the eye could see. Dust and whirlwinds blew across the barren fields whose fine soil looked like dunes in the desert. Dry maize stalks whistled in the wind as the dust spun grains of sands across the desolate landscape. That was the year when the people survived because of me. I became everyone’s best friend.  The children would beg Mbuya to collect my monkey seeds in the pods, which had taken 15 even 20 years to grow. They would crush them open and suck the tart taste from the fruit. The mothers would use the pulp to make juice and fermented beer. Market women dug up my roots to make red dye, and my bark was woven into baskets and ropes for sale. Even the old medicine men who refuse to share recipes of their secrets concoctions profited from my medicinal properties, stripping my branches and boiling my leaves like spinach to cure all sorts of illnesses.

People look at Mbuya Nyatsuro as my custodian. I am the tree which is their source of life: the sacred tree with the Togolese proverb, “Wisdom is like a baobab tree: no one individual can embrace it.”

One day I became famous when a film crew accompanied by journalists wrote a story about me. Some folk found it all very odd. I eavesdropped as people sought shade under my branches, watching the goings-on in amazement. Some remarked the camera people had not done their homework about life in the rural areas. What about the woman who had given birth to triplets? And the son who studied overseas and came every year to support his old school, bringing gifts for pupils with the highest grades? Then,  the master farmer growing a prize pumpkin and winning an award at the local agriculture show?  People exchanged exciting stories, not some yarn about an old tree that had been among them since time immemorial.

Despite the comments, the film crew had their way, saying the city folks were far more fascinated by me, an old baobab tree which they claimed could be over 2000 years old and an endangered species. I even learnt that environmental tragedies could befall our communities if people continued their reckless clearing of the land, chopping down trees willy nilly. The TV crew interviewed excited local children and their school science teacher, who explained that I was the centre of life and an essential source of food, water and shelter for wild monkeys, birds and even lizards.

Most people knew they would never see themselves on-screen because only one television occupies a prominent place in a popular local bottle store.  Children are only allowed to watch through the window because there is usually standing room only, especially during the European Football league season.

Although Mbuya was in her best clothes that day as they filmed, no one gave her her five minutes of fame. Yet she knew me better than anyone. She knew that at night when I was in bloom, colonies of bats would roost among my branches, feasting on the nectar-filled flowers. She had seen, on rare occasions,  passing herds of elephants surprise the villagers and cause panic and consternation as the giants of the forest rubbed themselves against my trunk or tore my bark in search of water.

Sometimes Mbuya Nyatsuro sweeps beneath my shade, an ideal place for meetings. The village court, chief and other clan members assemble at least once a month under my branches. Mbuya always knows when because on the appointed day, children scurry back and forth carrying wooden benches from the nearby classrooms and arrange them in crescent shapes around three oversized tattered chairs where the ‘dare’ takes place. No one would have thought there is much happening in the community. But when I hear the court cases, I sometimes wonder whether there are more criminal than law-abiding people among us.

One particular day, the court assembled under Africa’s ‘tree of life.’ Women sat on reed mats covering their heads with their cloth wrappers, while men perched on wooden benches in the shade. Some youngsters even climbed my branches to get a better view. Mbuya Nyatsuro joined the crowd but sat at a distance, a respected and trusted community member.

During the court session, people came to the chief with complaints about their neighbours’ cows wandering into vegetable gardens, a stolen bicycle, a man who had beaten his wife after returning from a beer drink. The stories were endless, and I heard all their secrets and the judgements. Even I would have gone as grey as the wise old chief, trying to keep the peace.

I am still standing tall and strong, propping up Mbuya’s hut. But I have heard disturbing stories carried by the wind. Things do not bode well for my future and others like me. Somewhere across the seas, people have found out that my fruit can be transformed into powder, described as ‘raw, whole food.’ You may think that is a good omen but, I foresee mass production and packaging of my fruit for supermarkets as people increasingly appreciate my non-GMO organic qualities. I am expecting trucks and lorries coming to collect my seeds in bulk, stripping me bare and not even leaving any for Mbuya and the animals that rely on me.

I know they say you cannot keep a good thing down, but I can see myself no longer being the revered tree of life, the heart of communities. The future sounds very bleak, with stories of my possible extinction. Yet all I want is to live for another thousand years, among the animals and my people.