The Whispering Udala Tree

In the heart of our village, where the sun painted the earth in warm hues, stood the ancient Udala tree. Its glossy leaves shimmered like emerald mirrors, and its bark bore the etchings of forgotten tongues. But it was the fruit—the star apple—that held us spellbound.

The Udala fruit was a treasure coveted by children. When ripe, it yielded a sweetness that danced on our tongues—a symphony of honey and moonlight. We'd gather beneath the tree, our laughter echoing through its branches, reaching for the fallen fruits. Their orange skin yielded to our touch, revealing milky-white flesh studded with seeds like constellations.

Yet, even as we reveled in its sweetness, we knew the Udala harbored secrets darker than its skin. Elders whispered of spirits—the elusive Ogbanje—whose laughter echoed from the tree's hollows. They said the spirits danced among the leaves, their voices like wind chimes in a forgotten temple.

And so, when the sun dipped low, casting long shadows, we dared not linger near the Udala. Our mothers warned us: "Never stray too close after dusk. The spirits hunger for mischief."

But Dike, my older brother, scoffed at such tales. His eyes sparkled with curiosity, and his courage knew no bounds. One moonless night, he gathered us—my sisters, Nneka and Ada, and me—beneath the Udala. The fallen fruits lay like fallen stars, and the air hummed with magic.

"Dike," Nneka whispered, "what if the spirits are real?"

He grinned, his teeth white against the darkness. "Then we'll share our Udala with them. Perhaps they crave sweetness too."

We knelt, filling our baskets. That's when we heard it—the faintest melody, like dewdrops falling on petals. The spirits were near. Dike's bravado wavered, but he pressed on.

And then, from the gnarled roots, emerged the Dwarf Spirit. His skin was the color of twilight, and his eyes glowed like dying embers. His voice, when he spoke, was a whisper carried by the wind.

"Children," he said, "why do you trespass in my domain?"

Nneka stumbled, her foot caught by unseen roots. She teetered toward the spirit, her eyes glazed with enchantment. I lunged, pulling her back. Dike's hand shot out, gripping Ada's wrist.

"We meant no harm," Dike said. "We seek only Udala."

The Dwarf Spirit tilted his head. "Udala is my gift. But it comes at a price."

"What price?" I asked, my voice trembling.

"Life," he said. "The fruit sustains me. One of you must stay."

Fear clutched our hearts. Nneka's eyes widened, and Ada trembled. Dike stepped forward, his jaw set. "Take me," he said. "I'll stay."

But I couldn't bear it. "No," I cried. "We'll share. We'll all stay."

The Dwarf Spirit laughed—a haunting sound. "You misunderstand. Only one."

Dike's eyes met mine. "Run," he whispered. "All of you. Don't look back."

And so, we fled. The spirits pursued, their whispers like frost on our necks. We sprinted, our breaths ragged, until we reached the village. The spirits halted at the tree's edge, bound by ancient magic.

Dike never returned. His sacrifice weighed heavy on our hearts. The Udala tree bore fruit, but its sweetness now tasted of sorrow. We never spoke of that night, but the fear lingered—the unknown waiting beyond the veil.

And sometimes, when the wind rustles the leaves, I hear Dike's laughter. Perhaps he dances with the spirits, sharing stories of star apples and lost siblings. Or perhaps he guards the tree, warning others of its price.

The Udala tree stands, its secrets intact. And we, the children of Amanato, know that some mysteries are best left undisturbed.