The Baobab

There’s a tree, a powerful baobab. It’s over one hill next to the village. It is far enough away that you can pretend you are alone, but if you close your eyes and listen you can still hear the soft village noises; corn winnowed into open calabashes, the mimicked mechanical sounds of children playing motorbike and laughter, always laughter.

The bark is warmed by the sun, and soft, and touching it you can almost feel it breathing. You spend stolen moments there, pressed against it and feeling like a hug. One day, you find white cloth wrapped around the trunk, midway between two branches. Fearing that it’s marked for removal, you go to the community. You tell them that they cannot cut down the tree. They listen politely as you explain desertification, fragile eco system, any half remembered science to justify your concern.

A woman waits until you have finished and then places a hand gently on your arm. “The tree is a woman, and every night she comes out to dance. It’s getting cold; we've given her cloth to keep her warm.”

That night you dream of a woman, old and scarred and wrapped in a white cloth. In movements agile for her age she is dancing, eyes closed like she doesn't care who is watching, and smiling.