My grandmother once told me a story, it has in some way shaped how I see loyalty, betrayal, and the complexity of human nature. As I sit here, thinking back to her words and fighting the pesky mosquitoes, I can almost hear her gentle, raspy voice, and feel.

It was a warm evening, the kind where the air hangs heavy with the earthy scent of the savanna and the distant calls of night birds, cattle and crickets provide a soothing backdrop. I was young then, perhaps 13 or 14, that age where you begin to question the world around you but still hold onto the magic of childhood stories. Gogo sat on her favourite mat in the smoky, round hut kitchen, the flickering light of the cooking fire casting dancing shadows on the walls. I sat close to the door desperately trying to wade off the smoke from my city boy eyes. I was however, eager to hear whatever story she had to share this time.

“Listen closely, child of my child,” she began, her eyes twinkled with ancient wisdom and sorrow. “For the story I’m about to tell you carries a truth that many fail to see.”

She spoke of a man who took an axe to the forest, intent on cutting down trees. As he approached, the trees whispered amongst themselves, their leaves rustling with concern. One tree turned to another and said, “Look! That man is coming with an axe to cut us down!”

But the other tree, in a display of misplaced confidence, replied, “Don’t worry at all. Even the handle is one of us. It was taken from this forest.” As my grandmother’s words painted the scene, I could almost see in my mind’s eye the trees standing tall and proud, their branches swaying gently in the breeze, unaware of the fate that awaited them. “But child,” my grandmother continued, her voice growing solemn, “when the axe reached the trees, they were not spared at all. The handle, once a part of their forest family, had been moulded and trained to hate and destroy its own kind.”

My grandmother paused, letting the weight of her words settle into the silence between us. The fire crackled softly, casting fleeting glimmers of light that showed her weathered face. I could see the sadness in her eyes, it seemed like she had a deep understanding of what it meant to be betrayed by those closest to you.

“The trees,” she continued, “had trusted the handle because it was one of their own. They believed that shared origins would protect them from harm. But they were wrong, my child’s child. The handle, though it once grew from the same roots, had been severed from its life-giving source, reshaped by human hands, and turned into a tool of destruction. It no longer belonged to the forest, nor did it care for the well-being of its kin.”

Metaphorically By allowing itself to be severed from its roots and moulded by forces beyond its control, the handle had lost its very essence and its connection to the very things that gave it life and meaning. It had become a mere tool, an instrument of destruction wielded by those who sought to exploit its strength for their own gain.

“Remember, child,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper, “that you are not just a single tree standing alone in the forest. You are a part of something greater, a vast network of roots and branches that stretches back through time and across the very fabric of our existence.

I carry my grandmother’s story with me, not as a burden, but as a gift. I could sense a glimmer of hope in her eyes that night. For in the telling of this story, in the passing down of this ancient wisdom, perhaps there was a chance for redemption, a possibility that we the future generations might learn from the mistakes of the past and choose a different path.

 As I’ve grown older, I’ve seen Gogo’s wisdom. Sometimes, when the weight of adult responsibilities feels heavy, I close my eyes and I’m back in that smoky hut. The earthy aroma of the cattle dung floor, the rough texture of the wall on my back. Her words wash over me again.

Am I the tree, standing tall with my community? Or am I becoming the handle, unknowingly aiding those who would harm us?

I’ve made mistakes, of course. Now, as I share this story with you, I know that you too will face choices between unity and division, between nurturing your roots and being shaped into something that harms your own.

My hope is that you’ll remember this tale when it matters most. That you’ll recognise attempts to turn you against truth and what is right, whether it comes from outside or within our own community. And that, when that time comes you’ll choose to stand strong together, like the great baobab that has watched over many an African village for generations.

Years later, I learned that science had discovered truths that echo Gogo’s wisdom. A forest ecologist named Dr. Suzanne Simard found that forests are not just collections of competing trees, but complex, interconnected communities. Her groundbreaking research revealed that beneath the soil, a vast network of fungal threads – what scientists call a mycorrhizal network – connects trees, allowing them to share resources and information. Dr. Simard even discovered that, much like the village elders in our community, there are ‘mother trees’ in the forest that nurture and support younger trees. The forest, like our societies, thrive not through competition, but through cooperation and mutual support.

For in the end, we are all like the trees in Gogo’s story. Our strength isn’t in standing alone, but in growing together, because our roots are intertwined deeply in the rich fertile soil of our shared history and culture.