The Whispering trees by Abubakar Ibrahim (Caine prize top 10 finalist)

It’s strange how things are on the other side of death. I fear I am incapable of describing

the experience to you because I do not know what words to use. One simply has to die to

understand the enigma of death.

I did not wake up in heaven as I had anticipated (for I certainly had not thought I

was bound for hell, even though I had not been a saint). Instead, I woke up in a huge,

seemingly infinite universe of darkness. I sensed nothing except that everything was

hollow. I could discern nothing except being conscious, but, even then, I could not

remember my name. The blandness of my mind frightened me to the point of screaming.

My scream only echoed in the void, where it whipped itself into silence. Gradually, I

reached the conclusion that my mind and my body were no longer the same entity. Then

I lost consciousness again.

It came back suddenly, my consciousness. The first thing I discerned was not the

alluring light of the angels, for I could see nothing. Nor was it the heavenly melody of

their songs: I couldn’t hear anything either. Instead, I perceived a smell, a sharp, distinct

smell that my nose had known well while I had been alive. It was then that I realised that

I could not be in heaven. Heaven could not smell so awful. But it took me a quarter of an

eternity to recognise the smell of antiseptic in the air.

I inhaled this . . . air, and then it happened: I realised that my body and soul were

now one, but I struggled to find my mind. Eventually, this too came back, like a

thunderbolt. It announced its return with excruciating pain all over my body, as if I had

been thoroughly mangled by a ferocious beast. I heard footsteps: tired, irregular footsteps

from another world. Then I heard her humming a heavenly melody. Even in my death,

in a realm I was yet to understand, Faulata’s voice was quite distinct. She hummed a

poignant tune that did magic to my mind. It ignited my memory and challenged my

mind to show me her face. Suddenly, it felt as if I were falling into an abyss, dark with

still pictures, like little, incandescent butterflies gliding in the dark. They were pictures

from my life, and I caught glimpses of some of them on my way down.

My frightened screams echoed inanely around me. Finally, I saw her face, with

its rich tone, and her large almond eyes. Her brows were thin upturned crescents and her

eyes were framed by generous lashes. Her nose stud caught the light. Her lips were small,

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yet full, darkened slightly by nature.

Then I saw a picture of my mother, Ummi, and I in the back seat of a small sedan

with two corpulent women. I remembered the stifling heat that had pinched like soldier

ants biting; I remembered feeling like a sardine in a can. I remembered Ummi’s

reassuring smile, then the screeching tyres, the crash of metal against metal, the

shattering glass and the frightened screams. And then a blackout.

Then I saw a picture of men in black. I felt their hands on me- strong male hands,

frisking my body while I lay soaked in blood. Their rough hands ran riot on my body,

touching me in every conceivable place. They found what they were looking for- my

wallet.

One of them said, “Oga, see. This one too don die.” It was as if removing my

money from my body had settled the little matter of my being alive.

The oga’s voice was raucous. “How much you find for ’im body?”

The first man said, “Four thousand naira, sir.”

The oga grumbled, “These ones se’f, them no carry plenty money. Oya, put ‘im

body with the others but hide the money before people come.”

A third one said, “God O! This accident bad, eh! See how everybody just die.

Chei!”

The oga replied angrily, “Shut up, Corporal. If them no die you go fit get this

kind money wey you dey get just like that? Na this kind thing we dey pray for, no be say

na we kill them.”

Ummi had been in the car with me. Was she—?

Another picture: of the same men lifting me like a sack of rubbish to God-knowswhere.

I heard myself mutter, “Ummi, Ummi!”

The officers dropped me roughly to the ground and one screamed in excitement,

“Oga, this one never die O!”

It was my assumption that Ummi was dead that was my coup de grâce, and not

the manhandling, as I had thought. Gradually, I faded into darkness; the curtain finally

fell on my short, tragic life.

Suddenly, I felt myself crashing into the bottom of the abyss. I bounced off it like

a rubber ball and struck the ground again with a thump. I felt hands holding me down. I

struggled to breathe. It had indeed been a long fall. And then I heard her voice.

“It’s okay now, it’s okay.”

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I lay back panting. Try as I did, I could not open my eyes. Every inch of me

ached, from head to toe. After a while I found my voice.

“Faulata, where am I?”

Her voice was emotion-laden when she spoke, “You are in the hospital, Salim.”

“And what about Ummi?”

Silence answered me.

***

So, I was not dead! Well, maybe not physically dead, but, otherwise, I was

through for sure. My whole life as I had known it had been shattered. Abba, my father,

had already been dead for long; my elder brother, Kabir, had passed on just over a year

before; and now Ummi was gone. All I had left was Jamila, my teenage sister. My other

two female siblings were married.

As for Faulata, our impending wedding had to be put on hold. Ummi and I had

been travelling to inform my grandparents about the wedding, which was due to be held

after my graduation when the accident had happened. I had two fractures on my right

leg, one on my left arm and three broken ribs. But the worst damage was to my eyes. I

had gone blind.

That was how I lost everything: my dreams of graduating and becoming a

medical doctor were no more after seven years in medical school with just two months

left to graduate. The future I was to have shared with my love, Faulata, was gone too.

Everything had been blown away just like that.

My body healed in the hospital, but my mind persisted in laying siege at the gates

of heaven, pleading for admittance. There was nothing more to live for. Faulata

struggled to keep my mind and body from heading in opposite directions. In time, she

became the only thing that was keeping me rooted to this wretched earth.

“You are not dead, Salim,” she would sob. “You cannot leave me here.”

Her plight was understandable, of course. A woman who has lost her beloved can

evoke the greatest sympathy imaginable. She made me feel guilty and I wished to put an

end to our nightmare. I could not imagine her marrying the monster that I had become.

Why hadn’t I just died and saved her and myself the agony of loss? But I had not died,

and Faulata and her seemingly undying love had forced upon my reluctant person a

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reason to live. So, I called my mind from the gates of heaven back to this . . . this

forbidding world. But my mind was not very happy about this.

The flow of sympathy continued beyond my discharge from the hospital. It was

two months after the accident and my returning mind abhorred the continuous pity.

Relatives, friends and coursemates kept coming with condolences, which, instead of

strengthening me, made me feel exceedingly hopeless and helpless. All those who had

not been able to make it to the hospital came to the house. Some, I believed, came just to

see for themselves how ugly, poor, blind Salim had become! Some came as early as

dawn, others in the mornings. By lunch time, the whole house would be filled. Some

people would deliberately stumble into my siesta, which was the only time I could

pretend to sleep; insomnia would claim me every night.

I developed a phobia for eating in front of people. I felt as if they were looking at

me, shaking their heads in pity. I hated being the object of their pity. I would rather have

had them laugh at me. But each time I imagined them laughing at me, I got angry and

would fume. Besides, my pride would not let me eat in front of them because the

exercise was tasking. I had to feel the food, like a child learning how to eat. So, when

there were guests around, which was always the case, I would refuse to eat.

Visiting the toilet was something else. I needed a guide, even to shit! Often, I

would miss the pit and deposit the whole thing by the side and Saint Faulata would have

to clean up. She did everything diligently. She would come in the mornings before

leaving for school and my house would be her first stop upon her return. I wondered

how she was coping with her project and her impending final exams, which were barely

a month away. With time, I began to forget to love Faulata. Instead, I relied entirely on

her. Jamila, my young sister, had better things to do than to attend to me. Once back

from school, she would change out of her uniform and start entertaining her array of

boyfriends. She seemed to have got over our mother’s death pretty fast.

I woke up one morning and came out of my room. Even with my walking cane I

still stumbled over the buckets and stools left out of place by the careless Jamila. I was in

a hurry to get to the toilet. Then I heard someone giggling. I asked, “Jamila, why are you

laughing?”

It was not Jamila but her friend, Saratu. Saratu said, amidst giggles, “You are

wearing your trousers inside out!” Then she cackled, very much like a hen.

Seething with anger, I said, “Bitch!”

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It vexed me to have a girl as young as her laughing at my misfortune. In

frustration, I continued my march, determined to spite her, but not quite sure how. I

failed woefully, for I stumbled over a bucket of water and dramatically crashed onto my

scarred face. It was not so much the pain as the cackling of the accursed Saratu that

stung my heart. It rang through the air, whipping my pride like successive lightning

strikes. She laughed her heart out and laughed her way out of the house, inviting people

to come and see.

I was so angry that I had not moved by the time the people rushed in. Seeing me

sprawled on the ground provoked laughter from the young ones, so the older ones

spanked their butts and chased them out. Then they came to help me up. My anger

blinded my heart as well and I lashed out with my cane. I caught someone below the

cheek and he yelped.

One man said, “Salim, we want to help you, eh?”

They tried again and I kicked out ferociously. “Leave me alone!” I screamed.

Another person said, “What is wrong with this stupid boy?”

An elderly voice said, “You don’t understand.”

“We don’t want to understand,” said the second. “We were only trying to help

him and he’s just hitting us!”

Some left in anger. Others stayed behind, pleading with me to get up. I remained

there until my anger forced tears out of my damaged eyes. Some women came to plead

with me. But I remained there, unmindful of their pleas. Instead, I thought of my mother

and wept some more. I thought of her a long time. Then Jamila started wailing. She

wailed inconsolably for a long time while I lay on the warm, sun-baked cement floor.

Then Saint Faulata came. She said, “Who did this?”

And the women told her. She knelt by me and touched me gently. She lowered

her head to my ear and whispered, “Salim, I am here now, you can get up, my love.

Everything will be okay, by Allah’s will, I promise.”

She led me to the room and cleaned the caked blood off my bruises while

everyone watched in awe. Then she said, “Wait here, I will be right back.”

She took war to the accursed Saratu’s house. It was said that she fought

ferociously and that she would have killed the stupid girl but for people’s intervention.

They rescued Saratu from her glorious claws but Faulata was not done yet. She pranced

in front of the house calling for Saratu just like Achilles before the walls of Troy,

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demanding for Hector. But they hid Saratu. Faulata fetched some petrol and poured it

on the house. She was about to set it ablaze when they seized her. She struggled fiercely

and wept because they would not let her burn down the house. Later, Saratu’s parents

came to apologise. Neither Faulata nor I said a word to them. Then the elders came and

delivered a long, boring lecture about forgiveness and reconciliation and, to get rid of

them, I said it was over. So Saratu kept her distance.

But this rather unpleasant episode made me start asking questions, the type a

good Muslim should not ask:

Why did this happen to me? Why should my mother die? Why

must I go blind in my final year when my life should be beginning? Why, why, why?

I sought

answers and could not find any. So, I grew angry. I began to blame everyone for my

predicament. I blamed the driver of the vehicle for driving the way he had. I blamed the

car for allowing itself to be driven into an accident. I blamed the government for

everything in general and nothing in particular. I blamed the police for robbing even the

dead. I blamed my long-dead father for having died. I blamed Jamila and her friend, the

accursed Saratu. I blamed Faulata, at whose instance we had been travelling. When I

had finished blaming everyone I could think of, I started blaming God. It was His fault

since He had decreed everything, as we had been taught. I lost faith and stopped praying.

A friend tried explaining things to me. He meant no harm really, but I took

offence. He called me a “

kafir” and I called him an “accursed son of a bitch.” He got

angry and left.

Faulata was not pleased with me. She said, “Stop looking like a soon-to-erupt

volcano,” and I cursed her. She wept.

I cursed Jamila for a reason too trivial to remember: “You stupid, fat, ugly bitch!”

I shouted so loud the neighbours heard me. Jamila cried all day.

I cursed everyone I could think of, but my boldness fell short of cursing God

Himself. I just could not bring myself to do it. So, I looked for something else upon

which to vent my anger. I cursed everything in the house: the bed that creaked in protest

each time I set my angry mass on it, the door that squeaked each time I opened it, the

chairs that cringed each time I sat on them. I cursed the mosquitoes that buzzed in my

ears, the flies that perched on my skin, and even the cock that crowed at dawn. I cursed

Sinnoor, my cat, who kept me company when everyone else had fled my scorching

tongue. “You hairy, creepy, slimy, good for nothing son of a bitch!” I shouted. Then I

seized it by the scruff and hurled it against the wall. It yowled and scuttled out. I once

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cursed my food and threw it away. I could not tell if I looked like a ‘soon-to-erupt’

volcano but I certainly felt like one. The lava of rage boiled over. I hated life, the whole

of it.

I had a big row with Faulata. She had brought me an application form for the

school for the blind. She was just trying to be of help, to repay a favour really. I had

struggled hard to help her secure admission into the university from which she was about

to graduate and she was just trying to do the same for me. But my rebellious mind did

not want to understand.

I said, “Oh, so you want me to go the accursed school for the blind so that every

son of a bitch can laugh at me, eh?”

She said, “Oh, Salim, my Salim, what has come over you? You curse so much

and you won’t even pray, for God’s sake!”

“Pray? Why should I pray, eh? Where was God when all this happened, eh? And

like hell, don’t tell me I curse. I will curse when I like. I will curse any son of a bitch I

like!”

She said, “There is a purpose in everything.”

I laughed mirthlessly. “Of course! And what the hell is the purpose in having me

blinded, eh?”

“You shouldn’t question God like that!”

“Says who? I shall question whosoever I wish! Bloody school for the blind! I was

on my way to becoming a medical doctor, just one damned month to go and bang, just

like that, this bloody thing happened. And now you want me to go to the school for the

blind, of all places!”

She said, “I am just trying to be of help, my . . . .”

“Damn you! Who needs your help?”

“Oh, you are such a fool!”

“Who the hell is the fool, eh? Wait until I get my bloody hands on you; I will beat

the bloody devil out of you!”

“Go ahead, superman, beat me up!” But she broke down and wept. Her tears, like

rain, fell on the wild fire of anger raging in my heart and extinguished it. I felt guilty and

ashamed of myself. My guilt soon transformed into confusion, for I did not know how to

pacify my personal saint, my Faulata. I sat there helpless and befuddled while she

continued weeping.

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Finally, I summoned the courage to say, “I am sorry, Faulata.”

She wiped away her tears and sniffed. “You know I love you, Salim.”

My heart sank further in the ocean of guilt.

“I know how you feel,” she went on, “I can imagine how painful this is. I share

your pain just as I shared your happiness, your joy and your dreams. Your dreams are

mine too, just as your pain is mine. You know that, Salim. But this thing . . . I suppose it

was destined to happen, and, besides, there is nothing we can do about it now. We can’t

waste forever crying over it.”

After the biggest argument of our lives, Faulata left. It seemed like she took away

all the anger I felt inside and cast it by the roadside dump, never to bring it back. I was

now overwhelmed by guilt: guilt for questioning God, guilt for not accepting my fate,

and guilt for having caused my Faulata so much pain. With my guilt came submission—

servile submission, I might add- for I felt that God had abandoned me for my

insubordination and for daring to question His wisdom. I surrendered myself to fate.

From sunrise to sunset, I would sit by the window listening to children playing

outside while I reminisced about my own happy childhood. I missed playing football

barefoot in the dust and hopping through the grassland in pursuit of grasshoppers. I

remembered dancing in the rain, praying to God to send down more rain and fried fish

from heaven. I missed

chalo, our inter-street wars, fought with maize stalks and sand

bombs.

I missed the Whispering Trees, the woods down the hill from us, where we used

to take refuge from our mothers’ whips when we were guilty of one form of mischief or

another. That used to happen quite often. We would play hide and seek there, build a

tent, and imagine we were explorers from another world. We grew up amidst those trees.

But that sylvan romance came to an abrupt end when Hamza, a childhood friend, fell

into a shallow spring in the woods and died. Back then, it used to be rumoured that it

was the resident

iskokai that made the trees ‘whisper’. It was said that the spirits took

Hamza and sucked his blood. The spring was incredibly shallow, not deep enough for

anyone to drown in. So we learnt to stay away from the woods.

It was in those days, when I was reminiscing about my childhood, that I started

to realise how I had taken everything for granted. For instance, my good health had

come so naturally that I had never thought there was anything to it. My mother, too, had

always been there; I hardly realized how important she was and how fortunate I was to

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have her. I had also taken for granted my dreams and hopes, all of which came so

naturally with my potential. Even my sight I had taken for granted. How fortunate I had

been not to have been born blind. What differentiated me from those others who had

been born without sight and were no less human than I was? Now I missed all those

things for which I had never once deliberately said, ‘Thank you, God’.

In the ensuing depression, Faulata was the only person who understood what I

was going through. Jamila, when she was not busy with her boyfriends, spared a few

minutes to think of me as the lousy, pissed off, wet blanket she just had to live with.

One day, an uncle of mine, who had come to visit, said, “This boy has gone nuts.

Maybe we should take him to the psychiatrist.”

His big-mouthed wife said, “See,

maigida, he’s downcast. Maybe he wants to start

begging for alms by the roadside. That would fetch him some money, you know.”

I would sit with my loyal cat, Sinnoor, while Faulata did my laundry. She would

iron my clothes, do the dishes and sweep the house. Faulata cooked my meals. Saint

Faulata fed me. Saint Faulata sang my lullabies. Saint Faulata did everything. It was

difficult to imagine what life would have been like without her. I do not know how she

coped with her studies, for during that period she was writing her final exams.

The image of a typical blind man in these parts is of a dirty, unkempt old man

with his walking stick in his left hand and his right hand outstretched. He stands begging

for alms by the roadside, singing songs that, sometimes, even he does not understand. I

could not bring myself to imagine myself like that. I did not want to be like that. So, one

day, I mustered up the courage and said, “Faulata, maybe I should go to . . . that

school.”

She dropped the dishes that were in her hand and came over and hugged me.

Then she sighed and began to sob.

***

The rains came and went. The grasses grew lush green and faded into a pale,

hungry brown. I could hear the dry, cold harmattan winds blowing through the starved

savannah; I could feel it on my desiccated skin. The weather grew unpleasantly chilly.

Everything was cold, including my heart. Faulata was gone. She had been posted to

Ilorin for her mandatory one-year National Youth Service after obtaining her university

degree. I was happy for her but felt sad because, if my life had taken a different turn, I

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would have been a graduate too. My life, once more, became a gloomy mess.

There were periods of sunshine, of course, during the weekends when Faulata

came to see me. She would come despite having called on every week day. It was

impossible not to miss her. My only solace was to throw myself wholeheartedly into my

studies. I learnt well and I learnt fast. I learnt Braille and, to my surprise, discovered a

universe of books for people just like me. I learnt cane-weaving and was becoming good

at it. I wove a basket for Faulata and God, how she loved it! I felt pleased with myself, so

I wove a handbag for Jamila, and she was delighted. When she served dinner that night,

she bustled around happily.

I was rediscovering life, and the process was exciting. I managed to navigate

around the neighbourhood with some success. I discovered a whole new world of

numbers and was as excited as Columbus must have been when he stumbled upon

America. The mathematics thrilled me. I knew exactly how many paces would get me to

the street from where I would board a commercial motorcycle to school. I knew the

number of paces to the toilet, to the living room, and to the kitchen, where I kept Jamila

company while she cooked. I went for walks, I visited friends, but, sometimes, I just sat

under the big mango tree outside and listened to children playing in the fields.

Faulata got so busy in Ilorin that she could no longer call every day. One day, she

called and said she could not come over for the weekend because she had some work to

do. I had, in fact, been pleading with her not to bother so much about me, but I had been

looking forward to seeing her that weekend. I had wanted to show her all the wonderful

things I had woven for her. I swallowed my disappointment and assured her that I

understood.

The next weekend, she came. But she was in so much of a hurry that she could

only stay but an hour. She sounded rather nervous and fretful. I thought it was the stress.

I told her I was getting the hang things and she didn’t need to come every weekend.

She said, “Oh, no, Salim, I am just stressed out right now, but I will be fine.

Coming is not a problem, really.”

The next weekend, Faulata did not come. Neither did she call. I was so worried I

called her, and she said she was just too busy. I said it was okay. The trend continued for

a couple of months and I managed as best I could.

The next time she came, she had something important to say. She was restless

and uncomfortable. She said, “I . . . am getting married, Salim.”

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I felt the stab in my heart and I gasped. I could imagine the blood gushing out,

soaking my skin, my shirt and then trickling down to the floor where it collected into a

pool.

She was still talking, “I know it will hurt you, but I thought I should . . . tell you .

. . personally. I am really sorry.”

For the second time in my life, I died.

***

My mind climbed up to the gates of heaven once more, seeking admittance,

pleading, begging, weeping and entreating. It tried everything possible to gain entry

without success. So, it lodged outside the gates, just waiting and hoping. My body

longed so much for a reunion with my mind (not here on this cruel earth, though, but up

there) that I became oblivious to daily necessities such as eating and sleeping. Time

became meaningless and my mind became shrouded in a blanket of despair. People

came and left and I was never aware that they had come in the first place.

Faulata had pinned me to the world when I had wanted to die, and just when I

was coming to terms with my new fate, she had broken my heart into a million

fragments. I longed for death. I longed for freedom: freedom from pain, from anguish,

from living. But death abandoned me in my hour of need and nothing, and no one could

set me free. Perhaps the only thing that reminded me of life was Jamila’s constant plea

by my bedside. She would talk and weep until blessed sleep stole her away.

One day my uncles came and bathed me with herbs. It was my first bath in nearly

a month. They smoked me with all sorts of ritual herbs, and succeeded in smoking every

miserable insect in the room dead. Still, I did not flinch. They concluded that it must be

Iblis, the devil himself, who had taken possession of my soul. Next they came with a

renowned exorcist, whom they called Malam Nagari, to banish the great Iblis. The

malam seated me on a sheepskin and drenched me with a pungent-smelling perfume.

Then he proceeded to recite the Glorious Qur’an over my head. At first, he sounded

harsh, aggressive and frightening, but fatigue crept in and slowed his tempo before

driving him out of breath. And still, I did not flinch.

By evening, he returned with spiritual incense and lit it all around me. He did his

recitation once more until he ran out of steam. He said, “This devil is indeed obstinate!”

His disciple then took over. His recitation was more subtle, more pleasant and

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more poignant. It reached out to my mind at the gates of heaven and subdued it. But as I

was not possessed by any devil, my mind was not convinced to return.

From somewhere beyond my realm, beyond the gate, I thought I heard a voice, a

familiar voice: my mother’s voice, calling my name. .

She said, “My son, your life may be full of tribulations, but it is not a tragedy

unless you make it one. Every man may stumble and fall while walking, but not all men

have the courage to rise again and face the challenges ahead. You might fall once or

twice, but the tragedy is in your not rising. Rise now, my son.”

The apprentice continued his beautiful recitation into the night until my body,

ravaged by hunger, and my breath, choked by all the perfume and incense, gave way. I

slumped.

The crowd shouted, “Allahu Akbar!”

***

Three days later, my rebellious mind reluctantly returned to my body and,

strangely, I began to see. I could see with my mind’s eye. I saw images I could not

discern. They were like blurred, glowing lights that moved about. Nothing made sense,

so I said nothing. I ate my meals quietly and would sit under the mango tree outside. I

no longer heard the children’s voices because someone had decided to build a shopping

mall on their playground. The plot next to my house, previously populated by grasses

and trees, was also attacked by men armed with a chain saw. I heard the trees screaming

in agony as they were cut down. Each time they felled one, the children would scream in

delight, drowning out the tree’s death throes. Tears streamed down my eyes. I could bear

the pain no longer, so I decided to go home.

In the living room, I saw those glowing-light images once more in my mind’s eye:

two images on the sofa. While everything was strange, I thought one of the images was

especially peculiar. It looked like two images doubled in one, one big, the other, very

tiny. The second image was rather familiar.

I called, “Jamila.”

Jamila was taken aback: it was the first word I had spoken in a very long time. I

went on, “Jamila, who is sitting next to you?”

The image I perceived as Jamila was fretting.

“Who is the strange person next to you?”

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She said timidly, “It is . . . Saratu.”

Ah, the accursed Saratu! That was my first encounter with her since Faulata had

trounced her.

“Saratu?” I asked. “What is wrong with Saratu?”

They looked at each other in alarm.

I said, “Don’t look at each other like that. I know there is something wrong with

her.”

Jamila rose and came towards me, peering into my eyes. “Can you . . . see?”

I could not, but I knew that something was not right. I just could not tell what it

was immediately. Instead, I said, “Why are you double, Saratu?”

She said, “Double? How?”

My mind saw the image of Sinnoor, the cat, crouching in a corner of the room. I

went and picked it up and then settled myself on the couch while the ladies stared at me

in awe.

Jamila said, “Oh my God! Salim, you can see!”

I said, “Oh, how stupid I am! Of course, you are pregnant, aren’t you, Saratu?”

She was pregnant. A scandal, of course, since she was not yet married. The fact

that she was pregnant was known only to her and to Jamila, but how had I known? I did

not understand anything anymore—trees wailing, people floating about like lights . . . .

Everything seemed crazy. That night, I had a dream. Two strange men came to me

and guided me to the Whispering Trees. The first one said, “Sometimes you see better

with your eyes closed.”

The other said, “Sometimes you don’t need your eyes to see.”

The first said, “Listen and listen well.”

“Listen to your heart.”

“Listen with your heart.”

“

Listen more to things than to words that are said.”

And then the trees came alive and wanted to eat me. I screamed and woke up.

Jamila rushed into my room. “Salim, are you okay? Salim, what is wrong?”

My mind stared at her. How clearly I could see her. Her light glowed: It was a

strange white light. I could see the outline of her face. I had almost forgotten what she

looked like. She had grown into a fine, young woman, no longer the pimply teenager I

had known. But there, where her heart should have been, was a bluish hue. It was fading

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by the minute. I listened to my heart and it told me it was the hue of fear. She had been

frightened by my scream.

I said, “Jamila, I am sorry I called you a stupid, fat, ugly bitch. You have grown

into such a beautiful, young woman. Ummi would have been proud of you. I am sorry.”

She wept in my arms.

In that moment, I realised how much I had missed my sister.

Thereafter, my mind’s eye grew sharper. I did not see things, but I saw their

souls: human souls, goats’ souls, chickens’ souls. I was amazed to discover that even

mosquitoes had souls. All these souls glowed like mild, white lights. And then I

discerned that there were good and bad souls; the bad ones being in the majority. I

recognised each by its unique tinge. I discovered how deceptive and hypocritical people

were. I saw their faces, looking so innocent, but their souls were clearly malevolent and

mean.

I listened to my mind and could tell how people felt by the hues over their hearts.

Most hearts were tinted crimson because they were so full of anger: They were angry

because they felt oppressed and cheated by greedy politicians and their stooges. If the

police could pray for accidents and rob the dead, what else could one expect? The fat

politicians made it worse. They came with their darkened souls and spat out rubbish

about equity and good governance and then farted out corruption’s putrid air. The

hypocrisy was stark.

I spent three days exploring my rediscovered life. I saw things from a unique

perspective, and that gave me insight into things that people did not ordinarily see. I saw

goodness in unexpected places and I saw evil masked in the cloak of goodness. I took a

new interest in people, or rather in their souls. I would go to the market, junctions, and

arenas: I would go to all the places where people gathered and would just look at their

souls. What I saw troubled me. I grew tired and disenchanted, and so I started walking

off. As I went, I felt the road with my cane because I could not see the stones-they had

no souls. I kept walking until I was headed downhill and, before long, I was standing just

outside the Whispering Trees, the woods of the spirits. I had not been there since

Hamza’s death. I turned to go but froze. Strangely, the woods appealed to me so strongly

that even the recollection of my recent nightmare could not counter the appeal. Instead,

my mind raced through all those memorable childhood days. I made up my mind and

plunged in.

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The first thing that caught my attention was the ethereal melody. There must

have been a thousand birds and countless insects weaving their sublime melodies into the

mysterious whispers of the trees. It was an orchestra so out of this world that for a long

time I stood, lost and enchanted. Then, gathering my thoughts about me, I saw such a

multitude of souls as I had never imagined possible. Birds, praying mantises,

grasshoppers and myriad other wonderful insects went about their business on or around

the trees and down below. I could see the souls of ants, creepers and crawlers on the

ground. Butterflies drifted between tree trunks, dancing and bursting into incandescent

colours, sapphire lights glinting off their wings. The souls of the trees were so pure and

welcoming without a hint of evil about them. All these souls, so pure, so clean, so many,

and not one stained by anger, malice or envy: no treachery, no guilt, just innocence. I

began then to question man’s moral justifications for lording it over all these beautiful,

innocent souls. The contrast from the world I had just come from was so vivid and,

somehow, I felt at home among all these pure souls. I found a fallen tree trunk and sat

on it. The spirit of the Whispering Trees pacified my soul and, at last, I found such peace

as I had never known.

Much later, a gentle breeze wafted through the leaves and made them rustle. It

was as if the trees were whispering words meant for their ears alone. It was so easy to

feel the sense of expectancy and to recognise that something was about to happen. I

waited a long time and then I saw it. It was the soul of a young boy, about fifteen-yearsold.

As it came towards me, I discerned that it was different. This soul was not white,

but an emerald green. I had hardly had time to marvel over its strangeness when I

recognised it. It was Hamza, my childhood friend who had perished in the Whispering

Trees some twelve years previously. He approached me, not betraying any sign that he

had recognised me. Shock held me captive.

He said, “You have returned at last. I was afraid you might never come.” He sat

down beside me on the trunk.

I said at last, “Hamza, is this really you?”

He sighed.

I rose. “But this can’t be. You are dead. You died twelve years ago. I saw you!”

He said, “Has it been twelve years already?” He shrugged and then looked at me

and I saw that his eyes were hollow. “You look so grown-up, Salim. What happened to

you?”

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“I had an accident,” I managed to say.

“I am sorry to hear that.”

“But . . . what happened to you? I mean . . . you died down there, in the stream.”

He sighed. “You remember the day we came here, all of us with Tanimu, Audu,

Bala, you know . . . all of us? You remember I had taken my mother’s wristwatch and

that was why we had come here, to hide?”

I remembered. I could still see that wristwatch coated in gold. His mother had

always treasured it because it had been a gift from her late husband. It was the last thing

he had given her before he had been killed in an armed robbery attack. Hamza had taken

it to show off and we had run all the way to the Whispering Trees in excitement. We had

examined it as it had glistened in the sun. Then we had got tired of it and decided to play

hide and seek. Hamza had put on the watch. I had made the call and they had all run to

hide. He recounted to me that he and Tanimu had run towards the stream and hidden.

While hiding, Tanimu had demanded to see the watch once more and Hamza had

refused. They had struggled and Tanimu had tripped him. Tanimu had tried to hold on

to him but his hand had been clasped over the watch, which was coming off. Hamza had

rolled over on his neck and had landed face down, in the stream, breaking his neck in the

process.

“When Tanimu saw that I had died already, he panicked and fled,” Hamza

concluded.

I remembered that when we had found Hamza dead, Tanimu had been nowhere

to be seen and none of us thought anything of it. We had been overcome by the tragedy

and the rumour that Hamza had been killed by the spirits of the Whispering Trees.

Everything had changed. Our little group had broken up and we had been forced

to grow up. We had lost the capacity to look into each others’ eyes. Tanimu had been

the worst off, for he seemed to have lost his mind. He had looked miserable and none of

us had been able to get through to him. He had merely drifted along with life and, to us,

he had grown into a stranger.

Hamza and I talked some more until he rose and said, “I must leave now. Now

that you are here, I can leave. But see how beautiful this place is, see how pure and full

of life it is. Yet, someday, the living will come and destroy everything.” He started off,

“Man destroys that which he claims to love.”

I did not know what to say.

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“You know, Salim,” he said again, “if you had been a doctor you would only

have been able to treat the ailments of the body. But now you can treat ailments of the

soul. You can understand that which most men do not. I go now, my friend.” He waved

goodbye and I watched the final curtain fall on his short life.

Tears streamed from my eyes. I was amazed at how easily he seemed to have

accepted his fate. In a way, I think, he was glad that his death had helped to protect the

Whispering Trees by mystifying them. Men feared the spirits and had stayed away:

Beauty and innocence had thrived as a consequence. But for twelve, long years, Hamza

had lingered in those woods, waiting for someone to bear his message. It was this

message that I took to Tanimu.

Tanimu’s heart was framed by the yellow tint of guilt: the guilt he had lived with

for the last twelve years. I gave him Hamza’s message: that he should not feel guilty, for

it had been an accident. His intention had not been to harm Hamza, but nature had

played a trick on them. I told him that Hamza did not hold him responsible and had

forgiven him.

Deeply moved as he was, Tanimu was sceptical. “How can the dead speak?” He

queried.

I said, “He also told me to ask you to please return the watch you keep in your

ceiling, the one you had taken from him. He says his mother would have wanted to have

it back.”

Tanimu wept.

He eventually gave back the watch and freed his mind. He became a new man.

And the joy of Hamza’s mother upon receiving the watch was such that I cannot

describe. Finally, it seemed, she had overcome the loss of her husband and her son.

The elation I felt at seeing all these troubled souls liberated remains the most

magnificent feeling I have ever felt. To see people in anguish and give them comfort, to

free minds bound by desire, anger or guilt, to guide souls that are lost to their destinies,

to reconcile souls alienated by misunderstandings — that is my life and purpose. It is

what gives me joy.

I rediscovered life in serving and I discovered heavenly peace in the Whispering

Trees, where I now spend hours listening to the melodies of nature and to the dead. They

come once in a while, seeking to reach out to loved ones before taking their final leave.

So it was that I lost my sight to find my vision, I lost my life to find my soul and I

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lost my vanity to find my purpose. Now, sitting here, in the Whispering Trees, amidst all

this beauty and these innocent souls, listening to this heavenly orchestra, I realise that

happiness lies, not in getting what you want, but in wanting what you have.

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Abubakar Adam Ibrahim