Chapter Three: "Under the Baobab Tree"
The afternoon sun beat down on the village, its heat relentless as the sky stretched out endlessly, a bright, unbroken blue. Suleiman walked slowly towards the baobab tree that stood at the heart of the village. The ancient tree was a witness to decades of silent conversations, village meetings, and decisions that had shaped the community. Today, it would host another gathering—one with stakes higher than most.
Suleiman wasn’t alone. The elders had called for a meeting, and word had spread through the village like wildfire. Men, young and old, were already gathered beneath the tree’s wide branches, seeking shade from the punishing sun. Some stood, arms crossed in frustration, while others sat on makeshift stools, their faces worn with the weight of uncertainty. The air was thick with tension, heavier than the heat that surrounded them.
As Suleiman approached, he noticed the familiar faces. There was Musa, the village blacksmith, his muscular arms folded across his broad chest, his brows furrowed in concentration. Next to him sat Abubakar, one of the few remaining farmers, nervously twisting his cap in his hands. And then there was Hajara, the widow of one of the local chiefs, her face a mask of quiet strength.
A low murmur of voices greeted Suleiman as he reached the group. He exchanged nods with a few men and took his place among them. It was clear why they were all there—the upcoming election loomed like a dark cloud over their heads, and the rumours of violence were growing louder by the day.
"Have you heard the latest?" Musa asked, breaking the silence. His deep voice carried a hint of anger. "The government promises peace, but all we’ve seen are more soldiers, more guns. They tell us it’s for our protection, but who will protect us when the bullets start flying?"
Abubakar shifted uncomfortably, his eyes scanning the faces around him. "There are whispers," he said quietly, "that the insurgents are planning something. They’re waiting for the right moment. I’ve seen families packing up, leaving the village before things get worse."
Suleiman remained silent, listening to the men speak. He had heard the whispers too. The village was like a pot ready to boil over. Tension hung in the air, thick and stifling, and everyone felt it.
Hajara’s voice cut through the conversation like a knife. "And what of the children?" she asked, her tone sharp. "We talk of elections, of insurgents and soldiers, but who is thinking of the children? They are the ones left to suffer, to bear the brunt of all this."
The group fell silent. It was true. The children were always the ones caught in the middle—between the politics, the violence, and the empty promises. Suleiman thought of Fatima, of the handful of children who still dared to attend school. How long would it be before their hope was crushed, too?
"I saw Fatima today," Suleiman finally spoke, his voice steady but quiet. "She came to school, despite her mother’s fears. Some children still believe in education, in a future beyond this madness."
Musa let out a bitter laugh. "A future? What future, Suleiman? Look around you. The fields are empty, and the marketplace is quiet. Even the baobab tree that once shaded our children’s laughter now only hears our worries."
Suleiman met Musa’s gaze, unflinching. "We must believe in something, Musa. If we lose hope, what’s left?"
The crowd murmured in agreement, though there were many whose eyes remained clouded with doubt. Suleiman knew the challenges they faced were overwhelming, but despair was a luxury they couldn’t afford.
Hajara, with her piercing gaze, nodded slowly. "Suleiman is right. We cannot let fear rob us of what little we have left. Our children depend on us to stand strong."
The men shifted, the weight of her words settling over them like a heavy cloak. Suleiman looked around at the faces gathered beneath the tree. These were men and women who had fought for survival their whole lives, who had seen their world unravel but still held on. If anyone could endure, it was them.
Abubakar cleared his throat, breaking the silence. "Then what do we do? We can’t just sit and wait for the worst to happen."
"We organize," Musa said firmly. "We look after our own. The government won’t protect us, the insurgents won’t protect us. We must protect ourselves."
A murmur of agreement rippled through the crowd, but Suleiman wasn’t so sure. He knew what Musa meant. He had seen men take up arms in other villages, and the results were always the same—more violence, more bloodshed. He couldn’t let that happen here, not in their village.
"We have to be careful," Suleiman said, his voice calm but firm. "Taking up arms may feel like the only option, but violence breeds more violence. We need to protect ourselves, yes, but we must also protect our humanity."
Musa’s eyes flashed with frustration. "And what would you have us do, Suleiman? Sit back and wait for them to come and take everything?"
"No," Suleiman replied, meeting his gaze. "But we can be smart about this. We can organize without falling into the same traps. We can find ways to protect our community without losing ourselves in the process."
The tension between the two men hung in the air, thick and palpable. But Musa didn’t push further. Instead, he nodded slowly, his anger simmering but contained.
As the meeting continued, plans began to take shape. Patrols would be organized, and the village would be on high alert. They would look out for each other, for the children, for the elderly. But Suleiman’s words hung over them like a quiet warning. The line between protection and destruction was a thin one, and they would have to tread carefully.
The sun was beginning to sink beneath the horizon as the meeting came to an end. The men dispersed slowly, their faces grim but resolute. Suleiman lingered beneath the baobab tree for a moment longer, his eyes tracing the lines of the tree’s massive trunk, the deep roots that held it steady even in the fiercest of storms.
As he turned to leave, Aisha appeared at his side. She had stayed back, watching the meeting from a distance.
"Do you really think we can keep the violence from spilling over?" she asked quietly, her eyes searching his face for answers.
Suleiman sighed, glancing at the village before him. "I don’t know," he admitted. "But I do know that we can’t lose ourselves in the process. We can’t become what we fear."
Aisha nodded, though her expression remained clouded with doubt. "It’s hard to hold onto hope when the world feels like it’s falling apart."
"That’s exactly when we need it most," Suleiman replied, his voice steady. "Hope is all we have left."
They stood in silence for a moment, the weight of the day pressing down on them. But in the quiet, beneath the ancient tree, there was also a flicker of something else—a sense of resilience, of strength that had been forged in the fires of hardship.
Suleiman knew the road ahead would be long and uncertain, but as he walked back towards his home, he held onto the belief that if they could protect that flicker of hope, there was still a chance for something better.
Tomorrow would come, and with it, another battle. But for tonight, beneath the wide branches of the baobab tree, there was peace.