Mama Uju was buried before sunset.
No crying drums. No long prayers. People were afraid to stay close to the body. The ground swallowed her quickly, like it was hungry. As the last sand was poured, Chukwuemeka stood there, quiet, his hands hanging by his sides.
He felt nothing.
That was what scared him the most.
He knew he should cry. He knew this woman raised him, fed him, beat him, prayed for him. But inside him was a hollow space, wide and cold. The tree sat there now, deep inside that space, silent and heavy.
When he turned away from the grave, he noticed something.
The villagers stepped back.
Not all at once. Small movements. A woman pulling her child behind her wrapper. A man clearing his throat and looking away. Fear hiding behind normal faces.
Chukwuemeka understood.
They know, the tree whispered.
They are remembering.
That night, the village lost sleep.
Dogs barked at nothing. Chickens flapped wildly in their pens. A baby cried from dusk till dawn and could not be calmed. Somewhere near the forest, something fell heavily, again and again, like a body hitting the ground.
Chukwuemeka lay on his mat, staring at the ceiling.
The tree showed him things.
It showed him how the village used to be. How the elders fed it long ago when drought came. How they promised it children in exchange for rain and protection. How they later stopped, pretending it never happened, pretending the forest was just trees.
They broke the covenant, the tree said.
You are the payment.
The next day, Chukwuemeka went to the market.
People noticed him immediately.
His walk had changed. He moved slowly, confidently, like he had all the time in the world. His eyes followed people without blinking. When someone brushed past him by mistake, the person froze, heart racing, unable to explain why.
Near the palm-oil stall, a boy named Obinna laughed.
"Mad boy," he said loudly. "Tree spirit child."
The laughter spread.
Chukwuemeka stopped walking.
He turned.
He looked at Obinna.
Nothing happened at first.
Then Obinna began to choke.
No hands on his neck. No rope. Just choking. His face turned red, then dark. He fell, kicking, eyes wide with fear. People screamed. Someone shouted for help.
Chukwuemeka felt a warm rush inside his chest.
The tree stirred.
Say his name, it whispered.
Chukwuemeka whispered, "Obinna."
The boy collapsed.
Dead.
Silence swallowed the market.
Women dropped their baskets. Men backed away slowly. Nobody touched the body. Nobody touched Chukwuemeka.
An elder finally spoke, his voice shaking.
"This thing… it has returned."
That night, the elders met again, this time in fear.
They spoke of sacrifices. Of cleansing. Of killing the boy if they had to.
But the forest was listening.
And so was Chukwuemeka.
As the moon rose, the tree spoke clearly for the first time.
They will try to stop you.
Let them try.
Outside, the wind blew toward the village.
And the roots beneath the earth began to move.