The Whispering Palm of Kuruama by Linda Somiari-Stewart

 

In the rich, marshy land where the great River Niger splits its waters, sending the Forcados River to the West and the Nun River to the South-there sat a quiet village called Kuruama. Life in Kuruama followed the rhythm of the tide and the sky. Each morning, fishermen’s canoes slipped into the mist, and each evening, laughter mingled with the scent of roasting plantain and woodsmoke.

But nothing in the village was more respected than the Whispering Palm.

Tall and solitary at the edge of Kuruama, this ancient tree bore carvings from generations past. Its broad fronds whispered in the wind. During harmattan, it shaded the weary. During trouble, elders poured palm wine at its roots and muttered prayers. Some said the tree had once warned of a fever before it came and another time of winds that tore roofs off huts before the clouds even gathered.

“If the palm speaks,” the elders often said, “you best listen.”

Ten-year-old Ibiso lived with her grandmother Ebejiba, a woman with silver hair, wise eyes, and a voice full of stories. Ibiso loved to sit by her feet or under the Whispering Palm, humming lullabies and picking fallen fruit. Their hut always smelled of pepper soup, woodsmoke, and the cool tang of river mud on Ibiso’s feet.

Ebejiba often reminded her, “A river that forgets its source will dry up in the sun. Listen well, and your heart will always find its way.”

One night, under the full moon, Ibiso couldn’t sleep. Drawn by a feeling she couldn’t explain, she slipped from her mat and walked barefoot to the tree. The air was still. The palm’s shadow stretched long and dark.

And then it whispered.

“Ibiso… the river will rise. The River Niger will swell, sending extra waters west to the Forcados and south to the Nun.

When the moon is full, the waters will seek Kuruama. Could you tell them, child? Prepare, pree-pa-reeeee…”

Her heart began to beat loudly,, Ikpulugum!, ikpulugum!!, ikpulugum!!! Was she dreaming? She pressed her ear to the trunk. Only the far-off croak of a bullfrog answered.

She ran home, shaking.

Back in the hut, Ebejiba noticed at once. “Why so quiet, Ibiso?”

Her voice was barely a whisper: “Opuyingi… the palm tree spoke to me," ibiso said to her grandmother. She repeated what the palm tree said to Ebejiba, her grandmother, who listened carefully.

Ebejiba wrapped her arms around Ibiso. “Many will laugh, little one. But the palm has spoken true before. Courage grows in the heart that listens.”

She offered a riddle to calm her:

“What has a mouth but never eats and can drown a village?”

Ibiso smiled, still trembling. “The river.”

Ebejiba nodded. “Sometimes a riddle is also a warning.”

The next morning, Ibiso awoke to Mama Keme's familiar call: “Ah, Ibiso ee! The early fish gets the fattest worm. Wake up, child!” Ibiso was already awake. She was accompanying her grandmother to the beach.

After a light breakfast of cassava flakes and ripe plantain porridge, locally known as Apalapa, Ebejiba took ibiso's hand as they made for the beach. “We go together. Let truth be your paddle.”

The beach was already alive with voices, laughter, and the slap of water on wooden canoes. Chief Pereotu, tall and stern, sat beneath the almond tree, his coral beads glowing in the sun. The people quieted as Ebejiba and Ibiso approached.

“Ebejiba, what brings you here so early?” the chief asked.

“She carries a message from the Whispering Palm,” Ebejiba said, gesturing to Ibiso.

Ibiso’s legs wobbled. Still, she stepped forward.

“The palm tree whispered to me last night, Papa. It said the river will swell. The Forcados and the Nun will bring water to our village. We must prepare.”

The villagers murmured.

Elder Ibibo scoffed, loud enough for all to hear. “Every year, rivers rise, river rise. Are we to run every time a breeze stirs a leaf?”

Laughter rippled through the crowd at the beach. Ibiso was flustered.

But Mama Keme stepped forward and touched the girl’s shoulder. “Even the smallest fish can feel the tide’s pull. Sometimes, spirits choose the young because their hearts are still open.”

Chief Pereotu nodded. “Let each family decide. Prepare your canoes. Watch the river. The river may be wide, but wisdom runs deeper.”

Some villagers prepared. Others mocked. Behind the fish racks, Ibiso heard two boys laugh, “Maybe one day, Ibiso’s tree will grow legs and dance away with her!”

That night, Ebejiba whispered again, “Courage isn’t the absence of fear, child- it’s choosing to speak, even when you shake.”

The days rolled into nights and more days. Then the moon rose behind clouds. The frogs fell silent. Then, the sky broke.

Rain fell, slow at first, then hard as pounding drums. Thunder rolled. The River Niger, swollen by storms far upstream, split with fury. The Forcados and the Nun surged. Water poured into Kuruama with a force not seen in many seasons.

Canoes crashed against trees. Chickens clucked in panic. The river hissed through the village.

Those who had prepared- Ebejiba, her granddaughter Ibiso, and members of their extended family, Mama Keme and her family, Seki’s family, and Chief Pereotu and his family, among others—huddled on high ground, sharing mats, roasted plantain, and snails. The rain pummelled the earth. Even Elder Ibibo climbed quietly to higher ground, his eyes uncertain.

Finally, the rain ceased, and the flood began to recede. There was a sigh of relief.

When the sun returned, the land was coated in silt and silence. The damage was real, but so was the survival.

Chief Pereotu called the village to gather beneath the Whispering Palm.

“Let us thank Ibiso, who listened and spoke. Let us honor all who remember the old ways. The Whispering Palm has guarded Kuruama once again.”

Elder Ibibo stepped forward. His face was solemn.

“Forgive me, child. The tree spoke, and I did not listen. You were brave. I was not. May my ears learn to open, too.”

The people nodded.

From that day, the Whispering Palm was no longer just a tree. It became a place of counsel for young and old alike. Ibiso sat there often, sometimes listening, guiding.

And when a boy named Kala feni dreamed of fire one night, he went straight to Ibiso. She smiled and said:

“Let truth be your paddle. Let’s go to the chief together.”

And the palm whispers , still...

 

Wisdom has no age.

The bravest voices are often not the oldest.

To listen truly is to prepare, not dismiss.