THE MOON IS OUR WITNESS

The iroko tree is our witness. Its branches stretched wide, like the arms of an elder holding the sky, shading us from the harsh sun and keeping our secrets in the rustle of its leaves. Beneath that tree, we became who we truly were, just two children who thought the world was ours to hold.

You would sit cross-legged on the red earth, your hunting spear leaning lazily against the trunk, pretending not to hear your father’s voice echoing from the compound. He would call your name in that deep, firm way fathers call sons who must grow into men, calling you to follow him into the forest, to learn the ways of the hunt. But you ignored him. With a mischievous smile, you’d lean closer and whisper, 

“Let him go. The bush is not running.”

And I, stubborn as always, would place my calabash carefully on the ground, the one Mama sent me to fill at the stream.

“Let her think I am still fetching water,” 

I would say, pretending not to hear her shrill voice traveling across the village air, demanding to know why I was taking so long.

Then we would laugh. Ah, Odewale, how we laughed, two thieves of borrowed time. Borrowed from a father who wanted a hunter for a son, and from a mother who wanted a dutiful daughter. In those moments, under the iroko tree, none of that mattered. It was just me and you, the soft hum of the forest around us, and the feeling that life could never scatter.

We talked about everything. How the world outside Modákéké might look. How we dreamed of escaping the smallness of our lives, the provincial routines that caged us. We made up stories of big cities where nobody knew your father was a hunter or cared whether my mother’s calabash was empty or full. We dared to imagine more. And in those whispers of dream, under the Ìrókò tree, I believed that “more” was possible.

But if the Ìrókò tree forgets, perhaps the old àgbálùmó tree still remembers.

It stood at the edge of the village, its roots curling like the fingers of an old woman clutching the earth. There, on the trunk of an abandoned

Akíntólá chair, we built our second world. Under that àgbálùmó tree, we were not just lovers, my Odewale, we were best friends.

We gossiped about everyone who passed by, inventing stories about them, laughing at their clothes, mimicking their walk. When old Mama Shola waddled past, carrying her basket of peppers, you’d crook your back and imitate her limp until I almost choked on laughter. When Baba Oladejo staggered by, after too much palmwine, I would cover my nose dramatically and say, “See drunkard,” and you would clap your hands and laugh until your eyes watered.

But it wasn’t just gossip. We shared dreams. Desperate dreams. We wanted more than this village life. You swore you would one day wear shoes polished enough to see your face in, and I swore I would one day read books that weren’t borrowed or torn, books that smelled of newness.

“Oga Tisha says if I continue like this, I’ll get a scholarship,” you said one evening, your face lit with fire as the sun bled behind the hills. “I’ll go to the university. I’ll read. I’ll become somebody.”

And so, under the àgbálùmó tree, we studied together. You with your books, me with my restless questions. When we grew tired, we played.

Sometimes you beat the bata drum, your hands quick and sure, and I danced until my wrapper threatened to loosen. Other times we chewed àgbálùmó, staining our lips with its sour-sweet taste, spitting the seeds far into the bush. Life felt endless then. Full of promises that stretched beyond Modákéké.

But happiness does not last. I remember the horror in your face when I finally told you the truth. We had just finished eating roasted corn under the moonlight, our laughter still clinging to the air, when I whispered, “There’s something I must tell you.”

You looked at me, curious, unbothered. Until the words left my lips.

“I am from Ife.”

Silence. Thick, choking silence. Your smile collapsed. You dropped the corn. For the first time, you looked afraid, truly afraid. You, who would enter the darkest forest without fear, who laughed in the face of wild dogs, who mocked danger itself, you looked like life had been sucked out of you.

I had only seen that look twice in my life. That night, when I told you I was from Ile-Ife. And again, three nights later.

It was deep into the night when you jumped through my window. I woke to the sound of your heavy breathing, your whisper urgent, your eyes wild.

“Wake them,” you said, your voice trembling. “Wake your parents, your siblings. We must go. Now. The Union is coming. They plan to kill every Ife person still living in Modákéké.”

My heart cracked open. I shook my parents awake, dragged my younger ones up from their mats, my hands trembling so badly I could barely tie my wrapper. The night was thick with fear.

We ran. Side by side, under the cold moon. The red dust rises with every hurried step. My baby brother crying in Mama’s arms, my father clutching his cutlass like a shield that could never be enough.

And you, Odewale, you shed tears as we ran. Tears you tried to hide, but I saw them glisten. And I cried too. Not just from fear, but because I knew. I knew I might never see you again. I cried because the boy who wanted to break free from Modákéké’s walls might never escape.

Behind us, screams began to rise. Houses burned. The war had begun.

Years later, when the war ended, I returned. I came back with hope tucked into my chest like a fragile bird. I imagined finding you under the iroko tree, drumming as always, waiting for me to dance. I imagined your smile, older but still mischievous, calling my name.

But Modákéké was a graveyard. The àgbálùmó tree had been burnt down. Our Akintola chair was gone, reduced to ash. Even the great iroko had been beheaded, its stump like a wound in the earth. And you, my Odewale, your life had been snatched by war.

I walked the village like a ghost, every corner reminding me of our stolen laughter. The silence was unbearable.

So maybe, in our next life, we will not be in Modákéké. Perhaps we will be born in Ìlú-òkè, in some place untouched by war and hatred.

But if the gods are kind, I hope you remember me. I hope you remember the love we once shared under the àgbálùmó tree, and the secrets we whispered under the iroko tree. And even if you don’t, perhaps the moon will remind you.

Because the moon was there when we laughed.

The moon was there when we ran.

And the moon, Odewale, is still here, watching me grieve.