The baobab stood at the edge of the village of Kofa, twisted and immense, its roots gripping the red earth like claws. No one remembered when it had grown there, only that it had always been present. The elders whispered that it was older than their ancestors, that it had absorbed the sins and secrets of everyone who slept beneath its branches.
The villagers had long obeyed a simple rule: never sleep under the baobab.
But humans are curious, and sometimes rules are broken.
⸻
Lekan was sixteen, lean and restless, with the kind of curiosity that got him into trouble. He had heard the stories: people disappearing, shadows acting on their own, whispers in the wind. But to him, they were just tales to scare children.
One evening, when the moon hung low and silver, Lekan wandered near the baobab. His friends had dared him, teasing him relentlessly. “Go on,” they said. “Sleep under the tree tonight if you’re not afraid.”
He grinned and accepted. Pride burned hotter than fear.
The ground beneath the baobab was cool, the night silent except for crickets and the occasional hoot of an owl. Lekan lay down, rolling onto his mat. He stared up at the gnarled branches, shadows stretching like fingers across the ground. For a moment, all was still.
And then he saw it.
His own shadow moved independently. It shifted, rose slightly from the ground, twisting unnaturally. It didn’t mimic his movements. It smiled when he frowned, stretched when he curled up.
“Just imagination,” he muttered.
But the shadow grinned wider.
⸻
Lekan jolted upright. The shadow fell into line with him again, only to separate once more. He tried to flee, but his feet felt rooted. Panic clawed at him. The shadow whispered in a voice like rustling leaves, “We are one, but we are free.”
His heart thundered. Lekan ran toward the village, but the shadow stayed behind. It waited, watching. At first, he thought he was safe. But when he slept that night in his own home, he noticed his shadow didn’t lie still on the wall—it crept along, always just a little ahead, waiting.
⸻
In the following days, the village noticed strange occurrences. Shadows acted independently: carrying objects, moving people’s belongings, even mimicking whispers no one had spoken. Villagers awoke to find their shadows gone when they woke, only to return in distorted, unnatural forms, like pieces of themselves with hidden lives.
Lekan knew the baobab was responsible. He had broken the rule.
Desperate, he went to the elders. Old Mama Ife, who had eyes like molten amber, listened to his story. Her gaze pierced him.
“You have touched it, child,” she said. “The baobab collects what is hidden, what is feared. Your shadow is not yours alone anymore.”
“How do I get it back?” he asked, voice trembling.
The old woman’s face darkened. “You must confront it. Look into its eyes—not yours, but what it has become. Only then can you reclaim yourself.”
⸻
That night, Lekan returned to the baobab, carrying a lantern and a small knife for courage. The ground was thick with roots and twisted earth. The wind whispered warnings he could not understand. He lay down again beneath the great trunk, heart pounding.
The shadow emerged immediately. Taller now, elongated, teeth sharp in a grin that mirrored none of his own. Its eyes, dark hollows, bore into him.
“You cannot run,” it hissed. “We have grown together. You feed me.”
Lekan’s stomach turned. He realized that each time he had felt fear, each time he had hidden secrets, the shadow had grown stronger.
“Then I will face you!” he shouted.
He reached out, touching the shadow’s form. Cold burned through his fingers, deep as ice, and images flashed before him: every lie he had told, every act of envy, every moment of pride. The shadow fed on them all, shaping itself into a perfect reflection of his hidden sins.
⸻
Hours—or perhaps minutes—passed. He felt himself pulled into the shadow, merging with it, but something inside resisted. Lekan clenched his teeth and focused on one thing: the truth of himself. His love for his family, his friends, his longing to protect the village. He held onto it like a flame.
The shadow shrieked, a sound like snapping wood, and recoiled. It twisted violently, trying to draw him in, but he pulled back.
With a final surge, Lekan reached into himself and pushed the shadow away, forcing it toward the roots of the baobab. It screamed and writhed, shrinking back into the tree’s core. The roots closed around it, trapping it like a seed in dark soil.
Lekan collapsed, shaking, but alive. His shadow lay still beside him, normal once more.
⸻
The next morning, Lekan told the village what happened. The elders listened, nodding. “The baobab always hungers,” Mama Ife said. “It will try again. But you have learned the balance. Respect the hidden and the seen.”
From that day forward, Lekan never ventured near the baobab at night. He slept under the open sky, careful where shadows fell, careful what he allowed himself to fear.
Yet sometimes, when the moon is low and silver, he swears he sees something move independently, in the corner of his eye, and hears the whisper:
“We are one, but we are free.”
The baobab waits. And its shadows are patient.
