Near a baobab tree, tall and stout,
I stood, looking like a toddler, no doubt.
Its branches, giants, split the air,
It\’s roots, deep, swallow a river,
A mighty presence, beyond compare.
Touch its back, a greyish skin,
Soft to feel, but strength lies within.
Threads beneath, ropes they bind,
Ask those who know, the secrets you\’ll find.
A baobab tree, marks of small axes\’ touch, she bears
Or a belly stabbed, a ladder for beekeepers\’ clutch.
A tale unfolds of a man who fell,
His \’Mwii\’ tore, yet the tree held well.
Thunder and lightning, in anger, they meet,
Around the baobab, innocence to beat.
An innocent giant, with hands so soft,
Endures nature\’s wrath, standing aloft.
In the city, baobab fruits you\’ll find,
Hunted, broken, city flavors abound.
Like a village girl with a face painted,
Their essence altered, their stories veered.
People of the land know its worth,
Injecting charms since its early birth.
Maybe, like a tree, witchcraft grows.
-A poem written by Boniface M. Harrison
