The song of the unyielding

In the depths of the savannah, where the land is still unseen, quiet, touched, but only by human hands full of understanding and reverence. . . hands of those born under the tree, these are the children of the tree. Feed by the tree, sheltered by the tree. The place where life is at its most innocent. . . where creation and the Creator feel close, intertwined in the very air life breathes. . . almost tangible.

There, in the quiet, natural, savannah. Lives the tree, the tree that sings that old and timeless melody of life and age, a tree of color, a tree of wonder and life.

. . . the enduring tree

a picture downloaded from google

It stands Unyielding, un broken and productive. . .

It is the tree of my fathers. . . the tree that reminded them of their Maker. . . the tree that represented the unending cycle of life

I have met the Baobab tree. . . strong, lasting and un yielding. . .

Gives nutrition to the hungry. . .

A strong hold for the weak and desolate, and a paradise for those looking for shelter, a home. . .protection for all who seek its strength.

The baobab tree. . .

The baobab tree has sheltered the wounded soldier, the weaver bird builds its nest on it, the ground hornbill hides within its hollows and the medicine man finds cures from its bark.

Picture downloaded from google

Such is the tree, a shelter that endures over time. . . it has lived through much sorrows, births, ceremonies and miracles . . .

. . .One of the Baobab`s human children sits at its foot, leaning on its strong aged tree. . .finding protection from the savannah`s evening gusts of wind.

He is wizened and grey. . .the Baobab knows him. . . remembers the eighty seasons past, when he`s mother birthed him. . . under that very tree. . .

Paul Bruins photography downloaded from google

Today he is in contemplation. . .his silent look says nothing, yet his aged, expressive face says so much. With just a glance. . . Baobab`s son casts a spell of curiosity and wonder towards his observer.

What treasures lie hidden, what stories untold. . . his mouth remains closed . . .yet he has gone through the wringer of life and prevailed. . . the fear felt, the love experienced, the pain, the joy. . .the shame?

Who is he? observer wonders, and what treasures lie hidden. . .what stories locked. . . untold in his mind.

downloaded from google images

. . . what wisdom lies hidden beyond the frowns, the wrinkles. . .that silence. . .W hat love, vibrancy, victories, losses, disappointments. . . what lies beneath his hooded eyes. . .that now stare into the sunset. . .as he silently hums the ethereal, spiritual, tune absorbed from nature`s music. . .the song fills him with joy. . .his eyes light up in contentment. . .perhaps. . .observer thinks. . .the old man is reliving joyful memories.

downloaded from google images

Baobab`s son was named age. . . he sits silently under the tree today. . .but sometimes he is found fishing in the great lake . . .he can also be found in his human home. . . on a sofa, quietly reading his journals. . .radiating peace. . .as he nods off to sleep. . .betrayed by his golden spectacles, that drop down to the tip of his nose.

The stories, the regrets, the knowing, the love. . .The love. . .the sometimes eccentricity, all these cling to age. The cumulative of the life lived. . .his choices, their results and the consequences. . .honesty with this process has to be the most fundamental resource age has. . .this perhaps, is what wisdom truly is.


{Did you know? Humans utilize baobabs for many purposes, including shelter, ceremonies, food, medicine, fiber, juices and beer. Animals like baboons and warthogs eat the seed pods; weavers build their nests in the huge branches; and barn owls, mottled spinetails and ground-hornbills roost in the many hollows.}

I was born at the coastal city of Mombasa, and I remember one of my most favorite snacks were mabuyu seeds. Sweet, bright pink, vanilla flavored mabuyu seeds, these are gotten from the seeds of the baobab tree. As I grew older my tastes shifted to the sweet, acidic, mango achari. . .but nothing beats the nostalgia from the bright pink mabuyu seeds.



By Ruth Mgendi

I have an appreciation for words, the power words have to uplift, build, create, without words we would not be able to convey intent or meaning to each other.

I am also a legal researcher, lover of comics, art, color, stories, adventure and beauty. Above all I appreciate and respect life, the body, the mind and the soul.
I seek a higher connectivity and understanding of the co-existence between these three parts of life and hope to share this journey with any other learner.
I hope this forum will be interactive, positive and above all I hope it adds value in some way to those that read and interact.

Hope Nyambura is my attempt at a pen name, so. . . indulge my pink and golden bubble :-)

Thank you!

2 replies on “The song of the unyielding”

This piece makes me want to sit under my favourite baobab tree, which I don’t have, seeping cold passion juice on a hot afternoon.

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