“The Tree That Heard the Oaths

 

Origins, betrayal, memory.

Once, the Locust Tree did not speak. It only listened.
Beneath its roots, oaths were sworn — some kept, most broken.
I have written of those who carved promises into bark, believing the tree would forget. It never did.
Every thorn remembers. Every silence grows teeth.

 They say a promise is lighter than a feather — until it breaks. Then it turns to iron.

In the old days of Kwaaman, warriors bound by blood gathered beneath the Locust Tree.
They called it sacred because it stood where lightning had once struck the earth but left it living.

Every leader, every lover, every betrayer came to that same tree. The bark bore the names of generations — a living archive no griot could erase. Some came seeking blessing, others redemption. All left a mark, though not all were seen.

As centuries passed, the oaths deepened. Kings lied. Queens wept. The Chronicle awoke — not in anger, but in duty. It listened. It remembered. And when men forgot, it whispered their truth back through the roots.

To this day, griots say the Locust hums at dusk. Not a sound of peace, but of reminder:
“Even silence can record sin.”

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