The village of Umuokwe had always lived in the shadow of the great Iroko tree. For as long as anyone could remember, the Iroko stood at the centre of the village, its branches spreading wide like the arms of a guardian. The elders told stories of how the tree had been there since the beginning of time, watching over the people and their land. Some said the tree held the spirits of the ancestors, others whispered that it was a living god. All knew that its roots ran deep, and to disturb it would invite calamity.

Okeke was a weaver, his hands swift and sure, known throughout the village for his beautiful clothes. He wove patterns of the earth, of the river, of the wind, and of the stars. His clothes sold well in the market, and his family never lacked for food. Yet despite his skill, Okeke was a man troubled by dreams.

In his sleep, the Iroko tree called to him. Its roots whispered in his sleep. Each night, the dreams grew more vivid, the voices more insistent. They spoke of the old ways, of sacrifices long forgotten. They spoke of the harvest, of droughts, of the rains that never came. But most of all, they spoke of him.

One morning, as the first light of dawn kissed the village, Okeke woke from yet another dream, drenched in sweat. He lay still for a moment, listening to the rhythmic breathing of his wife, Nneka, beside him. The dream's words echoed in his mind: "Go to the tree."

He rose quietly and slipped out of the house, his bare feet brushing against the cool earth. The village was still asleep, the only sound the rustling of leaves in the early morning breeze. Okeke walked to the Iroko, its great trunk looming before him like a mountain. His heart pounded in his chest as he placed a trembling hand on the bark.

"Why do you call me?" he whispered, his voice breaking the stillness.

The tree did not answer.

For days, Okeke returned to the Iroko, standing before it in silence, waiting for the whispers that haunted his dreams to come again. He stopped weaving, stopped going to the market. His family grew worried, but when Nneka asked him what troubled him, he could not find the words. How could he explain the pull he felt toward the tree, the strange compulsion that had taken hold of him?

It was on the seventh day that he decided he could wait no longer. That evening, as the sun set, painting the sky in hues of red and orange, Okeke gathered his tools and went to the tree. The village elders had always forbidden anyone from cutting the Iroko, but Okeke's mind was set. The dreams had left him with no choice.

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He approached the tree with reverence, placing his palm against the bark once more. The whispers in his dreams had grown to a roar, demanding something he could not refuse. With a deep breath, he raised his axe and struck.

The sound of wood splitting echoed through the village like a clap of thunder. Okeke swung again, harder this time. The tree groaned, and as he struck once more, a low rumble began beneath his feet.

The ground shook.

Villagers rushed from their homes, their eyes wide with terror as the earth trembled. They saw Okeke, alone at the foot of the great Iroko, striking the sacred tree.

"Stop!" cried one of the elders, his voice thick with fear. "You will bring the wrath of the gods upon us!"

But Okeke did not stop. His hands moved as if possessed, his axe cutting deep into the tree's flesh. The shaking grew stronger, and suddenly, with a great creaking sound, the Iroko began to fall.

The villagers screamed and scattered as the massive tree crashed to the ground, its branches snapping like bones. Dust rose in great clouds, and the earth groaned in pain.

Okeke stood amidst the destruction, his breath coming in short gasps. For a moment, all was silent.

Then the rains began.

Heavy and unrelenting, the sky opened, pouring water onto the land. The villagers watched in astonishment as the dry earth soaked up the rain. The river, which had been nearly dry for years, swelled and roared to life. Crops that had withered in the fields began to stand tall again.

The Iroko had fallen, but the land was healed.

Okeke stood alone, his axe hanging limply by his side. The whispers had ceased. The tree no longer called to him. But as he looked at the villagers—at their faces, fearful and disbelieving—he knew that nothing would ever be the same.

The elders would not speak to him. The people avoided his gaze. Even his family slowly began to distance themselves. The rains had come, but at what cost? He had brought the village prosperity, at their god's behest, yet they hated him for it.

In time, the stump of the great Iroko was forgotten, overgrown with vines and shrubs. But the people of Umuokwe, rigid in their beliefs, did not forget.

Nor did they forgive.