By Mohammed Shafi
The sun hung low in the sky, casting a golden hue over the courtyard where I, Qadir, sat. The air was alive with the laughter of my daughters, Aisha and Amara, as they darted around, playing tag. Their joy was infectious, but my mind wandered to the past, to the days of my own childhood. My sisters—Fata, Saara, Zaina, and Sayeda—were occupied with their chores, though I knew they would soon join me.
My wife, Zooni, was in the kitchen, the aroma of her cooking wafting through the air. “Aisha! Amara!” I called out, my voice cutting through their laughter. “Come, sit with me for a while.” They ran to me, their cheeks flushed, their eyes bright with curiosity. “Abba, tell us a story!” they pleaded in unison. I smiled, my heart swelling with warmth. “What kind of story would you like to hear?” Aisha, ever the bold one, leaned closer. “Tell us about when you were a boy, Abba. What was your childhood like?” Amara nodded eagerly, her curls bouncing. “Yes, tell us about the berry trees!” I took a deep breath, the memories flooding back. I began to tell them of the sacred berry trees that stood tall in my childhood, of how we would climb their branches, plucking the juicy berries, staining our clothes and our hands with their vibrant hues.
My daughters listened, their eyes wide, their imaginations painting vivid pictures of a time they had never known. As I spoke, my sisters joined us, their faces softening with nostalgia. “Qadir, you’re telling the story of the berry trees again,” Fata said, her voice tinged with amusement. Saara nodded. “We used to love those trees. The berries were so sweet.” Zaina and Sayeda chimed in, each adding their own memories to the tapestry of our shared past. Zooni emerged from the kitchen, her hands dusted with flour, a gentle smile on her face. “It’s good you’re sharing this with the girls, Qadir,” she said. “These stories are part of who we are.”
In that moment, I realized the berry trees were more than just trees. They were a symbol—a connection to nature, to family, to our roots. “Aisha, Amara,” I said, turning to my daughters, “let’s plant a new berry tree in our courtyard. Will you help me?” Their faces lit up with excitement, and together, we dug into the earth, planting a sapling that would one day grow tall and strong. As we worked, I felt a sense of purpose, knowing I was passing on a piece of our heritage to the next generation. The tree grew, its branches heavy with fruit. Aisha and Amara would climb it, their laughter echoing through the courtyard as they feasted on the berries.
My sisters and I would sit and watch, our hearts full, remembering our own childhood days. But joy, as we soon learned, is fleeting. The tree grew too close to our home, its roots threatening the foundation. Reluctantly, I made the decision to cut it down. It was a painful choice, but necessary. As the axe fell, so did a part of me. The tree that had brought us so much joy was gone. But the pain didn’t end there. A complaint was filed against me, and I was taken to court. The verdict was harsh: I was found guilty and sentenced to jail.
My family was shattered. Aisha and Amara’s faces were clouded with sorrow. “If only Abba hadn’t told us that story,” Aisha whispered, her voice trembling. “We wouldn’t have planted the tree, and he wouldn’t be gone.” Their hearts turned against the berry tree, their once-beloved symbol now a source of pain. They vowed never to plant another, their innocence replaced by a bitter lesson. As I sat in my cell, I thought of my daughters, their tears, their resolve. The berry tree had been a gift, but it had also become a burden. And yet, in their strength, I saw hope. They had learned, as I had, that some stories are meant to be remembered, even when they hurt. For in the end, the sacred berry trees were not just about the past. They were about the roots we plant, the memories we nurture, and the lessons we pass on—even when the cost is high.
The writer, Mohammed Shafi, is a physical education teacher (REK) in the Department of Education.