[Photo credit: Christiane Lauschitzky]
The following post appeared on H-AfrArts as part of a discussion on African tree rings. I find this comment by Professor Sylvester Okwunodu Ogbechie very poignant and quite distressing. So much more than ‘just’ trees are being lost.
Village trees in Nigeria
I spent my teenage years farming in my hometown. It was at this time quite a village, with no running water or electricity but with massive groves of old growth trees, many dating back to before the founding of the town in the 15th century. We practiced slash and burn agriculture on a land-rotation basis, with land left fallow for five years between each rotation, which meant that clearing our patches of farmland involved cutting down many trees (this system fell apart in 1987 when the collapsing Nigerian economy forced many of my kinsmen back to the village and caused a massive stampede for available land. What was once the most fertile land in West Africa was then farmed into exhaustion, but that’s another story).
I basically saw the destruction of the old-growth forests and the fall of great trees that were as much part of the town’s pantheon of ancestral figures: trees that had their own names and titles, and received their own formal salutations: *Agbono Abo*, *Oke Osisi*, *Alusi Ogodo*. I was initially baffled when, on the way to the farms in the morning, I saw people saluting the trees. I understood later they were very much part of the population of the village. At the center of the village, our main square—*Abo-Ano* (four heaths)—where the four lineage paths met, there were four great trees, giant old growth trees towering over the town. Of this ancient grove, only one tree remains, the King’s tree (*Abo-Obi*): cutting it down would imply the demise of the throne and this is why it survives.
I am saying in essence that I have seen a huge number of trees cut down in my time and nearly all the trees I have seen cut down had tree rings in them. The density and clarity of the rings vary from tree to tree although some trees (silk cotton trees especially) didn’t seem to have them. When the silk cotton tree in front of our house was cut down, it’s trunk lay there for four rainy seasons until it turned to mush: it became waterlogged and then literally disintegrated into the soil. When the main grove at Abo Ano was cut down, the trunks lay there for a full season before they were hauled away. I remember clearly walking by these trunks and noting that they had rings on them. I noticed this because each tree in the grove was a different type of tree: there were two Iroko trees (*Chlorofora Excelsia*), one giant silk cotton tree (*Ceiba Petandra*) and the king’s tree, which still stands, was an ebony tree. It is still the largest tree I have seen anywhere.
The ancient groves are gone now, and the last time I visited my home, the town was naked. All the large trees were gone except for *Abo-Obi*, the King’s tree, which now stands alone where there used to be four great trees. The trees in the forest are also gone, logged off for sale to Chinese merchants who prowl the rural areas buying up whole tracts of land and deforesting them. (A sculptor friend complained to me that she could no longer find ebony for sale in local wood markets: it was her preferred wood for sculpture but Chinese merchants have bought up the entire supply for export).
Since tree rings are evidence of significant life of these trees, the deforestation and very young age of the remaining trees will soon probably render the question moot. As for asking the local people for their oral histories of these trees, don’t bother. Those who know this history, i.e. those who actually lived in an era when these histories was required learning, hence people like my kinsmen who saluted the great trees and saw them as custodians of knowledge, most of them are dead and long forgotten.
The tragedy of African knowledge is that most of what was painstakingly accumulated through sustained engagement with the forest over the centuries was lost in contemporary times when that knowledge was defined as useless. When I retuned to the village, it took me ten years to even begin to crack the façade of this knowledge and I wouldn’t have learned any of it if my cousins didn’t rally around to teach me. With the forest gone, there is no way to teach any of my kinsmen of this generation about what the forest meant and how to speak to the trees.
On my last visit home, I went to visit *Abo-Ano* for what might very well be the last time. I sat under the King’s tree for a while and listened to the rustle of his great branches. “I’m still here”, he said, “the throne still stands, earth abides”. I sat awhile and then stood and left the village. It is true you really can’t go back home again.
Prof. Sylvester Okwunodu Ogbechie
History of Art & Architecture
University of California, Santa BarbaraH-AfrArts
H-Net Network for African Expressive Culture
E -Mail: H-AFRARTS@H-NET.MSU.EDU
http://www2.h-net.msu.edu/~artsweb/






