THE FOREST OF NAMES
AYA ran until her lungs burned.
A wild dog thundered behind her. Dust filled the air. Her foot caught a stone. She fell.
The dog leapt.
“Mama!”
Silence.
She woke.
The road was gone.
She was on a wooden bench, curled around a piece of cardboard. Morning moved through the village. People passed without seeing her.
Aya looked up.
“Mama… where are you?”
Only the wind answered.
Hunger pulled her forward.
She found a mango tree leaning over a wall. She reached, picked two mangoes.
“Hey!” a man shouted. “Go home to your parents!”
Aya froze. The mangoes dropped.
“I’ve been trying,” she said softly.
The man stopped.
Something in her voice made him look again.
“They stopped answering me last year.”
A long silence.
He picked up the mangoes, cleaned them, and placed them back in her hands.
“Go.”
That night, Aya sat under a tree.
She shared one mango with birds that circled close.
“You can have some,” she smiled. “Mama said food tastes better when it’s shared.”
Night came.
She looked at the sky.
“Mama… I hope you didn’t burn the soup.”
A small laugh.
“Daddy… you forgot your flowers again.”
A pause.
“Tem… I’m still faster than you.”
She lay back.
“Don’t worry.”
“I’m still here.”
Morning.
Aya walked into the bush.
She found three tiny saplings.
An old plastic jug.
A broken piece of iron.
She carried them back to the bench.
One hole.
Two.
Three.
She planted them in a circle.
Mama.
Daddy.
Tem.
She poured water slowly.
Then sat between them.
“There.”
“Now I know where to find you.”
Days passed.
She came every morning with water.
Every evening she returned.
She spoke less to people.
More to the trees.
“Daddy… you said trees remember rain.”
“Mama… sing louder.”
“Tem… don’t grow taller than me.”
Then always:
“Don’t worry.”
“I’m still here.”
People began to notice.
One woman stayed.
Embie.
She came with bread.
Then water.
Then silence.
Aya did not ask her to stay.
Embie just kept coming.
Until one day Aya asked,
“Why?”
Embie answered,
“Because you don’t stop coming back.”
Rain came hard one afternoon.
Wind bent the trees.
People ran for shelter.
Aya stayed.
She knelt in the mud, shielding the saplings with cardboard.
“No,” she whispered. “You can’t leave too.”
Embie ran back into the rain.
Together they held the trees until the storm passed.
The next morning.
Embie saw another stone.
Joseph.
She stopped.
The world slowed.
Her hand touched the name.
Did not move.
Aya watched.
Then quietly placed a sapling in her hands.
No words.
Embie planted it.
Slowly.
Carefully.
As if it mattered more than anything else left.
A carpenter stopped.
He looked at the names.
“Who are you planting for?”
Aya didn’t look up.
“My family.”
He nodded.
He dug.
He stayed.
One became two.
Two became many.
No one explained it.
No one named it.
It simply grew.
Seasons passed.
The ground disappeared under green.
Birds returned.
Children followed the sound of leaves.
Names stayed in wood and stone.
Years later.
A child walked into the forest.
A mango seed in one hand.
A small stone in the other.
She knelt beside a tree.
“Grandma.”
She planted it.
Watered it.
Smiled.
Then whispered,
“Don’t worry.”
“I’m still here.”
A mango fell somewhere deep in the forest.
No one saw where it landed.
Only the wind moved through the trees.
And for a moment, it sounded like someone answering back.
Emile Meh Tem is an author, screenwriter, and AI filmmaker. He is the author of two internationally published novellas and three children’s storybooks published by NMI Education. As a screenwriter, he has completed four feature-length screenplays and several short film scripts. He is currently exploring the emerging field of AI filmmaking and has already produced two AI-powered short films, combining storytelling with innovative technology.
