The Roots Beneath the Tree

The Roots Beneath the Tree

as told by Kateb Nuri-Alim Shunnar

So let me tell you a story. A real one. The kind that gets passed from lip to lip, sitting barefoot on a porch, or whispered under the covers when the wind sounds like old spirits rustling leaves. It’s about a woman named Eshe.

Now Eshe wasn’t just anybody. She was from Beira that sun-baked, sea-salted city hugging Mozambique’s coast. And Eshe? She was sharper than a snakebite and twice as likely to humble a grown man with a single sentence. Folks didn’t mess with Eshe. If wisdom had a face, it would look like hers.

Her husband, Bako, and their boy Kiano were something like local legends part-time hunters, full-time freedom fighters. They were always out there trying to give the Portuguese invaders a proper welcome and by "welcome," I mean setting traps in the bush, tying up devil’s snares along the cliffs, even stirring up sickness in their camps. Let’s just say the Portuguese stayed paranoid and probably real itchy.

Every time those two came home from the wild, they looked like they'd wrestled a gorilla, rolled in mud, and lost a staring contest with a ghost. But Eshe? She'd welcome them like royalty, no matter how scruffy or smelly they looked. One particular evening, they returned after being gone so long the dog barely recognized them. And what did Eshe do? She whipped up a meal that could make even your worst enemy weep with joy.

She went all out: String Bean Soup, hot and rich enough to hug your insides. Then came the Clam and Peanut Stew creamy, spicy, and smooth like jazz in a bowl. But the crown jewel? Oh, baby it was the Prawns. Not just any prawns, either. These bad boys were grilled, butter-brushed, kissed by smoke and a sprinkle of ground magic. Mozambique knows how to do seafood, and Eshe? She was the queen of it.

They sat down, stomachs growling like wild cats, digging in like it was their last supper. Mid-bite, though, Eshe looked up and gave Bako that look. You know the one. The “I’ve got something to say, and you better not interrupt me with a mouth full of shrimp” look.

“Bako,” she said, as calm as a cloud before a thunderstorm. “Why you gotta be gone so long, hmm? Running around like a squirrel in a snake pit, laying traps, chopping down the devil’s trees. I know you mean well, really. I do. But can’t you see you could cut down every evil tree you find… they’ll just keep growing back.”

Kiano paused mid-chew. Bako just stared at her, probably hoping she wasn’t about to get too philosophical but oh, she was just getting started.

She wiped her hands, leaned in a little, and dropped the truth like a stone in still water.

“You want the devil gone? You don’t go after the branches. You dig. You pull up the roots.”

Silence.

Kiano blinked. Bako sighed like a man who realized his wife just solved a problem he’d been fighting for five years with a machete and a temper.

Eshe wasn't talking about literal roots, though. No, ma’am. She meant the deep stuff the ugly stuff buried inside us and around us that fuels greed, hate, and fear. “You burn the top, sure, it’ll look clean,” she said, “but give it rain, and those same twisted trees’ll be back like nosy neighbors with no boundaries.”

Bako shifted in his seat. “So what, Eshe? We stop fighting? Sit around and sing lullabies while they take everything from us?”

She smiled that sly, knowing kind of smile only women like Eshe have. “No, my love. You keep fighting. But don’t forget why you’re fighting. Don’t forget who you are.”

Then she added, half-sarcastic, “You can’t swing a sword forever. One day your back’s gonna give out, and then what? You gonna throw your sandals at the colonizers?”

That made Kiano laugh the first real one in a long time. It hit him: their fight wasn’t just with guns and tricks. It was also about memory, about spirit, about keeping the soul of the people alive. The enemy could steal gold and salt but if they got the culture, the language, the music, the stories? That was a different kind of death.

So that night, while the moon hung like a pale eye in the sky, Eshe laid her hands on their heads rough palms, warm with prayer. She didn’t ask the Creator for revenge or rain of fire or thunderbolts (though, let’s be honest, that might’ve felt good). Nah, she prayed for something deeper wisdom, vision, and the strength to keep digging until the devil’s roots were pulled up like rotten weeds.

The next morning, something changed. Instead of darting off into the forest like wild dogs on a scent, Bako and Kiano stayed. They sat with the elders, helped patch fishing nets, told stories to wide-eyed children about ancestors who turned storms into song. Kiano even taught the young boys how to set traps not just for the body, but for the mind. You teach a child how to think, and the colonizers don’t stand a chance.

Eventually, yeah, they went back to the fight. But now they fought with more than weapons. They fought with memory, with rhythm, with roots. They didn’t just burn the devil’s trees they salted the earth beneath them, made sure nothing evil could grow back. They planted truth, compassion, and legacy. And those are trees that don’t fall easy.

Word spread. People from other villages started talking about this woman Mama Eshe they called her. Keeper of the Roots. Teacher of Hearts. The one who knew that a machete could cut a tree, but only wisdom could stop it from growing again.

And if you ever find yourself in Beira, just before sunset, walking along the coastline with the wind brushing against your cheek listen closely. Real close. You might hear her humming. Might even smell prawns in the breeze. That’s Eshe. Still watching. Still digging.

Because the roots? The roots are everything.