The Silence Beneath the Canopy

An Allegory of the Plateau

In the heart of the Plateau, where copper veins pulse beneath red-dust markets and memory clings to roots, the cicadas once sang. Their hum threaded through termite mounds and Weaverbird wings at dusk. It was not protest. It was breath.

The Baobab listened. Its roots were heavy with meaning. Once, it groaned softly.

Rotweed had long plagued the clearing. Copper-thorned, it choked shade, devoured light, and fed on debt. It promised harvest but sucked sap, tangling Mole traders’ paths and clipping Weaverbird songs. Termites wore its scent, bowing low with mouths full of grain.

Yet the Earthworms whispered. They tilled quietly. Beneath stones, they etched visions on leaves, passed unseen but understood.

Born of drought and longing, the Hyena with Polished Teeth entered.

He spoke like the first scent of rain. His tone was clean, measured, and full of hope. He vowed to burn Rotweed, restore shade, and free the soil’s chorus. The Weaverbird storyteller sang louder. Her notes were bold.

The cicadas stirred.

Fireflies blinked debt spirals with acorns. They laughed in hidden rhythms. Mole traders once again spoke of price and principle. For a season, the clearing breathed.

But polished teeth are still teeth.

The Hyena perched high, smiling. He listened less and howled more. He rearranged Weaverbird nests and offered termites Rotweed bark painted to appear new. He told the creatures to hum, but only in approved winds.

A vine slithered in, soft with old debts. Its pollen came from distant groves across the sea. It offered shade without light and bloom without roots. It coiled gently, then tightened.

The cicadas noticed first.

The Preacher Bird clipped its hymn for coin instead of faith. A Weaverbird’s note broke mid-flight. Her wings were heavy with fear. A Mole buried seeds in haste and fled the clearing before dusk. A Firefly’s jest blinked out after it cut too close.

Still, the Fireflies danced. One blinked the Hyena’s slogan, twisted just enough to sting. Another shaped acorns into spirals beneath the eyes of termites. Their glow rustled the canopy. They mimicked the Hyena’s howl in jest, just enough to make the young laugh and the old uneasy.

The Mole dug again. Not for trade, but to pass seeds wrapped in quiet truth. In the roots below, the Baobab shifted.

It no longer only listened. It thickened its bark and pressed its roots deeper. It remembered laughter that came with fear. It remembered stories that carried weight in court. It remembered copper stolen and lightless nights. It remembered who first stirred the cicadas to sing.

Rot and hush are siblings. One devours. One conceals. Both hollow the canopy.

Termites build. The Hyena smiles. The vine coils.

But below, the red dust shifts.

Some debate what poisons a forest more: light that is stolen or sound that is denied.

The Baobab knows. One feeds the other. Together, they burn memory into ash.

The clearing waits.

It seeks no fire, only breath. It seeks no thunder, only rhythm. It seeks no vengeance, only a hum that is not cut.

If the cicadas return, let it begin with one note held. A Firefly’s lingering blink. A red-dust story told without edit. A trader who stays. A bird who sings.

Let it not be feared. Let it not be lost.
Let it not be too late.

Dean N Onyambu is the Founder and Chief Editor of Canary Compass, a co-author of Unlocking African Prosperity, and the Executive Head of Treasury and Trading at Opportunik Global Fund (OGF), a CIMA-licensed fund for Africans and diasporans (Opportunik). Passion and mentorship have fueled his 15-year journey in financial markets. He is a proud former VP of ACI Zambia FMA (@ACIZambiaFMA) and founder of mentorship programs that have shaped and continue to shape 63 financial pros and counting! When he is not knee-deep in charts, he is all about rugby. His motto is exceeding limits, abounding in opportunities, and achieving greatness. #ExceedAboundAchieve

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