Excerpt: The Forest: A Chase Of The Fractured Mind by Babanifesi B. Apata

The air was thick with the scent of wet earth and unseen decay, a scent that clung to the skin, heavy, unyielding, a scent that was the night, a scent that was the forest, a forest that was the mind, a mind that was the man, a man who was lost, a man who was Akinwande. He stood at the edge of a clearing, his breath shallow, his eyes darting through the shadows that moved like whispers, shadows that were alive, shadows that were the trees, trees that were the madness, a madness that was the forest, a forest that was his. The night was dark, the moon a sliver of silver above, its light barely touching the ground, barely touching him, a man in his mid-thirties, an architect whose hands once drew lines of order, now trembling, now clutching at the air, the air that was the forest, the forest that was the night.

Akinwande’s suit was torn, the fabric hanging in strips, a once sharp suit, a suit that was once his, a suit that was now the forest, a forest that tore at him, a forest that whispered his name. He heard it – his name, a chant, a rhythm, a drumbeat in the dark, a drumbeat that was the forest, a forest that was alive, a forest that hunted. He turned, his heart a hammer in his chest, his eyes searching for the source, the source that was the shadows, the shadows that were the trees, the trees that were the Masquerade. It stood at the far end of the clearing, a figure of raffia and mystery, its face hidden, its movements a dance, a dance that was the forest, a dance that was the hunt, a hunt that was for him. The Masquerade’s voice was a hiss, a chant, a Yoruba incantation that cut through the night, “Omo mi, sa kuro, sa kuro”, a voice that was the forest, a voice that was the chase, a chase that was the madness, a madness that was his.

He ran. His feet pounded the earth, the soft earth, the earth that was the forest, a forest that shifted, a forest that closed in, a forest that was his mind, a mind that was breaking, a mind that was running. The vines reached for him, their touch cold, their touch alive, their touch the forest, a forest that wanted him, a forest that would not let go. He stumbled, his hands catching a tree, a rough tree, a tree that was the forest, a tree that whispered, a whisper that was a child’s voice, a voice that was light, a voice that was hope, and a voice that was the spirit child. She appeared before him, a girl of five, her wrapper a glow of white, her eyes a softness, a softness that was the forest, a softness that was the night, a softness that was not his, a softness that was hers. “Don’t run,” she said, her voice a melody, a melody that was the forest, a melody that was the calm, a calm that he could not hold.

Akinwande’s breath caught, his eyes on her, his mind a storm, a storm that was the forest, a storm that was his, a storm that was the madness, a madness that was the chase. “Who are you?” he asked, his voice a crack, a crack that was theforest, a crack that was his, a crack that was the night. The spirit child smiled, her smile a light, a light that was the forest, a light that was hers, a light that was not his, a light that was hope. “I am here,” she said, her words a thread, a thread that was the forest, a thread that was the night, a thread that was the calm, a calm that he needed. But the Masquerade’s chant grew louder, its steps closer, its raffia rustling, a rustling that was the forest, a rustling that was the chase, a chase that was his, a chase that was the madness.

In Lagos, the city that never slept, Yejide moved through the streets, her wrapper a flash of color in the dawn, her eyes sharp, her heart heavy, a heart that was the city, a heart that was the search, a search that was for him, a search that was for Akinwande. She was in her forties, a sister whose strength was iron, a sister whose love was fire, a fire that was the city, a fire that was the search, a search that was the family, a family that was hers. The markets were alive, the voices a chorus, a chorus that was the city, a chorus that was the dawn, a chorus that was the search. “Have you seen him?” she asked a trader, her voice a plea, a plea that was the city, a plea that was the dawn, a plea that was the search, a search that was for him. The trader shook his head, his eyes on her, his eyes on the city, a city that swallowed the lost, a city that swallowed her brother.

Beside her, TK walked, his jaw tight, his steps steady, a brother at twenty-four, a brother whose loyalty was stone, a brother whose secret was a weight, a weight that was the city, a weight that was the dawn, a weight that was the search. He knew something, a truth he could not share, a truth that was the forest, a truth that was the madness, a truth that was Akinwande’s, a truth that was his to bear. Yejide glanced at him, her eyes a question, a question that was the city, a question that was the dawn, a question that was the search, a search that was for family, a family that was theirs. “We’ll find him,” she said, her voice a vow, a vow that was the city, a vow that was the dawn, a vow that was the search, a search that was for him.

In a clearing far from the city, Baba sat, his staff in hand, his eyes on the fire, a fire that was the night, a fire that was the forest, a fire that was the ritual, a ritual that was his. He was old, his face a map of years, his voice a chant, a chant that was the forest, a chant that was the night, a chant that was the Yoruba, a Yoruba that was his. “Omo mi, wa s’odo mi,” he sang, his words a call, a call that was the forest, a call that was the night, a call that was the ritual, a ritual that was for the lost, a ritual that was for the mad, a ritual that was for Akinwande. The fire crackled, its light on him, its light on the forest, a forest that was alive, a forest that was the night, a forest that was the madness, a madness that was not his, a madness that was another’s. Akinwande ran again, the spirit child’s voice fading, her light fading, a fading that was the forest, a fading that was the night, a fading that was the chase. The Masquerade was closer, its chant a roar, a roar that was the forest, a roar that was the night, a roar that was the madness, a madness that was his. He tripped, his body hitting the earth, the earth that was the forest, the earth that was the night, the earth that was his, a body that was his, a tired body, a body that was running, a running that was the forest, a running that was the madness, a madness that was the chase. He looked up, his eyes on the Masquerade, his eyes on the forest, a forest that was closing, a forest that was his, a forest that was the night, a night that was endless, a night that was his.

The spirit child appeared again, her hand outstretched, her smile a warmth, a warmth that was the forest, a warmth that was the night, a warmth that was hers, a warmth that was not his. “Stay,” she whispered, her voice a thread, a thread that was the forest, a thread that was the night, a thread that was the hope, a hope that he could not grasp. The Masquerade loomed, its chant a storm, a storm that was the forest, a storm that was the night, a storm that was the chase, a chase that was his, a chase that was the madness, a madness that was the forest, a forest that was his mind, a mind that was breaking, a mind that was his.

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Excerpt from THE FOREST. Copyright © 2025 by Babanifesi B. Apata.

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