But as the years went by, more and more trees fell. The forest was thinning out. And Pa Bia’s forehead was getting more and more wrinkled.
“Don’t worry, they’ll stop one of these days.”
But Ma Bia knew they would never stop.
In the rainy season, felled trees were thrown into the rivers that flow out to sea. One day Africa and the gorilla were sitting on the river bank, watching the stripped trunks drift by, when the gorilla let out a big sigh. “Soon there won’t be any left.”
Africa decided it was time to change the subject and asked, “Did you know you’ve got a cousin in Grey Africa?”
“A small fat one with a flat skull, in the swamps? Yes, I know,” replied the gorilla, his mind on other things.
They sat in silence. And the sound of axes rose up out of the silence.
“Where are all these trees going, anyway?” asked Africa.
The gorilla carried on staring at the river. “Where do you think they’re going? To the Other World, of course!” And he added, as if for his own benefit, “Gracious me, I need to make a decision. I’ve got to make up my mind, and that’s all there is to it.”
“Me too,” came a peculiar voice from nearby. It was a deep, pale whisper that sounded muffled.
“Why should it bother you?” asked the gorilla. “You don’t live in the trees.”
“Exactly,” replied the crocodile. “I live in the water, and the trees are clogging it up.”
Pa Bia made a decision too. “Come on,” he said, “we’re going.”
“Why?” asked Africa.
Pa Bia drove him to the forest’s edge and pointed out the great stretch of dry cracked earth that Africa had crossed for endless days and nights in the truck.
“Not so long ago,” said Pa Bia, “the forest stretched all the way to the horizon. Today, all the trees have been cut down. And when there are no more trees, it stops raining. Can’t you see there’s nothing growing? The earth is so hard a dog couldn’t bury his bone in it.”
Suddenly Pa Bia pointed straight in front of him. “Look!”
Africa followed his finger, and saw something small and black and gleaming. It looked furious as it made its way obstinately towards the forest, brandishing a curved knife above its head.
“Even the black scorpion can’t cope with this dryness.” Pa Bia fell silent. A gust of scorching air raised a cloud of dust.
“This is what will become of our clearing.” His lips were dry. “Come on,” he said. “Let’s get going.”