My Ancestors Whisper in the Trees

by Melz Owusu, taken from the book Black Joy

Melz Owusu died on April 16th 2025. He was a multifaceted artist and academic, whose work explored the radical Black imagination and building transformative worlds. In this essay, he reflected on finding solace in nature. He was a joy to edit and work with (in truth, we barely touched this essay). Rest in power, Melz. You are missed.

I am south-east London born and raised. I am used to big buildings, grey concrete, and the hustle and bustle this city thrives on. But, since I was very young, I have always had a whispering fascination with nature. I was struck by its beauty, its power to transform seedlings into rooted and strong trees that bear such vibrant fruits that nourish our souls. It amazed me how the trees were always so brave, that they let their leaves fall and stand naked in the autumn and winter, trusting in Mother Earth, in self, that those leaves would be replenished and even more beautiful in the spring. Nature is divine. I would stand in astonishment at the daily miracle of how the beautiful and mighty sun set over London every single day. I often found myself perplexed as to why the whole city didn’t just stop to look up at its magnificence and instead continued to focus on the dreariness of the pavement.

For many of us Black Brits, the countryside can feel like a foreign world. As we grow older, it is not uncommon to become accustomed to other cities across Europe and the rest of the world before we explore the natural beauty around us. I got to know cities such as Berlin, Lisbon and New York like the back of my hand before I started to explore how I could connect with the nature closer to ‘home’. This is not said to place any value judgement on how we spend our time – listen, enjoyment is a must. However, the limits that the pandemic forced upon us made me look back into my inner self, my inner child, and ask where my fascination began. So I embraced the outdoors.

Illustration by Chioma Ince for Black Joy / Penguin Random House

I am not here to kid myself or anyone else: I would have much preferred to be out on a beach in Salvador sipping on a sweet caipirinha or watching the sunset from a beautiful white villa at the highest point of Santorini. But it was lockdown in Babylon, and I had to find joy in what I could. The British countryside and the nature reserves near my home became a real solace for me on both a physical and spiritual level. Now, now, I know this may sound dead. Like, Melz, allow it. But, honestly, the peace, tranquillity, quality of air and produce that can be found around us is stunning. I find it a travesty that it took so long for me to engage with the outdoors in a meaningful way. The replenishing and healing power of nature on both the mind and the body is what I believe every single Black person confined to these borders deserves, and needs, to experience.

Racialized capitalism means that this is often an indulgence reserved for the white and wealthy, and now I understand why. It is a privilege that can do so much to support health that the limited access Black people have to such spaces, and the lack of belonging we may experience when occupying them, only serves to worsen the well-being of our community.

The irony is that we come from lineages of people that worshipped the land: our ancestors venerated deities of the waters and gods of the Earth. Nature was always seen as divine, sacred; we were all just an extension of this blessed nature. This idea of oneness, and a reverence for the power of nature, can be found in precolonial traditions right across Africa and the diaspora. In the Ifa tradition (which originated in Yorubaland, modern-day Nigeria), Oshun is the goddess of water, and she can be found at all the rivers and lakes where fresh water flows. She is also the goddess of beauty and all that is sweet in life. Across the world, people of African descent travel to places of natural beauty, and where the rivers flow they give up offerings and venerate Oshun. Oshun is honoured as a deity in traditions that travelled through the passage of the transatlantic slave trade from the African continent into the ‘New World’, where they are still being observed today – in practices such as Candomblé in Brazil, Vodou in Haiti and Santería in Cuba. To me, these traditions demonstrate a defiance of all sense of space and time. They display the undying power that is held in Blackness, and the ability for sacred knowledge to travel with us wherever we go.

When I moved to Cambridge in October 2020 to begin studying for my PhD, I found the natural beauty in and around the city to be breathtaking. I spent evenings stargazing for hours on end, free of London’s intense light pollution. I went for walks that took me down winding country roads and to waters that looked clear enough to drink. Cows and sheep were roaming and grazing on open fields in the city; it just felt like life was in every direction. I took a staycation to write in a cabin not too far from the city, and I was able to look out to unending fields and weaving waters. The joy I felt was palpable; I feel it rushing back as I write now.

What a blessing it was to be surrounded by the power and beauty of nature. The world was at a standstill, and so it almost felt like it was not my duty to note how much time had elapsed. I was able to be present in every hallowed moment. As I meditated by the softened waters, I felt called to be present with my body, to be present with every breath that passed my lips, with every blade of grass I sat upon, and with all that was around me. That is what nature offers me: total embodiment. To feel at one and at peace with myself and all that surrounds me, to recognize that nature is also a divine part of me.

As a queer, Black, working-class, trans person, the countryside may seem like the most contrasting canvas for an identity and body like my own. However, it has become one of the places I am able to feel most in my body and closest to my homeland and ancestors when on these shores. I envision a future in which all Black people from across the country can experience the benefits that the countryside can bring. It can honestly be a lifeline.

I come from a long lineage of farmers in Kumasi, Ghana. My ancestors worked the land to bring forth a bounty of fresh fruit and root vegetables to nourish themselves and the community. When I think about what it would have taken to tend to a farm like theirs back in the day, I find it remarkable that they were able to do what they did. A connection to the land was vital: there was no modern machinery or weather projections to rely on – only the knowledge that had been passed down and the connection they were able to make with the land. My great-grandfather was a very spiritual man and he would pour libation on to the clay and soil to respect his own ancestors each day. I am sure they supported him in cultivating the earth and making timely decisions to ensure that our family farm was as abundant as it could be. Season to season, we grew and harvested cocoa beans, plantain, cocoyam, cassava, mangos, pineapples, bananas and so much more. My mum has told me many stories of how she would sit at the farm on sweltering days as my great-grandmother cut up pineapple and papaya into delicate pieces for her and her siblings to eat, so the adults could get to work. It’s no wonder that I find such a resonance with nature and the land. It is home. In most precolonial spiritual traditions, before we approach the orishas and deities, our ancestors are our first port of call. They are our guides into the spirit world, and our guides and supporters through life.

In Cambridge, when I would gaze at the stars and walk for hours on end, I would always speak. Speak to the trees and the waters; speak even to the air that I breathed. I was speaking to my ancestors, asking if they were well. Asking for their guidance in all that I do in this lifetime. Taking them offerings of fresh fruit to lay by the trees and pouring libation on to the soil, so that they would know I wanted to give to them just as much as they continued to give to me. Nature is worthy for her beauty alone, but these spiritual and ancestral elements take us further into sacred power and joy beyond the limits of Western science. It’s a joy that our ancestors observed; perhaps they would surely be glad to know that this is how we also choose to remember and connect with them. I believe that when we speak to nature, she speaks back. The voice of our ancestors, the energies of deities, the connection to the most divine parts of ourselves. A journey through nature is a journey back towards self, and I believe the truest essence of joy can only be found on that journey. Joy is within us, not outside of us. On the journey to self, I am so grateful to be able to learn more about those who came before me as I listen to the ways they communicate with me through their whispers in the trees.

In a world where Blackness and death continuously have too close a companionship, joy can often be difficult to find. And when we find it, it can feel too fleeting to hold on to. This asks us to call into question the belief that physical death is the end of all life. I vehemently do not believe this, and neither did our ancestors prior to colonization. Energy never dies. All the loved ones that we have lost can be found and connected with as we seek out the alternative truths of nature. Blackness lives on in many forms, embodied and unembodied. Presence with nature has taught me this.

I will leave you with a proverbial message from my ancestors, one that I heard whispering to me through the trees. They reminded me that fire is a cleansing force. Without the fire that beams down from the sky, we would be stricken with infertile land, as the sun is what causes the crops to grow. If the world is on fire, it is no different from the sun scorching the ground at the height of the harmattan. If the sun did not scorch, then the land would not be able to hold all the water needed for the crops to grow when the rainy season came. So, while in many ways our world is in flames, and despite how intensely the heat bears down on us, we must continue to do the work of finding joy, so that we may nourish ourselves to grow a bountiful future.

FIND YOUR OWN JOY

Find a piece of nature – anything from a plant in your room to somewhere deep in the woods – and try to be as present with it as you can. Empty your mind of all that the day holds, all worries, all fears, and practise presence. Listen closely to the messages held within the beauty and sacredness of nature. Now write down and reflect on what feelings arise.