A Dance of the Forests by Wole Soyinka

 A Proposed Alternative Ending to A Dance of the Forests

The stage is still dim with the fading shadows of the night. The ritual ground lies silent after the feverish energy of the Dance of Welcome. Scattered embers glow faintly on the earth, and thin streams of smoke rise into the air like spirits reluctant to depart. The forest stands around the clearing—ancient, watchful, and patient.

At the center stands Demoke, motionless, exhausted by the revelations of the night. The Dead Woman sits nearby, holding the Half-Child close to her breast. Around them, the villagers who had gathered to celebrate their nation’s festival stand uncertainly, as though they have awoken from a troubling dream.

For a long moment no one speaks.

Then, slowly, Forest Head emerges from the shadows.

His presence commands silence.

Forest Head:

The night is ending.

The dance has run its course.

Yet the meaning of the dance remains hidden

Unless those who witnessed it choose to see.

The Old Man steps forward cautiously.

Old Man:

Spirit of the forest, we have seen enough terror for one night.

The dead have accused us.

The past has risen to shame the present.

Is this the reward for our celebration?

Forest Head regards him with calm detachment.

Forest Head:

You called upon the ancestors to bless your gathering.

But blessings do not grow from forgotten crimes.

The forest remembers what men bury beneath their songs.

A restless murmur passes through the villagers.

Agboreko shakes his head uneasily.

Agboreko:

Then what was the purpose of this cruel lesson?

Why summon the dead only to reopen wounds?

Before Forest Head can answer, a loud laugh echoes from the darkness.

Eshuoro appears.

Eshuoro:

Cruel lesson?

The cruelty belongs to men, not to spirits.

You build your festivals upon bones

And expect the earth to remain silent.

He walks slowly around the clearing, watching the villagers with amusement.

Eshuoro:

But tonight the forest spoke.

Demoke lifts his head.

Demoke:

Yes. It spoke—and it accused me most of all.

The villagers turn toward him.

Demoke walks slowly toward the Dead Woman and the Half-Child.

Demoke:

I killed my apprentice in pride.

I silenced his voice to protect my own ambition.

And tonight the spirits have forced me to remember.

The Dead Woman watches him without anger.

Dead Woman:

Memory is the beginning of justice.

But memory alone cannot restore what has been lost.

Demoke bows his head.

Demoke:

I know.

He turns toward Ogun, who now steps into the clearing.

The god of iron stands tall, silent, and severe.

Demoke:

Ogun, you gave me skill.

You gave me the power to shape wood and build monuments.

But what use is skill if it serves only pride?

Ogun’s voice is deep and slow.

Ogun:

Skill is a tool.

The hand that wields it determines its purpose.

Demoke nods.

Demoke:

Then my hand must change.

Eshuoro scoffs loudly.

Eshuoro:

How noble!

A single night of fear—and suddenly men become wise.

He gestures mockingly toward the villagers.

Eshuoro:

Tomorrow they will feast again.

Next year they will celebrate their greatness once more.

And the dead will still whisper beneath their feet.

Forest Head raises his hand.

Forest Head:

Perhaps.

Yet even the smallest awakening may alter the course of time.

He looks toward Demoke.

Forest Head:

The choice before him was not simple.

The cycle of guilt and punishment binds many generations.

Agboreko frowns.

Agboreko:

Cycle?

What cycle is this that traps both the living and the dead?

Forest Head walks slowly to the center of the clearing.

Forest Head:

History moves like a circle.

Men repeat the triumphs and errors of their ancestors.

The same pride, the same cruelty, the same forgetfulness.

He pauses.

Forest Head:

Yet sometimes the circle bends.

A moment appears when a single act may redirect the path.

Demoke looks up.

Demoke:

Then tonight was such a moment?

Forest Head nods.

Forest Head:

Yes.

Eshuoro’s expression darkens.

Eshuoro:

You speak of hope where there is only illusion.

He points toward the Half-Child.

Eshuoro:

That child is the proof of human corruption.

Born of violence, rejected by society—

A living wound in the flesh of the world.

The Dead Woman rises slowly.

Dead Woman:

He is more than a wound.

She holds the child toward the dawn beginning to appear behind the trees.

Dead Woman:

He is also the future.

The villagers watch in silence.

Ogun steps forward.

Ogun:

The future is forged like iron.

It requires heat, pressure, and courage.

He looks directly at Demoke.

Ogun:

You have seen your past clearly.

Now you must decide whether it will destroy you

Or transform you.

Demoke walks toward the villagers.

He speaks quietly but firmly.

Demoke:

Tonight we invited the ancestors expecting praise.

Instead we received judgment.

He gestures toward the Dead Man and Dead Woman.

Demoke:

They came not as heroes

But as victims of our forgotten history.

The Old Man sighs.

Old Man:

Then what should we do with such knowledge?

Demoke thinks for a moment.

Demoke:

We must remember it.

Agboreko looks doubtful.

Agboreko:

Remembering alone will not feed the living.

Demoke shakes his head.

Demoke:

No. But forgetting will poison them.

He walks to the center of the clearing and picks up his carving tools.

Demoke:

All my life I carved symbols of pride—

Totems for kings and monuments to glory.

He holds the tools thoughtfully.

Demoke:

But pride without truth becomes arrogance.

He kneels beside a fallen log.

Demoke:

From this day forward, I will carve something different.

Rola approaches him.

Rola:

What will you carve?

Demoke touches the wood gently.

Demoke:

A memory of the truth we discovered tonight.

The sound of distant birds begins to fill the forest as dawn approaches.

Forest Head speaks again.

Forest Head:

The forest does not demand perfection from men.

Only awareness.

He looks toward the departing spirits.

Forest Head:

If the living remember the lessons of the past,

The dead may finally rest.

Eshuoro shakes his head bitterly.

Eshuoro:

You place too much faith in human memory.

Forest Head smiles faintly.

Forest Head:

And you place too little.

Ogun lifts his staff.

Ogun:

The path ahead remains uncertain.

But the courage to face the truth

Is the first step toward transformation.

The spirits begin to fade back into the forest.

Eshuoro lingers for a moment longer.

Eshuoro:

Remember this night well.

He points toward the villagers.

Eshuoro:

For if you forget,

The forest will summon you again.

He disappears into the darkness of the trees.

The clearing grows brighter as sunlight begins to break through the branches.

Forest Head looks once more at the villagers.

Forest Head:

The dance is over.

He raises his hand.

Forest Head:

But the work of living has only begun.

He slowly fades away.

The villagers stand in silence.

For a moment the clearing feels strangely empty without the presence of the spirits.

Then Agboreko clears his throat.

Agboreko:

Well… the spirits have returned to their mysteries.

He glances around awkwardly.

Agboreko:

What remains for us?

The Old Man smiles gently.

Old Man:

Life remains.

He gestures toward the village.

Gradually the villagers begin their ordinary tasks.

Women gather cooking pots.

Men lift tools and bundles of wood.

Children chase one another through the clearing, their laughter echoing in the morning air.

A storyteller sits beneath a tree with a group of curious listeners.

The rhythm of daily life slowly replaces the tension of the night.

Demoke continues carving.

Each strike of his tool echoes through the clearing.

Rola watches him thoughtfully.

Rola:

You work as though the night still speaks to you.

Demoke nods.

Demoke:

It does.

He pauses and studies the shape emerging from the wood.

Demoke:

If we forget what the forest showed us,

Then all this suffering will have been meaningless.

Rola looks at the Half-Child, now being gently cared for by one of the women.

Rola:

Perhaps the child will remind us.

Demoke smiles faintly.

Demoke:

Yes.

He returns to his carving.

Slowly the figure in the wood begins to take shape.

It is not a king, nor a warrior, nor a symbol of power.

It is the figure of a child.

The storyteller begins a tale for the gathered children.

Storyteller:

Long ago, in a forest where spirits and humans met,

A great festival was held to celebrate the glory of a people.

The children lean closer.

Storyteller:

But the forest revealed that glory without memory is empty.

The villagers listen quietly as they work.

Storyteller:

And so the people learned that the past must walk beside the future.

The drums begin again—slow, steady, and calm.

No longer the wild rhythm of spirits and ritual, but the heartbeat of ordinary life.

Demoke lifts his carving tools one final time.

The statue of the child stands complete.

He places it at the edge of the clearing where the forest meets the village.

A reminder.

A warning.

A hope.

The sun rises fully over the forest.

The clearing fills with light.

And as the drums continue their quiet rhythm, the curtain falls.

Reference

Fraser, Robert. Four Alternative Endings to Wole Soyinka’s “A Dance of the Forests” , www.jstor.org/stable/3818351. Accessed 12 Mar. 2026.