The Weight Of Gold

Iyi walked away from the Second Village feeling lighter, yet strangely incomplete. The cloth soaked with camphor and coconut oil pressed softly against his palm like a secret warmth an unexpected gift from strangers who had taught him the first lesson of true giving. He hadn't expected to stay, yet the village had welcomed him for a brief moment, asking nothing but his truth.

But as he moved down the winding path, the air shifted.

The golden mist gave way to thicker shadows.

The path narrowed again, hemmed in by twisted roots and stones carved with faces half-hidden by moss. The birds with mirrored eyes no longer followed him. The wind stopped playing with the leaves.

Ahead loomed a gate tall, wrought iron entwined with vines that glimmered faintly, as though alive. On the gate hung a sign carved from dark wood, with letters burnt deep:

BLIND HANDS, CLOSED GATES

He hesitated.

A voice whispered from the shadows.

"Who walks without sight cannot enter."

Iyi looked down.

His hands were trembling.

He reached to steady himself but the cloth with camphor was gone.

He checked his pockets.

Empty.

The warmth had vanished.

His hands shook harder.

He reached out to touch the gate's cold iron bars, but the vines writhed, pulling away like serpents from an unwanted hand.

"You have lost your gift," the voice said.

Iyi pulled back, fear blossoming in his chest.

"Is there no way through?" he asked.

The voice laughed softly, a sound like dry leaves on stone.

"Only those who see with their hearts may pass. But your heart is clouded."

He closed his eyes, searching inward.

He saw fragments:

The lie told to his mother when he had no money.

The stolen coins he had rationalized as 'survival.'

The night he abandoned his friend beneath the beatings.

Regret twisted inside him, sharp and cold.

He clenched his fists.

The gate shuddered.

"Your hands are blind," the voice said. "You reach, but cannot grasp. You touch, but cannot hold."

Iyi opened his eyes.

A figure emerged from the shadows a man draped in tattered robes, face covered with a mask of cowrie shells arranged like a grid. He carried a scale balanced on his shoulder.

"You are judged," the man said, voice echoing with the weight of forgotten drums.

Iyi stood rooted, heart pounding.

"What must I do?" he asked.

The man lifted the scale.

"Place your soul's offering here."

Iyi looked down.

What could he offer?

He closed his eyes again.

Memories surged: the night his mother cried over empty bowls, the times he lied to save face, the faces he never dared to meet.

He reached inside himself and pulled forth the weight of every selfish choice the pride, the hunger, the lies.

He held it out an invisible burden.

The man nodded.

The scale tipped.

Heavy.

"Too heavy," he said.

Iyi staggered backward.

"Too heavy to balance."

"Then how do I lighten it?" Iyi asked.

The man's masked face seemed to smile.

"By giving without keeping."

"But I have nothing left to give."

"You have only your hands."

Iyi looked at his hands.

They trembled less now.

He reached forward and touched the gate again.

This time, the vines coiled around his fingers—not to push him away, but to guide.

He closed his eyes.

He imagined offering everything he'd held onto the pain, the pride, the hunger.

He imagined emptying himself like a bowl poured out onto the earth.

A warmth spread from his palms to his chest.

The gate's vines pulsed.

Slowly, the gate creaked open.

Light spilled beyond.

The man stepped aside.

"Walk through. But know this once you pass, the gates behind you close. There is no returning."

Iyi swallowed.

He took a deep breath.

And stepped forward.