The Weight Of Gold

The night in the village stretched thick and heavy, as if the darkness itself was waiting to speak. Iyi sat alone in the small, clay-walled hut, the faint glow from the third sponge—the sponge of surrender—casting soft flickers against the rough surfaces. The air was dense with the scent of burnt herbs, a pungent mix of eucalyptus and bitter kola, and the crackling of the dying fire was the only sound besides the distant chorus of cicadas.

He held the sponge loosely, feeling its slow pulse beneath his fingers, a rhythm that seemed almost like a heartbeat. It was warm, but not comforting—not yet. It was a reminder of the trial still to come, the final surrender demanded by the spirit world.

Iyi's eyes were heavy, but his mind refused to rest.

Images from the Market of Truth still clung to him—the shattered mirror, the faces he'd tried to escape, the lies he'd told himself, and the crushing weight of truth.

Outside the hut, the village lay silent, shrouded in a mist that curled and twisted like smoke. The shadows danced, growing longer and darker, creeping along the walls and floors.

Then, as if summoned by the intensity of his thoughts, the fire flared.

From the embers rose a figure, slow and deliberate, coalescing from smoke and ash. Agba Oye stood before him—the man with the cowrie shell eyes that had watched him through the spirit towns, the gatekeeper of trials and keeper of ancient wisdom.

Agba Oye's gaze was steady, unyielding. The flickering firelight caught the polished shells on his face, making them gleam like stars in a moonless sky.

"You are restless, Iyi," he said, his voice deep and resonant, blending with the crackle of the fire.

Iyi swallowed hard. "I am. I carry so much weight inside—yet I feel empty. I've given, I've faced my truths, but the hunger remains."

Agba Oye nodded slowly, stepping closer, his presence filling the hut.

"The spirit does not heal in leaps, but in steps. Each trial is a layer peeled back, but there are depths yet unexplored. You have reached the edge of one circle—now you must descend further."

Agba Oye reached into the fire and pulled forth a piece of charcoal, black and glowing faintly with a blue flame. The charcoal seemed almost alive, humming softly, vibrating with power beneath his fingers.

"Listen closely," Agba Oye instructed.

Iyi leaned forward, his eyes fixed on the piece of charcoal as Agba Oye held it out toward him. The ember pulsed, and from it, a voice emerged—not spoken aloud, but a vibration felt deep in the bones and marrow.

It was ancient, as old as the river, the earth, and the fire itself. It spoke in a language that was not words but feelings: a call to remember, to reckon, to awaken.

"Remember who you are. Remember what you carry. Remember the hunger that shaped you—and the fire that can free you."

Iyi closed his eyes, letting the voice wash over him like a wave. Memories surged—the laughter of childhood before hunger set in, the cold nights spent hiding from a world that demanded survival at any cost, the worn hands of his mother preparing meals that were never enough, the faces of those he had hurt to get by.

Tears slid silently down his cheeks. The voice in the charcoal was not just a message; it was a reckoning—a summoning to face the parts of himself still shrouded in darkness.

When he opened his eyes, Agba Oye was gone.

Only the dying embers remained, and the soft glow of the sponge cradled in Iyi's palm.

For a long moment, Iyi sat alone, the voice still echoing in his mind, a persistent whisper between heartbeats.

The night deepened, and Iyi's thoughts spiraled.

What did it mean to surrender truly?

He had given so much—his pride, his lies, even the burdens of false gold. Yet the hunger, the restless ache, gnawed still.

He reached out and touched the sponge again.

It pulsed softly, as if responding to his touch.

A sudden resolve rose in his chest. Perhaps surrender was not an end, but a beginning.

A slow understanding dawned: surrender was about release—letting go of the past, the illusions, the fears that bound him.

He remembered the river where he had first encountered the spirit world, the quiet currents carrying away the broken pieces of those who could not let go.

He thought of the three villages where giving, truth, and surrender had been tested.

And now, this final voice in the charcoal, a call not just to give, but to become.

Outside the hut, the village was stirring.

A faint glow flickered in the distance, a light carried by figures moving silently between the huts.

Iyi stood and stepped outside.

The sky above was heavy with stars, and the air was cool and sharp.

The villagers gathered in the central clearing, where a fire burned bright and steady.

He joined them, feeling the weight of their eyes eyes that held stories, pain, and quiet strength.

An elder stepped forward, raising a hand.

"It is time," the elder said.

Iyi felt the sponge grow warmer, as if responding to the unspoken call.

The elder began to chant, a low, rolling rhythm that rose and fell like the tide.

The villagers echoed the chant, their voices weaving together into a tapestry of sound that reached into the very earth.

Iyi closed his eyes, letting the chant fill him, surrounding him with its power.

Within the chorus, he heard the voice of the charcoal again a steady, guiding presence.

"Surrender is not weakness. It is the greatest strength. It is the fire that purifies, the water that cleanses, the wind that frees."

Tears streamed down Iyi's face.

He felt the sponge grow hot, then burn away—leaving only a faint glow in his palm.

When he opened his eyes, the fire before him had transformed into a river of light, flowing gently into the night.

And he knew—this was his path forward.

The voice in the charcoal had spoken.

Iyi was not yet free, but he had taken the first true step.

The hunger remained, but now it was tempered by hope.

And the fire of surrender would guide him through the darkness ahead.