The Weight Of Gold

The air was thick with the scent of earth and smoke as Iyi made his way through the narrow paths of the next village a place the elders had whispered about with reverence and fear. It was called Ọ̀jà Àtẹ́lẹwọ́, the Market of Memory, a town where the past was alive in the voices of the people, and no lie could slip unnoticed. They called it the place where mouths don't forget.

As he stepped onto the cracked stones of the marketplace, Iyi felt the weight of countless eyes upon him. The market was alive with voices some whispering, some shouting, but all echoing with a strange resonance that made his skin prickle. The voices were not just sound; they were memories, stories etched into the very air, carried from mouth to mouth like sacred fire.

Vendors sold not only goods but the histories of their ancestors, tales of triumph and betrayal, love and loss. Each stall was a repository of truth, and every word spoken was a thread weaving the fabric of the community.

Iyi's footsteps slowed as he passed an old woman seated on a woven mat, her face creased like ancient bark. She smiled knowingly as he approached.

"You carry much within you, child," she said, her voice a raspy melody. "But here, your soul will be revealed. The mouths of Ọ̀jà Àtẹ́lẹwọ́ remember all. They forget nothing."

He nodded, uncertain of what to expect, yet drawn by an invisible thread.

As the sun dipped lower, casting long shadows over the market, the voices grew louder, intertwining into a chorus of stories that wrapped around him like a cloak. Iyi felt memories he did not own brush against his consciousness voices speaking of sins and forgiveness, of debts paid and debts owed.

One voice, clear and insistent, broke through the cacophony. It spoke his name.

"Iyi…" it called softly.

He turned sharply, searching for the source.

An old man with eyes like smoldering coals stood before him, his mouth moving with the cadence of a storyteller.

"You are marked by the sponges, but also by the memories you carry," the man said. "Each step you take leaves a trace, a story to be told."

Iyi's throat tightened. "How do I face what I've done? The lies, the hurt…?"

The old man smiled sadly. "You do not face it alone. Here, the mouths that don't forget will speak, but they also listen. You must learn to tell your truth."

The market seemed to pulse around him, and suddenly, Iyi found himself seated in a circle with villagers, their faces illuminated by the flickering light of a fire.

One by one, they began to speak recounting stories of those who had come before, who had tried to hide from their pasts but were always found out. Their voices wove a tapestry of human frailty and resilience.

When it was Iyi's turn, he hesitated. But as he opened his mouth, the words flowed, raw and unfiltered. He told of hunger that had driven him, of desperate lies, of the weight of shame he carried.

The mouths around him did not judge; they absorbed, acknowledged, and reflected back his pain.

As he spoke, Iyi felt a shift like the burden he carried was shared, lightened by the voices that held space for his truth.

The fire flickered, and the old man nodded.

"You have begun to heal. But remember these mouths never forget, and neither should you."

Iyi bowed his head, tears blurring his vision.

He had come seeking escape, but found connection.

The market had shown him that true power lay not in denial, but in embracing the whole of oneself the good, the bad, and the broken.

As the night deepened, Iyi stood and walked toward the edge of the village, the voices of Ọ̀jà Àtẹ́lẹwọ́ echoing behind him, a chorus of memory and hope.

He was not the same boy who had arrived.

He was a man beginning to understand the weight and the gift of memory.