The Weight Of Gold

The path leading from Ọ̀jà Àtẹ́lẹwọ́ wound through thick groves of palm and iroko trees, their massive roots weaving like serpents across the earth. The air was damp, heavy with the scent of moss and decay, and a thin mist clung low, softening the edges of the world.

Iyi moved slowly, his senses alert to every rustle and whisper. The village they called Àgbàrà Ìjì the Place of Storms was said to be alive with unseen threads, where the past and present intertwined like the strands of a spider's web.

Ahead, a faint flicker of light caught his eye an old hut, crooked and wrapped in vines. Smoke curled lazily from its thatched roof.

As Iyi approached, the door creaked open, and an old woman emerged. Her skin was like cracked earth, and her eyes glimmered with a fierce, ancient wisdom. In her hands, she held a bundle of dark threads fine as silk but strong as steel.

"You have come far, sponge bearer," she said, her voice both soft and commanding. "But the web you walk is tangled with deception."

Iyi stepped inside, the air thick with the scent of herbs and something metallic, like blood. The walls were covered with woven nets, each thread shimmering faintly, capturing whispers of stories long forgotten.

"This web," the old woman explained, "is not just a trap for flies, but for lies, secrets, and pride. Those who enter must untangle what binds them."

She gestured for Iyi to sit at a low table, where a small spider's web lay stretched between four carved posts.

"Look closely," she said. "Each thread is a choice, each knot a consequence."

Iyi reached out, running his fingers over the fragile strands. The web shimmered beneath his touch, and suddenly, images flooded his mind.

Faces from his past appeared friends betrayed, promises broken, moments where hunger had turned him cold and ruthless.

The old woman's voice cut through the memories.

"The web remembers. It does not forgive easily."

Iyi closed his eyes, swallowing the lump in his throat.

"How do I begin to unravel it?" he asked.

The old woman smiled, a sad curl of lips.

"By facing what you fear most: the truth of yourself."

She reached into a small bowl and drew out a drop of thick, dark resin, which she placed on the web. The resin spread slowly, darkening the threads around it.

"False pride is the strongest thread," she said. "It blinds you to the cost of your actions."

Iyi's mind raced back to the lies he had told to survive, to hide shame, to protect fragile pride.

He realized that in every step of his journey, pride had been both shield and chain.

The old woman watched him closely.

"To move forward, you must cut the threads that bind you. But be warned once severed, they cannot be reattached."

Iyi nodded, feeling the weight of her words.

He reached into his pouch and pulled out a small knife, its blade worn but sharp.

He began to sever the threads one by one first the lies he told others, then the lies he told himself.

Each cut brought a sting, a flash of pain that rippled through his body.

But with every severed thread, the web grew lighter, less tangled.

When the last thread fell away, the old woman smiled.

"The web is free."

She reached out and touched Iyi's forehead, leaving a faint mark—a spider's leg traced in ash.

"You carry this now," she said. "A reminder that truth is fragile but necessary."

Iyi touched the mark, feeling a spark ignite deep within.

He stood, ready to leave, but the old woman's voice stopped him.

"Beware the gifts that come wrapped in ego. The spider waits for those who boast."

Iyi nodded, understanding that the trials ahead would test not only his strength but his humility.

As he stepped back into the misty path, the web of shadows seemed less daunting.

He was lighter.

More aware.

Ready to face the echoes still calling him onward.