The Weight Of Gold

The sun hung low over the village of Ìlú Ọ̀yọ́, casting long, jagged shadows across the cracked earth and dusty streets. It was a place unlike any Iyi had encountered so far a village where the air itself seemed stale, heavy with silence and unspoken grief. The villagers moved slowly, their faces blank, as if they had forgotten how to smile, or perhaps chose not to.

As Iyi entered the marketplace, the smell of salt and brine hung faintly in the air, yet there was something odd about it an absence rather than a presence. The salty tang that should have pricked the tongue was missing its bite. Salt without taste.

An old man sitting on a stoop watched Iyi closely, his eyes shadowed beneath thick brows. He gestured to a table where a simple meal was laid out stale bread, wilted greens, and a small bowl of water with salt crystals floating, untouched.

"The salt here has lost its flavor," the man said quietly. "And so have we."

Iyi frowned, feeling the weight of the man's words. "What do you mean?"

The old man sighed, his gaze distant. "This village was once prosperous salt was the lifeblood of trade and sustenance. But greed poisoned the wells and bitterness seeped into the hearts of the people. The salt lost its taste, and with it, their joy."

Iyi felt a chill ripple through him. "Can the salt regain its flavor?"

The old man looked deep into Iyi's eyes. "Only if the village remembers the taste of humility, sacrifice, and truth."

Iyi nodded, feeling a strange kinship with this place a reflection of his own journey, where hunger had dulled the senses and clouded judgment.

As he walked through the streets, villagers greeted him with hollow nods, their eyes avoiding contact. Children played in silence, their laughter a faint echo from a forgotten past.

At the center of the village, Iyi found a large basin filled with water and salt, its surface still and unyielding.

He knelt beside it and dipped his fingers in, tasting the brine. It was flat, dull—salt without bite.

A woman approached—a healer, her skin worn but gentle. She placed a hand on Iyi's shoulder.

"The salt is like the spirit here," she said. "Numb, empty. The people have forgotten how to taste life."

Iyi looked at the basin again, then back to the healer. "What must be done?"

She smiled softly. "You must remind them. Remind yourself. Salt gives life its flavor. Without it, everything is bland and meaningless."

Iyi closed his eyes, recalling the moments he had allowed hunger and fear to strip away his own flavor—his own essence.

He understood now that the trial was not just about salt, but about remembering what gave life meaning: honesty, courage, and connection.

As dusk settled, Iyi stood in the village square and called out, his voice strong and clear.

"People of Ìlú Ọ̀yọ́, remember the taste of salt! Remember the joy that once filled these streets! We must reclaim what was lost!"

Slowly, villagers gathered, their faces still somber but curious.

Iyi reached into his pouch and pulled out a small vial of pure salt gifted from the previous village by the old woman with the spider net.

He scattered the salt into the basin, watching as it dissolved, brightening the water.

A hush fell over the crowd, then a murmur of recognition.

The old man smiled faintly. "The salt returns."

One by one, villagers tasted the water, their faces lighting with surprise and awakening.

Laughter, soft and hesitant, began to ripple through the square.

Iyi felt warmth spread through his chest.

The salt had regained its flavor.

And with it, a spark of hope had been rekindled.

As night fell, the village of Ìlú Ọ̀yọ́ seemed less like a place of emptiness and more like a place waiting to be reborn.

Iyi knew his journey was far from over, but in this moment, the taste of salt reminded him of the power of healing and remembrance.