The Weight Of Gold

The path beyond the meeting with the man who sold his memory grew steeper, winding through dense forest where the canopy knotted overhead, filtering the sunlight into scattered, golden shards. Iyi's footsteps were slow, weighed not just by fatigue but by the invisible burden of what he carried—the second sponge, heavy in his pocket, damp and pulsing faintly with unseen energy. It was not simply a piece of cloth; it was a fragment of his past, a tether to the debts he could not yet repay.

He reached a clearing where the ground was soft and dark, rich with the scent of earth and decay—the smell of endings and beginnings intertwined. Here, the spirits whispered louder, their voices rising and falling like the breath of the forest itself.

Iyi knelt and drew the sponge from his pouch, holding it in both hands. It was smaller now, frayed at the edges, soaked through with more than just water. Memories clung to it—the lies, the hunger, the price paid in blood and sorrow. This sponge had soaked up more than dirt; it had soaked up his shame.

He knew what he must do.

He had heard the stories—burial rites for the sponge, a ceremony of release and purification that would sever the last lingering chains of false wealth and deception.

To bury the sponge was to bury part of himself.

A sharp pang of fear pierced his heart.

Could he let go of the past so completely? Would he be empty without it, or free?

The forest around him seemed to lean closer, breathless with expectation.

Iyi dug into the earth, feeling the soil crumble between his fingers as he worked a small pit. The ground was damp and forgiving, ready to swallow the burden he carried.

He placed the sponge gently into the hole, as if laying a precious child to rest.

Closing his eyes, he whispered an apology—to the sponge, to himself, to the spirits watching unseen.

"I release you. May the debts you hold be forgiven. May the lies you soaked up be cleansed."

He covered the sponge with soil, patting the earth firmly until the mound was smooth and whole.

The forest seemed to exhale, the tension dissipating into the soft rustle of leaves.

Iyi remained kneeling, feeling a hollow space where the sponge had been, a space both aching and strangely light.

The ritual was not yet complete.

He reached into his pouch and withdrew a small bundle of herbs and bitter roots—offerings for the spirits, tokens of respect and contrition.

Lighting a match, he set them aflame, the smoke curling upward in delicate spirals.

As the fragrant tendrils rose, he began to chant the ancient words taught by Agba Oye, a prayer of cleansing and protection.

"Spirits of the earth, water, fire, and air, receive this gift. Take from me the weight of false riches. Cleanse my soul. Guide my steps."

The smoke thickened, swirling around him like a protective veil.

Suddenly, the ground beneath him trembled faintly, and a soft voice echoed in the rustling leaves.

"You have done well, bearer of burdens. The sponge is laid to rest, but its mark remains."

Iyi opened his eyes, heart pounding.

The spirits were watching.

He felt a warmth seep into his bones—a promise of healing, tempered with the knowledge that scars do not vanish but become part of the story.

Rising, he turned to leave the clearing but paused.

A figure stepped from the shadows—an elder clad in robes woven with palm leaves and river reeds.

"You have chosen the path of release," the elder said, voice deep and steady. "But remember, healing is a journey, not a destination."

Iyi nodded, humbled.

"How long will the mark remain?" he asked.

"As long as you carry the memory of what you buried," the elder replied. "And as long as you walk with honesty and courage."

The words settled in Iyi's chest like embers, glowing steady.

He realized that the sponge was not just a burden but a teacher, its burial a rite of passage rather than an end.

As he left the clearing, the forest seemed lighter, the air clearer, and the path ahead more certain.

Iyi carried less weight—but more resolve.

He was ready to face what lay beyond, armed with the knowledge that to bury the past was to prepare the ground for new growth.