The whispers by the river

Morning broke quietly over Obade.

But it did not come as it used to with roosters crowing, firewood cracking, and markets opening in haste.

Instead, it arrived like a breath after a long sob.

The air was thick with peace but not the empty kind. This was peace earned. Peace after witnessing. The kind that made you look your neighbors in the eye and say, I see you now. The kind that turned silence into soil.

And in the center of it all, the river flowed.

Wider. Deeper. Clearer.

Almost as if it had shed something.

The Gathering

By noon, the elders had called a gathering at the base of the Cleft Rock the same site where, years ago, a forbidden ceremony was broken, and the Queen's name struck from the lineage of protectors.

But today, it was different.

The people came not to judge but to choose.

Iyagbẹ́kọ stood at the center, flanked by Ola and Èkóyé.

The mirror and the cloth of verses were placed on a carved wooden altar shaped like twin open palms. The drum rested nearby, its golden seam glinting in the sun.

Beside them stood three bowls.

Each filled with something sacred:

The ashes of broken drums symbol of what was lost.

The salt of river tears symbol of grief remembered.

And the seeds of native okán leaves symbol of what might grow next.

Iyagbẹ́kọ raised her hand.

"Ẹ̀nítàn has returned to us not as a god to be chained, but as a mother remembered. Her silence was not absence. It was waiting."

Murmurs rippled through the crowd.

She pointed to the altar. "Now, we must make the final offering. Not of sacrifice. But of truth willingly returned. Each of you bring what you have hidden. What your family has buried. What you've feared to name."

No one moved at first.

Then, Adunni the old midwife stepped forward. She held a small pouch wrapped in cowrie-studded cloth. With trembling hands, she opened it and poured its contents into the bowl of ashes.

Tiny anklets. Bronze, blackened by time.

"My sister," she said. "They said she disappeared. But I saw them drag her away. For dancing too boldly. For bleeding when she shouldn't have. I said nothing. I let them say she was cursed."

She stepped back.

Then a fisherman came forward, placing a carved flute in the salt.

"My grandfather stopped playing after the Queen's song vanished. He taught me the tune in secret. I… I never played it aloud."

One by one, the villagers approached.

Some brought objects stones, cloth, feathers, bones.

Others brought only words.

Each word, each offering, was added to the bowls.

And with each confession, the river brightened.

The Children

They came last.

A group of ten. Each one under ten years old.

They held no relics. No shame. No memory of silence.

Only questions.

One stepped forward little Dùrójaiyé, who had seen the glowing names days before.

"Will the Queen be angry again?"

Ola knelt to meet his eyes. "She wasn't angry, Dùró. She was hurt. That's different."

"Will she leave?"

"No," Èkóyé said from behind him. "She will watch. Like the river always does."

The boy turned to Iyagbẹ́kọ. "Can we still play by the water?"

She smiled, tears tracing her cheeks. "You can dance there. You can sing there. Just listen, too."

The children nodded, solemn as prophets.

The Fire

As twilight fell, the elders built a fire beside the river.

Not for warmth.

For releasing.

Iyagbẹ́kọ stepped forward with the bowls, one by one, and tipped them into the flames.

The ashes of broken drums turned gold in the firelight.

The salt hissed, releasing steam like breath.

The seeds caught flame for a moment then were taken by the wind.

No one clapped.

No one chanted.

They simply stood.

Together.

Witnessing.

The Queen's Reply

Just before the fire burned low, a ripple passed through the riverbank.

The water parted not wide, not deep but just enough.

From it rose a flower.

Large. Fragrant. Unmistakable.

The bloom of okán-Ẹ̀nítàn.

A flower long thought extinct. Its petals spiraled like song, its stem weeping light. It pulsed once, then again then slowly folded inward.

Iyagbẹ́kọ approached and knelt.

She whispered:

"She accepts."

And the fire, without a breeze, without a spark, died on its own.

Aftermath

The village did not forget.

They built a new shrine not in secret, but beside the river.

Not to worship.

To remember.

The mirror was set within it, so that every visitor would see not the Queen first, but themselves.

The cloth was hung at the center, and every year, a new verse would be added by children, elders, strangers.

The drum was placed within reach. Not locked away.

Because rhythm, once silenced, must never again be hoarded.

And the river?

She flowed.

Wider.

Deeper.

Listening.