The whispers by the river

He waited until the village slept.

Not because he feared being seen—but because he knew what was coming couldn't be witnessed. Only felt.

Durojaiye knelt at the edge of the river, the memory-gourd in his palm. It pulsed faintly, like a heartbeat trapped in clay. The surface was carved with flowing lines, curling into spiral glyphs he couldn't read but somehow understood.

Iyagbẹ́kọ had said, "Drink only when you're ready to become the thing you're chasing."

He hadn't understood.

Now, he did.

Because this wasn't evidence.

It was an invitation.

He tilted the gourd to his lips and drank.

Darkness.

Then: breath.

But it wasn't his.

It was hers.

Ọmọyẹmi.

The world around him reshaped—not fading, but folding. He was no longer at the river's edge.

He was inside her memory.

And it was the day she died.

Ọmọyẹmi's Last Day

She woke in the shrine beneath the Obì tree, cradled in palm leaves and the scent of dried sage.

She was humming.

Not a full song. Just fragments.

Her tongue carried ancient rhythm. Her breath, ancestral pulse.

She walked barefoot through Obade's outer ridge, knowing what would come.

The warning had arrived days before: "Do not sing in the open. The Queen's name is forbidden."

But she sang anyway.

Because truth, once heard, refuses to be unsung.

As she walked, birds circled her.

Not flying. Hovering.

The wind itself twisted around her voice, as though listening.

Then came the men.

Not from the village. From beyond. City-slick tongues, dark boots, polished belts. They came under the banner of law, of stability, of protection.

They wore no uniforms.

Only entitlement.

"Are you Ọmọyẹmi?" one asked, fake smile curling.

She did not answer.

She only raised her voice.

And sang louder.

The hymn was not a protest. It was a restoration.

Every line unbound a memory. Every breath cracked a lie.

They beat her.

They broke her.

They burned her hands.

And still she sang.

Until one held her throat and whispered, "Be quiet."

But silence, once broken, does not die.

It echoes.

In the Vision

Durojaiye could feel her pain.

Not metaphorically. Not symbolically.

He felt the bruises bloom across his ribs.

He choked on the smoke they blew into her mouth.

And when her body was dragged toward the river and dumped

He felt her fear twist into resolve.

Because even in death, she did not vanish.

She sank into the river.

And there, the Queen caught her.

Cradled her.

And whispered:

"Your song is not the last. But it is the key."

The Awakening

The vision didn't end.

It reversed.

Durojaiye's spirit rose from the riverbed, trailing starlight and waterlight, until he hovered above Obade.

He saw threads now golden, glowing threads stretching from the river to the hearts of villagers.

Some threads were thin. Some thick.

One pulsed directly to him.

Ọmọyẹmi's voice rang in his chest:

"You are not here to investigate a crime.

You are here to name a wound.

And once it is named,

it can begin to heal."

Return

He woke with a gasp.

The gourd was empty. Cracked. Steam rose from it.

Iyagbẹ́kọ stood beside him, silent.

He looked up at her, wide-eyed, heart racing. "They murdered her… because she sang."

She nodded.

"But not just any song," she said. "The beginning. She was the threshold. You are the witness."

He staggered to his feet. "Then I have to tell it. All of it."

She placed a hand on his shoulder. "Not just tell. Carry. Her verse lives in you now. That means you will be hunted. Disbelieved. Maybe even buried."

"I know."

"But it also means… the silence has one less shadow."

The Call Forward

That night, he walked to the platform beside the river.

Not as a detective.

As a messenger.

He pulled out his recorder.

Pressed record.

And whispered:

"Her name was Ọmọyẹmi.

She was a daughter of balance. A singer of the first verse.

She was beaten, burned, and buried in silence.

But her voice lives.

This is her song. And it begins again."

Then he sang.

Not in tune.

Not perfectly.

But honestly.

And somewhere beneath the water, the Queen smiled.

Because someone had remembered.