The whispers by the river

The festival had no name at first.

Only a rhythm.

A drumbeat carried in footsteps. In laughter. In hands stitching coral into cloth.

There were no sponsors.

No advertisements.

But somehow, across the Delta, people knew:

Something sacred is returning.

And we are invited to witness.

The Preparation

Obade had not seen joy in decades.

Not like this.

Not with lanterns strung between trees like constellations.

Not with elders weaving stories into the hems of children's garments.

Not with fish grilled in silence beside altars, and riverwater fetched with songs.

Ola walked through it all in quiet wonder.

"What shall we call it?" Èkóyé asked, watching the dancers rehearse.

Ola smiled. "We don't name the river's return. We listen to what she names herself."

Iyagbẹ́kọ added, "And when she does, it won't be a word. It'll be a call."

The Guests

They came in buses. In canoes. On foot.

Pilgrims. Scholars. Skeptics. Journalists.

Some wore full regalia. Others wore doubt.

But all carried something: curiosity, grief, or guilt.

Among them, a famous director, claiming he wanted to "document the last living myth."

A politician offering "cultural protection" in exchange for control over the river rights.

A tech crew from abroad, installing sensors near the shrine without asking.

Iyagbẹ́kọ saw them all and murmured to Èkóyé:

"They think this is a relic.

But they've walked into a rebirth."

The Ritual Begins

At twilight, the drums began.

Not in unison. Not by script.

But like rain.

Scattered.

Then gathering.

Then roaring.

Children painted their faces with ash and palm-oil spirals.

Elders bore staffs carved from forgotten trees.

Ola stepped to the river, barefoot, carrying the Queen's drum—not to perform, but to remember aloud.

He struck once.

Then silence.

Then again.

Then the people joined.

The Reclaiming

The first act was a procession—not forward, but backward.

They walked in reverse through the village, past the sites of silenced history:

The school that banned folk songs.

The plaza paved over a shrine.

The well where mothers once whispered prayers for vanished daughters.

And at each, they placed a truth offering.

A poem. A feather. A tear.

By the time they reached the ceremonial platform, the air itself had changed.

It recognized them.

Conflict

That was when the cameras surged forward.

The director shouted instructions, demanding a better angle.

The politician stepped on stage, trying to deliver a speech.

And then came the disruption

A drone.

Buzzing.

Broadcasting.

It hovered over the river shrine, projecting light onto Ọláàbíyá's throne.

A violation.

The people froze.

Until a child stepped forward.

She was maybe seven.

She held up her hand and sang a single line.

"She does not need your light.

She is the river's own dawn."

And just like that

The drone dropped.

Straight into the river.

Vanished.

Not destroyed.

Dismissed.

The people gasped.

But the child simply turned and kept singing.

Reclamation Complete

At midnight, the throne shimmered not with power, but with peace.

Ọláàbíyá appeared in silhouette only.

She did not speak.

She opened her arms.

And in that gesture, every mouth in the village opened too.

And they sang not the same verse.

But their own.

Each voice a memory.

Each note a testimony.

And above them, the stars blinked in rhythm.

The Aftermath

The tech crew packed up in silence.

The politician left without speeches.

But the director stayed.

He approached Ola at dawn.

"I came to capture a myth," he said. "But I think… I found my mother again."

Ola only nodded.

"You didn't come to document," he replied. "You came to recover."

Final Scene

As the sun rose over Obade, the water shimmered with a thousand offerings floating calabashes, broken beads, poems folded into shells.

Iyagbẹ́kọ whispered:

"Let them take photos if they must.

The real festival lives here."

She touched her chest.

Then turned to the people.

"Now," she said, "we prepare for the next remembering."

And the river, in quiet joy, kept flowing.