Whisper by the river

The water around Ola shimmered one final time, folding him in gentle warmth before releasing him to the waking world.

He gasped, breaking through the surface like a man reborn. The chill that had once haunted the river was gone. The current felt soft now playful, not predatory as though the very soul of the water had sighed and let go of its bitterness.

The first light of dawn spilled across the horizon, golden and forgiving. Mist lifted from the surface in wisps, dissolving into the pink-orange sky as if memories themselves were evaporating, leaving behind only the truth that remained.

He pulled himself to shore, his limbs weak but spirit thrumming with quiet reverence. Èkóyé and Iyagbẹ́kọ stood waiting at the riverbank. The moment their eyes met his, they knew.

"She's free," Ola whispered, breath trembling. "Ẹ̀nítàn… she sang her last verse."

Èkóyé exhaled slowly, her shoulders finally dropping as if she had been holding the weight of generations. Iyagbẹ́kọ closed her eyes, pressing her palm to her heart.

Then something shifted.

The river rippled not violently, but rhythmically, like a heartbeat then stilled. A moment later, light burst from the water. It wasn't blinding. It was soft and deep, the kind of light that warmed bones and stirred seeds. Birds that had long vanished returned, swooping over the surface in graceful arcs. Small fish leapt in glittering bursts. Trees along the river bent ever so slightly as if leaning in to listen.

The river was alive again.

No longer a cold, dark expanse of memory and mourning now it sparkled with breath. And it sang.

It wasn't a melody one could hum. Not easily. It was a layered hum of memory, soil, water, bone. A song of generations, of joy hard-earned, of pain transmuted into wisdom.

The Call

By the time Ola and Èkóyé returned to the village, the change had already begun to spread.

Children were the first to notice.

They ran toward the water with unspoken instinct, laughter tumbling from their mouths. No adult stopped them there was no longer fear in the river's name. They splashed freely, fearless and unburdened. The water lapped at their ankles like a parent reunited with its children.

The news moved through Obade like a drumbeat swift, steady, undeniable.

"The river is glowing," someone whispered.

"Did you feel it? The ground humming?"

"My daughter's fever vanished when she drank this morning."

"My cassava doubled in size overnight."

Within hours, families who had stopped planting near the river resumed digging. Old fishing boats, once abandoned, were dusted off and placed back on the water with reverent hands.

Elders stood at the edge of the bank, some weeping silently, others singing the old songs they had buried out of guilt or fear. Women dropped beads into the water as offerings. Men bowed their heads, murmuring apologies to the current.

The river had forgiven. And in doing so, it had awakened.

The Proclamation

That afternoon, a gathering formed beneath the shade of the sacred tree the same place where the broken drum had once been buried, and where Ola had once spoken of shadows.

Now, it was the site of something entirely different.

The air shimmered with life. Bees buzzed lazily from flower to flower. A baby giggled in its mother's sling. Birds chattered above like they, too, had stories to share.

Ola stepped forward slowly, supported by Èkóyé, who refused to leave his side.

Beside him, Iyagbẹ́kọ planted her staff in the soil. It thrummed with energy, its root-etched markings pulsing faintly.

She raised her hand, her voice steady and clear.

"The river remembers its voice," she said, and the crowd fell silent. "And so must we."

Her words were not command, but invitation.

"For too long, we taught our children to fear the waters. We told them silence was safety. But silence is not always peace. Sometimes, silence is the shroud of pain unspoken."

She turned toward the water, then back to the village.

"Ẹ̀nítàn was once our voice. We buried her with shame. But now her song has been returned to the current. We must never bury our truth again."

The villagers bowed not to her, but to the river.

And to the truth they had once silenced.

The Healing

Over the days that followed, the village changed in ways both subtle and profound.

The crops near the river began to grow taller, their colors deeper, their fruit sweeter. Goats gave birth to healthy twins; hens laid eggs with golden yolks. Even the sick began to show signs of recovery, their fevers eased by water fetched from the newly blessed stream.

Some said it was the magic of the Drowned One, now unshackled. Others believed the river had simply remembered who it was and, in turn, reminded Obade of its purpose.

The people responded in kind.

The old songs returned not the war chants or warnings, but the gentle lullabies, the songs of harvest, of greeting the rain. Drums were beaten not to stir spirits into frenzy, but to honor them. Children were taught the sacred rhythms again, this time with understanding.

And Ola?

He no longer walked with the weight of guilt in his shoulders.

He sat by the river each dawn, listening. Not always speaking. Just listening.

And every now and then, when the wind shifted just right, he heard her Ẹ̀nítàn singing in the distance. Not in sorrow. In peace.

The Pilgrimage

On the seventh day after the rebirth, delegations arrived from other river villages.

They had heard of Obade's miracle. Heard the rumors that the Drowned One had risen—and not in rage, but in reconciliation. That the cursed waters now healed. That children could swim again. That a forgotten queen had sung her last verse and had been freed.

Some came to confirm the rumors. Others came to remember.

They found Obade transformed not perfect, not without scars, but glowing.

One elder from Ìbàdàn knelt by the water, tears streaming down his cheeks.

"I was a boy when the river turned. I saw my brother drown with no cause. I never thought I'd live to see the water forgive."

A traveling priestess from the northern creeks brought offerings salt, millet, dried hibiscus and whispered chants of thanks in a language nearly lost.

They didn't come to colonize the story. They came to witness it.

And Obade welcomed them.

A New Rhythm

One night, beneath a full moon, the villagers held a celebration not of victory, but of remembrance.

Torches were lit around the sacred tree. A ring of drums surrounded the firepit, each carved with the name of an ancestor who had once carried a song. Women danced with bells on their ankles. Men painted their arms with river clay. Children wore wreaths of lilies and sang in pairs.

Ola stood at the edge of the circle, watching the flames flicker against smiling faces.

Then, unexpectedly, a small boy approached him no older than six. His voice was shy but bold.

"Mister Ola," the boy said. "Can I learn to drum like you?"

Ola smiled. "You can learn to listen first. That's how the best drummers begin."

The boy grinned and sat beside him, palms resting on the earth, mimicking Ola's stillness.

And there they stayed not drumming, but hearing.

Feeling the beat of the ground, the whisper of the leaves, the low hum of water circling stone.

The song was not always loud. But it was always there.

Looking Forward

On the morning of the new moon, Ola stood by the water once more. The air was crisp, the sky empty of clouds, the water like glass.

Beside him stood Èkóyé and Iyagbẹ́kọ, both wrapped in reed robes, their eyes turned eastward.

"What now?" Èkóyé asked softly.

Ola didn't answer immediately.

He reached down and touched the river with his fingertips.

It pulsed twice beneath his skin.

Then he said, "Now we teach the next verse."

Iyagbẹ́kọ nodded, eyes gleaming. "And ensure it is never forgotten again."

They turned together and walked back toward the village, the sound of the river behind them no longer an omen…

…but a promise.