Whisper by the river

There was no sound in the chamber but the sound of breath.

Ola stood before the throne, still kneeling. Beside him, Iyagbẹ́kọ gripped her staff tighter, though her hands trembled. Èkóyé remained still, his gaze locked on the river queen not in fear, but in something closer to reverence.

Ẹ̀nítàn's voice lingered in the air like a scent: "You remembered."

But remembrance, it seemed, was only the beginning.

The chamber shifted.

There were no cracks, no groans, no earthquakes yet the space around them deepened, as if the walls themselves inhaled. The flickering murals of river dances and forgotten rites blurred, and a new texture shimmered through the air.

The Queen stood.

Her movement was slow, regal water dripping from the strands of her ink-dark hair as though time itself bowed at her rise.

"You come to restore," she said. "But restoration is not given. It must be earned. Through truth."

She extended her hands slender, strong, carved with glyphs that moved across her skin like living ink—and touched the air. Ripples spread outward, forming a circle around the trio.

The waters hummed.

"You will face the flood," she said, her voice heavy now, like waves hitting a stone shore. "Not of water. But of memory. Of the moment you broke—not because you were weak, but because you were human."

None of them moved.

She stepped back.

And the circle of water rose.

It did not fall or spray it enveloped them each in separate orbs, like droplets suspended mid-thought. Ola, Iyagbẹ́kọ, and Èkóyé vanished from view.

And then, the test began.

Ola's Memory: The Drummer Who Walked Away

He was sixteen again.

The sun burned above. The square of Obade was filled with boys some drumming, others dancing, all under the instruction of Master Aṣà, the village rhythm-keeper.

It was a sacred lesson. Rhythm was how one proved readiness for manhood.

But the lesson that day turned cruel.

Another boy, Temi, had missed a beat his hands slow, his face too eager. Master Aṣà struck him, hard, with the cane used to guide tempo. Once. Then again.

The others looked away.

Except Ola.

He had felt the rage bubble up, had stood, drum still strapped to his waist. He had almost spoken.

But fear had held him.

He walked away.

In the water-orb, Ola saw it now how Temi's eyes had begged him to stay. How Master Aṣà had smiled when Ola left, mistaking silence for approval.

He clutched his chest as the vision blurred. The beat of that day returned, fast and cruel, echoing like judgment.

Then a voice.

Temi's.

"You never lifted the drum again. Why?"

Ola cried. "Because it didn't deserve to be played in silence."

The water pulsed.

And the drumbeat… softened.

Iyagbẹ́kọ's Memory: The Daughter and the Fire

Night. Smoke. Screams.

A house engulfed in flames her house.

Her daughter, Adéwọlé, trapped inside, pounding at the wooden slats of a window.

Iyagbẹ́kọ had arrived too late. She had warned the elders. She had warned her husband. The spirits were restless. The rituals had not been kept.

But they had mocked her. Called her mad. Told her to keep her superstitions in her shrine.

So she waited.

Too long.

And now, in the water-orb, she stood before the burning house again.

"Speak it," came a voice.

Iyagbẹ́kọ dropped to her knees. "I waited… I waited for them to believe me. And my daughter paid the price."

The flames did not burn this time.

But they did weep.

And out from the smoke stepped a small figure her daughter, younger than she had remembered, eyes bright.

"You carried my name in silence, Mama," she said. "It's time to carry it in fire."

Iyagbẹ́kọ raised her staff.

And the fire bowed.

Èkóyé's Memory: The Night of the First Humming

He was a boy again. Alone by the riverbank.

The moon was full. The breeze warm.

And a hum rose from the reeds not wind, not insect, but something older. Something beautiful. Something female.

He had heard it. Felt it.

Then turned away.

He ran to his father, told him what he heard.

"You're imagining things," his father said. "Boys don't hear river songs. They fish."

So he returned the next day with stones. He threw them into the river until the hum stopped.

Now, in the water-orb, he saw himself again angry, small, trying to be louder than the thing that scared him.

The Queen's hum echoed around him.

Soft. Forgiving.

He fell to his knees. "I was afraid."

"You were taught to fear," a voice said. "But you can choose to unlearn."

The hum grew louder.

This time, he did not run.

The water-orbs collapsed.

The trio returned to the chamber floor, soaked in silence. Not a drop clung to their clothes, but their faces were wet with more than water.

Ẹ̀nítàn watched them.

She stepped down from her throne.

"Now," she said, voice no longer distant, but near human, even. "You are ready."

From the edge of the chamber, an altar revealed itself hidden behind a waterfall of mist. Upon it rested three items:

A drum repaired with golden resin.

A cloth inscribed with a new verse.

A mirror made not of glass, but of still water.

"You must take only one," the Queen said, "and leave with it. Not to keep. But to teach."

Iyagbẹ́kọ stepped forward first.

She took the cloth.

Ola reached next, hands trembling.

He lifted the drum.

Èkóyé lingered.

Then, with both hands, he carried the mirror.

As they turned to leave, Ẹ̀nítàn raised her voice one final time:

"The river does not forget. But it forgives when remembered rightly."

Behind them, the chamber dimmed.

Before them, the path back to the village began to glow.

But this time, they were not returning as seekers.

They were returning as witnesses.

And the flood, long held back by silence, was finally ready to speak.