Whisper by the river

It began with a buzz.

Low. Mechanical. Almost invisible beneath the rustling trees and singing birds. But Èkóyé heard it first the unnatural thrum vibrating through the soil like something alien trying to imitate life.

He rose from the riverbank.

He had been drawing new glyphs into the earth—symbols Ọmọyẹmi had once traced in water. But now they were shaking, scattering into dust.

The birds fell silent.

The wind stopped.

And the shrine began to hum.

The Arrival

The trucks came at night.

Unmarked. Headlights off.

A team of masked men stepped out, dressed in black but carrying tools that glinted like law and stank of oil. They moved with speed—not clumsy like thieves, but clinical, like surgeons sent to excise memory.

At their lead was a figure in a grey hood.

He did not speak.

He simply pointed.

First at the shrine.

Then at the altar.

Then at the mirror.

Inside, the Queen's face shimmered faintly.

And when they moved to smash it

The sky split.

The Flood

It started with a single drop.

Falling from a clear sky.

Then another.

Then a hundred.

But the rain was not cold. It was warm thick, like tears. And it fell not from above, but from the river itself.

A pulse surged outward from the water, and the soil split open.

Then the flood came.

Not wild. Not chaotic.

Directed.

Water burst from the river's mouth like a spoken curse, rushing not toward the village, but toward the invaders.

The men turned to flee but the water did not let them.

It coiled around ankles, slammed into chests, pulled wires from their tools, snapped floodlights in half.

Some dropped their gear and ran. Others screamed for help.

The man in the grey hood stood still, unmoved.

He raised a device something sleek and sharp and aimed it at the shrine.

The Fire

But before he could strike

A scream rang out.

Not human.

Not beast.

Something older.

The altar burst into flame.

But the fire did not burn red or orange.

It burned blue. Then silver. Then crimson.

The colors of memory reclaimed.

The fire climbed the shrine without consuming it. Instead, it etched.

Every verse ever silenced.

Every name ever erased.

It scrawled them into the stone and smoke, turning the shrine into a living archive.

The hooded man dropped his device. It hissed and melted in his hand.

Then he looked toward the mirror.

And in its surface, his reflection was gone.

Only the Queen stared back.

Her mouth opened.

Not in anger.

In warning.

"You will not bury me again."

Back in the Village

The villagers had gathered.

First in fear.

Then in awe.

Ola stood with Iyagbẹ́kọ, holding the drum. It pulsed in his arms like a second heart. Children clung to their mothers. Elders whispered prayers not uttered since the famine years.

They watched as the shrine glowed.

And then, the rain stopped.

Not slowly.

Instantly.

Silence returned.

But not empty silence.

Listening silence.

And the water, having spoken, withdrew.

Leaving only the destroyed tools, the soaked trucks, and the scorched earth.

No bodies.

No arrests.

Only a question:

What did the river take with her?

In the Ashes

The shrine still stood.

But something was different.

At its base, a new object had appeared.

A mask.

Wooden. Cracked. Mouth open in a frozen scream. Etched along its inner rim were names. Hundreds.

Ola picked it up and gasped.

Each name was one that had vanished from the village's records. From memory.

Forgotten women. Disappeared children. Silenced priests. Unnamed elders.

The Queen had returned them.

In flame. In flood. In memory.

Aftermath

They rebuilt the shrine by morning.

Not out of fear of another attack.

But to remind themselves:

The river was awake.

And she was watching.

The people moved differently after that. With reverence. With rhythm. But also with a strange courage.

They had seen what forgetting could do.

Now, they chose to remember out loud.

Elsewhere

The Shadow Tribunal gathered again.

But only five seats were filled.

The sixth remained empty.

The chairman stared at it with narrowed eyes.

"The shrine held," someone said.

"Yes," he murmured. "And now the myth has teeth."

They argued.

Some wanted war. Others, retreat.

But the chairman knew one thing:

The old world was cracking.

And if they didn't act soon…

The song would become a movement.