Whisper by the river

Lagos did not sleep.

It hummed—loud, oily, impatient. Even the wind carried fumes. Concrete pressed down like memory trying to forget itself. Billboards blinked over flood-swollen gutters. Buses heaved past posters that promised progress but smelled like rust.

And in the middle of it all stood Durojaiye.

He wore the same coat he'd left Obade in, though the river's scent clung to its seams. In his hand: a voice recorder. In his chest: something heavier than fear.

He was not here for justice.

He was here for revelation.

The First Visit

He started with the Ministry of Cultural Affairs.

Not because he believed they'd help—but because he knew they'd panic.

The receptionist didn't meet his eyes. The supervisor smiled too tightly. The Director of Oral Heritage? Gone "on indefinite research."

But when he played the tape—just twenty seconds of Ọmọyẹmi's verse—something cracked in the air.

The intern by the copier dropped her pen and whispered, "My grandmother sang that before she died."

Durojaiye turned toward her. "What did she say it meant?"

The girl looked pale.

"She said it was a warning. That the Queen was listening again. And when the full verse was sung, the liars would drown in silence."

The Rejection

Three hours later, security escorted him out.

The tape recorder was confiscated. His official ID flagged. A quiet call made to someone higher.

But he had expected this.

What he didn't expect was the note pressed into his hand as he exited:

"The songs live in the old library beneath the University. Ask for the seventh shelf. Archive wing D. - E.O."

No name. Just initials.

But he knew who it was.

The Underground Library

He found her hunched over a sea of rotting books, the only light a gas lamp and a cracked laptop covered in chalk dust.

Ekemini Okoro.

Once a professor. Then a folklorist. Now an exile in her own institution.

She didn't greet him.

She simply said, "The Archive of Silenced Songs was locked during the transition to independence. Too powerful. Too feminine. Too ancestral. They feared what truth would do to a young nation's ego."

He laid the broken mask on the table. "Do you recognize this?"

She didn't touch it.

She bowed to it.

"Those names were once prayers," she said. "Before we were taught to forget."

The Leak

Together, they unlocked the seventh shelf.

Inside: scrolls, cassettes, fragile fabrics stitched with hymns in ancient Ìjèbú and forgotten Ìtsekiri dialects. Not just about Ọmọyẹmi. Not just about Ẹ̀nítàn.

But about all the drowned queens.

Over thirty.

Across centuries.

Their voices erased. Their songs buried.

Each one tied to a river.

Each one cut down for singing when silence was more convenient.

Durojaiye recorded every word.

Uploaded every verse.

And sent them—not to officials.

But to the people.

Whatsapp. Telegram. Facebook. Pirate radio.

The story didn't break in headlines.

It spread in verses.

The Response

The first calls came from old women who hadn't spoken in weeks.

Then from children waking with dreams of coral crowns.

Then from market women humming unfamiliar tunes that made strangers weep.

Soon, DJs sampled the Queen's hum beneath protest anthems.

Spoken-word poets ended their sets with a single line:

"She remembered."

And across the city, murals began to appear.

A face rising from the river. Eyes closed. Mouth open.

Singing.

The Countermeasure

The Shadow Tribunal moved swiftly.

They released a documentary calling the Queen a colonial-era fabrication.

They accused Durojaiye of delusion. Filed warrants. Froze his accounts.

They launched a "Save Our Rivers" campaign… without naming any of them.

But they were too late.

Because when a song enters the people's mouth—it can't be recalled.

And this wasn't just song anymore.

It was truth.

Return to Water

Durojaiye stood by the Third Mainland Bridge, looking down at the Lagos Lagoon.

In the waves, he saw not his reflection.

But hers.

Not Ẹ̀nítàn, but another.

One he didn't yet know.

And she was waiting.

There were more songs to find.

More verses buried beneath concrete and currency.

More queens to raise.