Whisper by the river

The children started singing at dawn.

Not in classrooms. Not in chorus.

In dreams.

And then, they began to draw.

Spirals. Masks. Women wrapped in rivers. Men kneeling before thrones of ash. Symbols no teacher had taught them. Names never spoken aloud.

It was little Sàlú who first said it clearly.

He was six. Quiet. Prone to stuttering.

But when he stepped barefoot onto the old ceremonial platform and whispered:

"Ẹ̀nítàn is not alone…"

The wind shifted.

And everyone listening stilled.

The Visions

Over the next week, it spread like dew.

Children waking with songs in their mouths and tears they couldn't explain.

They called out in dialects forgotten by their own grandparents.

They touched the earth and called it Aya.

They kissed the river and called it Mọ́bílẹ̀.

They named each tree like it was family.

No one had taught them this.

They were remembering what the land remembered.

And it frightened the adults.

The Elders' Dilemma

In the central courtyard of Obade, the elders gathered—beads clacking, foreheads heavy with sweat.

"They are too young," said one. "These are not games."

"They speak with the voices of the dead," said another. "I heard my late sister in the mouth of her grandson."

"They see too clearly," whispered a third. "What we spent our lives unlearning…"

Only Iyagbẹ́kọ remained silent.

Then she rose and spoke.

"The children are not possessed," she said.

"They are returning."

"To what?" someone asked.

"To the story we buried. And the Queen who never left."

The Drawing

Little Nkiruka, age nine, had never spoken more than a sentence at a time.

Then, one evening, she picked up charcoal and began to draw on the wall of her grandmother's hut.

She did not stop for hours.

When she was done, the village gathered to see.

It was a map.

Not geographic.

But spiritual.

A constellation of rivers, shrines, forgotten queens, ancestral drums.

And at the center—

An empty throne.

Not abandoned.

Waiting.

The Preparation

Iyagbẹ́kọ gathered the children one by one.

Not to train them.

But to listen to them.

Each child shared a song. A vision. A warning. A name.

Together, they reconstructed what had been scattered.

A chorus of remembering.

They formed a circle around the old platform and began to drum—not with instruments, but with their palms on earth, on chests, on each other.

Rhythm by rhythm, the air thickened.

And beneath the platform, the Queen stirred.

Not just Ẹ̀nítàn.

But others.

The drowned. The denied. The disappeared.

Their names began to rise again, carried on tiny voices no one had expected.

Elsewhere: The Tribunal Watches

In a darkened surveillance room, the chairman stared at a grainy feed of the children dancing in the moonlight.

He said nothing.

But his jaw clenched.

"They're not supposed to remember," muttered one of the analysts.

"They're children," said another. "What could they possibly know?"

The chairman finally spoke.

"They know enough to wake gods."

He stood.

"It's time for the last measure."

Back in Obade

That night, lightning cracked the sky—not from a storm, but from something deeper.

The river pulsed once.

Twice.

Then the waters rose—not to flood, but to sing.

A song only the children understood.

They lifted their hands.

And began to dance.

Not in joy.

Not in ritual.

But in invocation.

And the throne on the mural began to glow.