Whisper by the river

It started with a leak.

Not water.

Whispers.

Soft, curling through corridors lined with forgotten boxes and dust-choked files. Beneath fluorescent lights and locked vaults, the voices stirred.

A night guard at the National Archive claimed he heard singing from the Restricted Wing D—a room sealed since 1962.

He was laughed off.

Until the next night, when another guard vanished during his shift.

All they found was a trail of wet footprints leading to the iron vault door.

And the phrase etched into the stone wall behind it:

"Memory does not consent to erasure."

Inside the Archive

Ekemini Okoro stood alone in the corridor lined with vaults.

She had once cataloged these shelves.

Now, they glared at her like tombstones.

In her hand: a rusted key retrieved from the lining of an old ceremonial mask sent to the archive during "The Cleansing Decade."

She slid it into the lock of Vault 0-A.

The door didn't creak.

It breathed.

And behind it, darkness that felt alive.

The Vault of Echoes

Inside were scrolls bound in fish leather.

Stone carvings whispering in a dialect older than translation.

And reels of audio tape labeled in red ink:

"Drowned Verses – DO NOT PLAY"

Ekemini did.

And the voice that emerged wasn't just sound.

It was presence.

"We were Queens before they named us witches.

We were mothers before they turned us into warnings.

We sang.

And they made silence a monument."

She fell to her knees.

Weeping.

Not for sorrow.

But for recognition.

Leak #1: The Scholar's Dream

The first leak appeared on an anonymous academic forum.

A grainy clip of an interview recorded in 1979.

A woman in white. Her face veiled.

Her voice clear:

"They erased Ẹ̀nítàn because her myth was too honest.

Because she demanded not worship—but accountability.

The Archive holds her final decree.

And if it's ever heard again, the people will no longer fear their past.

They will claim it."

The clip was deleted within hours.

But it had already been downloaded.

Reposted.

Remixed.

Believed.

Leak #2: The Drowned Catalog

Three days later, a package arrived at Obade's community center.

No return address.

Inside: an archive ledger.

Stamped: CONFIDENTIAL – MYTH CORRECTIONS UNIT

The entries cataloged dozens of names:

Ọdẹ̀mírọ̀ – "Erased. Influence over flood myths."

Ibironke – "Removed. Refused to conform to cleansing narratives."

Ẹ̀nítàn – "Classified. Symbol of insurrection. Status: Dormant."

In the margins, a handwritten note:

"These are not myths.

These are histories with breath.

And they're waking up."

The Archive Cracks

Across the country, more began to surface:

A schoolteacher in Benin City uncovered a textbook draft with entire chapters on water queens, censored in red pen.

A journalist in Ibadan found a reel labeled Ẹ̀dá Ọmọdé: Songs of the River Children in a mislabeled box.

A librarian in Port Harcourt opened a sealed cabinet and found water dripping from the shelves—though the roof had not leaked.

The myth wasn't just being remembered.

It was remembering itself.

The River's Message

In Obade, Èkóyé walked alone by the river's edge.

The water shimmered.

A fragment of a scroll floated ashore, soaked but legible.

He held it up to the light.

It read:

"When the last archive burns,

and the children begin to dream in tongues not taught,

the river shall rise.

Not to drown,

but to testify."

He turned to Ola.

"It's happening. We're not alone anymore."

Ola nodded.

"No. The Archive itself is on our side."

In the Tribunal

Panic.

Files disappearing. Hard drives wiped.

Dreams haunted by drums no white noise could silence.

A board member woke to find a mural—one he did not paint—covering his office wall.

It showed the face of a queen with eyes closed and mouth open.

And underneath it: a single word.

"Restore."