Whisper by the river

The summons came on paper thick as bone.

Embossed with the seal of the Republic.

Public Inquiry into the Cultural Integrity of National Folklore

Date: Immediate

Location: The Grand Judiciary Hall, Abuja

Subjects: Ola Olubùsáyọ, Iyagbẹ́kọ Alárí, Èkóyé Afolayan

Witnesses: Select Children of Obade

The Tribunal called it a hearing.

The people called it a spectacle.

But Ola knew exactly what it was:

A final attempt to reassert silence.

Arrival

They arrived at the capital under tight watch.

News vans clustered like vultures. Protesters clashed on both sides.

Some held signs:

"Silence is Peace"

Others shouted chants:

"Ẹ̀nítàn Lives!" "Remember Her!"

Inside the Grand Hall, the space was cavernous—its marble floors too polished, its chandeliers too bright. A place where truth had long been sanitized to death.

The judges sat behind glass.

Unmoving.

Unblinking.

Above them, a screen flickered with redacted footage and state-approved definitions of myth.

And at the center podium stood Ola.

Alone, at first.

Opening Statement

He took a breath.

Then spoke.

"This is not a myth we carry.

It is a wound.

Wrapped in rhythm.

And if we are here today, it is because the wound still bleeds—

Not because it is false, but because it has never been allowed to heal."

A silence settled.

Until the presiding official asked coldly:

"Mr. Olubùsáyọ, are you saying the River Queen is real? That she speaks? That she… remembers?"

Ola didn't flinch.

"I am saying we do.

And that remembering her is remembering ourselves."

Testimony of the Children

The courtroom shifted when the children of Obade were brought in.

Clean shirts. Bare feet.

They did not cry.

They did not stammer.

One by one, they sang.

Not full songs—just verses.

Each one a different thread of the Queen's truth:

"She was crowned with coral, not chains."

"They called her curse, but she was a mirror."

"She weeps where we buried her voice."

Some in the audience began to weep.

Others turned away.

But no one could say they were lying.

Their memory was too honest.

Too uncoached.

Too clear.

Iyagbẹ́kọ Speaks

She stepped up with her staff.

Eyes firm. Back straight.

"I was once silent too.

Taught to bury the names I dreamed of.

Taught to call sacred things madness.

Taught to forget my mother's drum so the city could sleep easier."

"But I have seen the river part.

I have heard the throne's hum.

And I have followed children braver than soldiers back to truth."

The tribunal shifted uncomfortably.

One of the judges leaned forward.

"So what do you want? Recognition? Reparation? Revolution?"

She smiled softly.

"No.

We want restoration.

And we will no longer ask politely."

The Counter-Witness

Then the government revealed their surprise.

A renowned mythologist flown in from Europe.

An academic with ten degrees and a voice like marble.

He clicked through a slideshow:

"Water goddess archetypes are universal."

"Mass cultural trauma often creates fictive spirits."

"These children may be experiencing inherited folklore misinterpreted as prophecy."

He concluded:

"There is no evidence of a real Ẹ̀nítàn. No physical shrine predating colonial record. No historical inscription that cannot be explained as poetic metaphor."

Ola stood.

He didn't raise his voice.

He simply replied:

"You cannot excavate a song with a shovel."

The Verdict

After hours of statements, contradictions, and legal semantics, the judges recessed.

But outside, the real verdict was already forming.

Crowds of thousands had gathered, humming the Queen's verse.

On rooftops. On buses. In alleyways.

Across the nation, people tuned in—not for law, but for truth.

When the judges returned, they delivered a verdict soaked in compromise:

"No official recognition of the Queen's personhood."

"No endorsement of supernatural claims."

"But no further suppression of oral traditions linked to her."

It was nothing.

It was everything.

Because in refusing to silence the verse…

They had admitted it could not be silenced.

After the Trial

Ola stepped out into the light.

The crowd parted.

A child approached. Held out a shell.

Etched inside it, in delicate handwriting:

"We heard you.

We remember too.

The river flows here now."

And all around them, in the cracks of concrete, water began to rise—softly, gently, carrying petals.

The Queen was listening.

And so was the world.