Whisper by the river

There was a cave beneath the source.

Not on any map.

It opened only for one reason:

When the river called for truth not yet written.

And tonight, it opened for Èkóyé.

The Call

He had not slept since the festival.

Not from fear. Not from unrest.

But because a sound kept reaching him.

Not a drum.

Not a voice.

But something in between.

A breath carried on moonlight.

A pulse inside silence.

He knew what it was.

The final verse.

The one not sung by Ẹ̀nítàn.

Not spoken by Ọláàbíyá.

Not written in any archive.

The Song Beyond Names.

The Descent

At dawn, Èkóyé left his staff behind.

He carried no drum.

Only a gourd filled with riverwater and a sliver of ash from the Queen's broken throne.

The mouth of the cave opened as he approached.

Not with movement.

But with recognition.

As if the earth remembered him.

Inside

The walls pulsed—not with light, but with memory.

Images flickered in water veins:

A woman drowned before her wedding.

A mother locked in the silence of a colonial asylum.

A girl whose name was erased from her own ancestry chart.

And behind them, behind all of them, a shadowed face.

The one who came before names.

The one who bore all grief so others could sing.

The Trial

At the chamber's center was a pool.

Still.

Black.

Deep.

Above it, an arch of riverstone inscribed with no language—only breath patterns.

He knelt at its edge.

A voice echoed—not from the water, but from within him.

"Do you seek the song to wield it?

Or to return it?"

He answered with a whisper:

"To remember her as she is. Not as we needed her to be."

The pool rippled.

And a hand reached out.

Not to grab.

To invite.

The Immersion

He entered the water without struggle.

It pulled him down.

Not quickly. Not cruelly.

But with intention.

He did not drown.

He was undressed.

Not of clothes—but of names.

First his own.

Then his father's.

Then every title, every mask, every certainty.

Until only presence remained.

Then came the voices.

The Choir

They did not sing in harmony.

They sang in contradiction.

One voice mourned.

Another raged.

Another laughed.

Together, they formed the truth of silence.

"We were called myths to make men feel safe.

We were buried in stories shaped by those who never listened.

But still we sang."

And from the center of the pool, a woman emerged.

She had no face.

Only reflections.

A thousand memories lived in her form.

She held a drum.

But it was split.

And she handed Èkóyé one half.

The Song

He did not beat it.

He breathed into it.

A low hum left his lips.

Then a note.

Then a name he did not know he knew.

"Adúké…

Ọmọ Òrìṣà…

Ẹni tí omi fi ké…

Ẹni tí a gbagbé, ṣùgbọ́n tí kò parí…"

The chamber shook.

Water rose in spirals.

The walls shed their illusions.

And beneath them

Tombs.

Not of bones.

But of verses.

Songs interrupted mid-line.

Names stopped before they reached ears.

He touched them all.

And they lit up.

One by one.

The Return

When Èkóyé emerged, the cave closed behind him.

But the wind carried his hum.

Back to Obade.

Back to the Delta.

Back across oceans.

And the world began to dream again.

Final Scene

That night, Ola found him standing at the river's edge.

"You went alone," Ola said.

Èkóyé nodded. "Because the verse was buried alone."

He handed Ola the drum half.

"The rest is for all of us."

And in the moonlight, the water shimmered with lines of song yet to be sung.