Whisper by the river

It was near dusk when he arrived.

Not by car.

Not by boat.

He walked alone, unannounced, wrapped in a brown wrapper that had once been white.

His beard was heavy with time.

His hands trembled—not from age, but from memory.

He reached the edge of the ceremonial platform, where the children had placed offerings just that morning.

He knelt.

Then whispered:

"Ẹ̀nítàn, forgive me."

The Stranger

Èkóyé was the first to spot him.

From a distance, he looked like another pilgrim, or perhaps a returning relative.

But as the old man rose and began walking toward the House of Listening, the children grew quiet.

One of them—Rerẹ́—tugged Ola's sleeve.

"He carries something heavy," she said. "But not on his back."

Ola turned. His eyes narrowed.

Iyagbẹ́kọ's breath caught.

"Ẹ̀lúwà…"

She whispered his name like a curse she had once vowed never to speak again.

Who He Was

Ẹ̀lúwà Ṣòdìpẹ̀ had once been one of the highest Tribunal elders in the Southern Province.

A keeper of record.

A silencer of myth.

It was he who drafted the edict that made drumming at the river punishable.

It was he who declared Ẹ̀nítàn's voice "a threat to social cohesion."

And it was his signature that sealed the Archive's denial of her existence.

Now he stood before them—unarmed, unguarded.

Ash-smudged.

Eyes hollow.

The Gathering

The courtyard filled quickly.

Not out of curiosity.

But dread.

The people of Obade had learned to forgive many things.

But this?

The children whispered among themselves.

The elders stood in rigid silence.

But Iyagbẹ́kọ walked forward.

She did not shout.

She did not spit.

She simply said:

"You have come to return what?"

Ẹ̀lúwà knelt before her and removed a small bundle from beneath his robe.

A stone tablet, broken in two.

One half bore the final record of Ẹ̀nítàn's testimony—the one no one had ever seen.

The other bore his seal of red wax, now cracked.

He placed them at her feet.

"I broke it before the others could burn it," he said. "But I still chose silence. I chose power."

The Confession

His voice shook as he spoke.

"I was there… when she sang her final verse.

They had already decided.

But I... I heard something in her rhythm.

Not rage.

Not madness.

Truth.

It terrified me.

Because I realized

If we let her voice stand, we would have to answer for what we'd built."

Ola stepped forward, fists clenched.

"You made her a warning. A ghost."

Ẹ̀lúwà nodded.

"Yes. Because a myth is easier to bury than a mother."

The Vote That Buried Her

He told them the full story:

How the Tribunal feared the rising tide of river-women reclaiming ancestral names.

How they drafted a secret law to erase oral testimonies from the Archive.

How they bribed scribes to reinterpret Ẹ̀nítàn's verses as delusion.

And how he, the youngest elder, had been the deciding vote.

He wiped his face with the edge of his wrapper.

"I was praised for protecting the nation. But I have not slept in forty years."

Iyagbẹ́kọ's Response

She did not touch him.

She did not curse him.

She said:

"Your silence was violence.

But this confession—it is not grace.

It is gatekeeping."

"You do not return what was stolen.

You return what you never had the right to take."

He nodded.

"I know. But the river… she told me to come anyway."

The Queen's Answer

That night, the waters stirred.

No thunder.

No quake.

Just a ripple that ran straight to the ceremonial platform.

And from it, a single note rose.

Low.

Mourning.

But not cruel.

And then… the children began to sing.

Not for him.

But through him.

They sang the verse that had been broken.

They stitched it back, not with forgiveness

But with truth.

Final Scene

Ẹ̀lúwà stayed by the river's edge that night.

He did not ask for welcome.

He did not enter any home.

He simply watched the moon on the water.

Ola joined him just before dawn.

He said only this:

"Confession is not healing.

But it opens the door."

Ẹ̀lúwà did not reply.

But he wept.

And the river carried each tear—cataloguing them not as guilt, but as record.