Whispers by the river

Rerẹ́ had never been taught how to dream properly.

Her mother once told her that dreams were like baskets: you had to weave them tight so nothing leaked through. Her grandmother had said they were doors—and some doors should stay closed.

But Rerẹ́?

She had always known dreams were drums.

Some you beat.

Some beat you.

The Night It Happened

She slept beneath the open roof of the House of Listening, curled beside the others who now called themselves the Children of the Second River. The stars blinked quietly above them. Somewhere in the distance, the river hummed.

Then—just past midnight—she began to sing.

It started as a murmur.

Then a hum.

Then a song.

She didn't know the language.

But her body did.

And so did the sky.

The Dream

She stood on water.

Not above it.

As it.

Her hands were made of mist. Her skin was scales and sky. Her breath shaped the river's course.

Before her stood a throne of reeds.

On it sat a Queen.

But not Ẹ̀nítàn.

Not Ọláàbíyá.

Not even the first fire.

This Queen was unborn.

She had no name.

No body.

Only intention.

"You've come early," the Queen said. "That's brave."

Rerẹ́ blinked. "Who are you?"

"I am what comes after memory.

I am the story you will one day become."

A Crown of Echoes

The Queen reached out.

She placed a crown—not of coral, not of gold—on Rerẹ́'s brow.

It was made of woven names.

Some Rerẹ́ recognized.

Some she had yet to meet.

"This is not a burden," the Queen said. "It is a chorus."

And then, she leaned close and whispered a verse so old that even the stars seemed to pause.

Rerẹ́ opened her mouth.

And the world inside her began to rearrange.

The Waking

She shot upright before dawn.

Sweat on her skin.

Ash on her fingertips.

Eyes wide with rhythm.

The others stirred.

Èkóyé came quickly.

Iyagbẹ́kọ followed, staff in hand.

Rerẹ́ stood.

She did not bow.

She simply said:

"I have her song."

No one spoke.

The air had thickened.

Even the birds held their breath.

She walked to the center of the house.

And sang.

The Song

There were no instruments.

Only her voice.

It was a child's voice

—high, clear, and ancient.

It sang of:

Rivers not yet born

Names that hadn't been forgotten—just delayed

A Queen who would rise not in fire, but in laughter

It was not the Song of the Remembered.

It was not the Anthem of the First River.

It was the Promise of the Becoming.

And it held the future in every note.

The Aftermath

Iyagbẹ́kọ wept openly.

Not out of sorrow.

But recognition.

Èkóyé fell to his knees, gripping his chest.

Ola whispered:

"We've been looking backward.

But she… she sings forward."

Rerẹ́ Speaks

When the song ended, Rerẹ́ looked at them all.

She was only ten.

But in that moment, she stood like a sovereign.

"The Queen who comes next has no need for crowns.

Only stories."

"She will not rise from drums.

She will rise from daughters."

Iyagbẹ́kọ stepped forward.

Her voice cracked.

"And what is her name?"

Rerẹ́ smiled.

"She has many.

And she is listening through me."

Final Scene

That night, a new drum was carved from a tree struck by lightning.

Rerẹ́ placed her hand on it.

The wood pulsed beneath her palm.

And when she whispered the first line of her dream-song into its hollow heart—

—it answered.

Not with echo.

But with recognition.

The Second River was no longer just memory.

It was inheritance.

And Rerẹ́ was its first daughter.