They came at night.
Not through the main road, but the old path through the forest
the same one Kareem, Amaka, and Ola had used to find the Final Drum.
Dark cars. Covered plates.
Men in expensive silence.
Eyes that had never seen the river as sacred only as a tool.
The Descendants of the Pact had returned.
And they were not here to talk.
Meanwhile, in Obade…
The villagers were gathering again but this time, it wasn't just to speak.
They were preparing.
Old drums were brought out not the cursed ones, but the ancestral ones.
Symbols were painted on doorposts in white clay and coal.
The women lit fires and sang low songs passed down through blood, not books.
And Ola?
He dreamed.
In his vision…
He stood in the river again
but it was dry.
Skeletons lined the banks.
The sun was blood-orange.
And at the center stood a woman with no face, beating a drum of human skin.
Every strike from her hand made a scream echo across the land.
Then she stopped and looked at Ola.
"They will try to kill me again," she said, her voice layered with a thousand tongues.
"And this time, they will not use water… they will use fire."
He woke up gasping.
The river outside was boiling.
Kareem burst in.
"They've arrived."
He tossed Ola a cloth satchel. Inside was the painted jawbone.
"She said you'd know what to do with it," Kareem said.
Ola stared at it, heart pounding.
He did.
On the edge of the village…
The first car rolled up.
Men in suits stepped out—led by a tall one with silver rings and dead eyes. His name was Chief Olanre, a direct descendant of the colonial protectorate that had sealed Ìyá Mú's mouth centuries ago.
He looked around at the villagers—drums in hand, fire behind them, faces marked with old symbols.
"You think this goddess will protect you?" he sneered.
"She was meant to be forgotten."
Kareem stepped forward, calm.
"No. She was meant to be respected. You broke that. And now… she remembers."
Olanre chuckled.
"Then let's remind her who holds power."
He raised his hand
And from the trucks behind them, men poured out. Armed. Trained.
But as they stepped forward
The river rose.
Not just in water. In form.
Ìyá Mú emerged not as a phantom now, but as flesh born of rage, roots, and memory.
Behind her, spirits of the drowned rose beside the living women, children, even the lost fisherman. All silent. All watching.
She raised her hand.
"You sealed my mouth once. You turned my body into music.
Now
Listen to the final verse."
Ola stepped beside her, holding the jawbone high.
The wind stopped.
The earth trembled.
Then he struck the drum once.
Not to summon her.
But to release her.
The sound was not a beat.
It was a name.
Her true name.
Òmírìn.
The One Who Remembers.
And the moment it rang out
The fire Olanre's men tried to use turned against them.
Their bullets melted.
Their mouths sealed.
Their memories flooded with every death they had covered.
They dropped their weapons, one by one, falling to their knees.
Not because they believed.
Because they had been seen.
Ola turned to the villagers.
"It's done."
But Ìyá Mú, now whole, whispered back:
"No. It has only begun.
The curse is broken…
But now comes the healing.
And healing demands truth."