The dawn arrived hesitant and pale, as if it too feared what the day might bring. The sky was a soft wash of gray, blurring the boundary between night and morning, between silence and the voices that had long been buried beneath it. In Obade, the village stirred slowly—almost reluctantly—like a body waking from a long, restless sleep. The kind of sleep haunted by memory, tainted by unspoken truths.
Mist hung over the ground like breath held too long. The earth, still damp from the night's dew, seemed reluctant to release its secrets.
Ola moved through the narrow lanes with deliberate steps, her shadow stretching long and thin before her in the dim light. She wore her plainest wrapper today, ash-colored with frayed edges—a quiet defiance to the expectations that clung to her like spider silk. Each step forward felt like a decision not to turn back. She could feel the weight of unseen eyes, tracking her like a hunted animal or a prophet who had come bearing uncomfortable truths.
Mothers pulled children closer; elders folded their hands tighter beneath ragged shawls. No one spoke her name aloud, but it hovered in the air—bitter on some tongues, sacred on others. Even the river, usually a steady pulse at the village's heart, seemed quieter, as if it, too, was holding its breath.
The river had spoken. The river had demanded reckoning.
And now, in the wake of that night's confrontation, there was no turning back.
At the foot of the ancient fig tree by the riverbank, Iyagbẹ́kọ waited. She sat on the ground with the dignity of someone who knew she did not need to stand to command reverence. Her face was a map of deep lines and quiet resilience—the same face Ola had seen countless times, in dreams and waking moments—softened by years yet sharpened by a thousand memories.
She watched the river, the current flowing like a whispered secret beneath the surface.
"They are afraid," Iyagbẹ́kọ said, her voice low enough to blend with the rustling reeds. "Afraid of the weight the truth will bring. Afraid of the river's breath, and what it carries with it."
Ola settled beside her, feeling the cold seep from the earth into her bones. "But the silence has its own cost. It is a wound that bleeds beneath the skin of this village. A slow poison."
Iyagbẹ́kọ nodded. "It is a poison that seeps into dreams and memory, twisting the stories we tell ourselves about who we are, and who we have been."
From the shadows beneath the fig tree emerged Echo—silent, like her name, yet full of presence. She wore black today. Not for mourning, but for clarity. She moved like water made flesh—fluid, grounded, inevitable.
"We can no longer wait for the others to speak," Echo said, her voice like stone scraping over water. "If we do, the silence will swallow us whole."
Iyagbẹ́kọ's eyes glimmered in the pale light. "The river's breath is long. Its memory deeper than any of us. It will not forget. And it will not be silenced again."
Ola's hand moved to her chest, fingers tracing the faint imprint of the Watcher's mark. It throbbed, a steady pulse that tethered her to something far greater than herself—a rhythm that was both curse and blessing. She closed her eyes and let the slow beat fill her mind, the ancient cadence of life, loss, and the stories that bind the living to the forgotten.
"We carry the names," she said aloud, voice steady despite the tremor in her limbs. "Each one a thread in the tapestry of this place. And with these threads, we have the power to weave a new story—one that does not end in silence."
The wind stirred suddenly, lifting the dry leaves and carrying a faint murmur through the reeds. Ola's eyes snapped open. It was a chorus of whispered names, rising like a tide from the river itself—a call from the past, demanding to be heard.
Iyagbẹ́kọ reached out and laid a hand over Ola's. Her skin was cool but steady, like stone warmed by memory. "The river remembers all who have been silenced. It carries their stories in its depths. And now, those stories seek their voice."
Echo's gaze sharpened, scanning the horizon where the village began to wake. "But those who stayed silent will not give up so easily. The fear that kept them quiet will turn to anger if they feel threatened."
Ola swallowed the dry lump in her throat. "We are walking into a storm."
Iyagbẹ́kọ's expression was grave but resolute. "Then we will face it together. The river's song is old, and its power is in community—those who remember, and those who choose to listen."
Ola looked out over the river, where the light caught the surface in fleeting gleams, and felt the fierce pulse of hope mingled with dread. The path ahead was uncertain, fraught with danger, but also with possibility. Beneath her fear pulsed a quiet rage. It had grown in her like a seed in cracked soil. Now, it was flowering.
As the first villagers began to emerge from their homes, hesitantly stepping toward the day, Ola felt the stirring of something she had not felt in a long time: a sense of purpose anchored deep in the bones of the land.
The silence had been broken.
The village was tense. Every corner seemed to hold its breath, waiting for something to fall—an accusation, a truth, a body. Children no longer played in the dust. Conversations were hushed. Even the birds seemed reluctant to sing.
Ola and her companions moved through the village with the steady pace of mourners at a procession. Not mourning the past, but escorting its return. They met eyes that flickered with fear, resentment, curiosity. Some villagers turned away; others lingered a moment longer, as if searching Ola's face for confirmation of something they dared not name.
In the market square, the old bell tolled slowly—each chime a reminder of the gathering promised in the note. The elders had convened, cloaked in ceremonial red and brown, their faces impassive. They had decided who would speak and who would be silenced.
Ola and Èkóyé stood side by side, their shoulders nearly touching but their hands not quite brushing. The tension between them had shifted since the night before—less of anger now, more of burden shared. He met her gaze briefly, nodding once. No words. They weren't needed.
As the villagers gathered—some reluctantly, others with quiet defiance—the square filled with a heavy, expectant silence.
It was Iyagbẹ́kọ who spoke first, standing before the elders with no fear in her bones. "We are not here to accuse, but to remember. To return voice to those swallowed by the river. To name what has long been denied."
Her voice was old, but it rang like iron striking stone.
A murmur swept the crowd. One of the younger elders—a man named Bàbá Odu—stood. "And what of the danger such remembering brings? We have kept peace—fragile, yes, but peace. Will you now tear it open with ghosts and guilt?"
Ola stepped forward, voice low but unmistakably clear. "Peace built on silence is not peace. It is paralysis."
"You speak as if you know the whole truth," Bàbá Odu said, tone sharp. "But who appointed you its keeper?"
"The river," Echo replied simply, stepping beside Ola. "And the dead."
Gasps. The crowd recoiled, whispers spreading like brushfire.
And then came the names.
One by one, Ola began to speak them—names of the lost, the taken, the forgotten. Children stolen. Women silenced. Men buried in shallow graves behind stories of "accidents" and "bad luck."
The crowd shifted like a single body, uneasy under the weight of those names.
An older woman sobbed openly. A young man clenched his jaw until his teeth ground together. A child asked, "Mama, who are these people?" and received no answer.
"We do not speak these names to break the village," Ola continued. "We speak them so we can rebuild it—with truth, with remembrance, with justice."
A long silence followed. The wind stirred again, this time louder. Not a whisper—but a cry.
Then someone stepped forward. A woman—tall, thin, veiled in indigo—whose brother had vanished ten years prior. She spoke a name. Her voice cracked, but she did not falter.
Another followed. And another.
A tide rising.
Even Bàbá Odu, whose eyes glistened with unshed tears, said nothing more.
In the end, it was not fire or fury that broke the village open—but the sheer, aching power of voices long denied.
Ola turned once more to the river. It shimmered, rippling with light and memory. The wind carried with it not dread, but release.
The silence had been broken.
And now, the healing could begin.