The dawn spilled over Obade like a fragile promise—pale gold and soft mauve bleeding across the sky, hesitant as a breath held too long beneath water. It touched the village slowly, uncertain whether the day would bring blessing or curse, hope or despair. The houses, worn by seasons and stories, stood in patient silence beneath the dim sky, their weathered walls and creaking roofs like the hands of time itself—reaching out, grasping for something lost to the years.
Ola sat on the cracked doorstep of the meeting hall, the rough wood pressing against his palms, grounding him even as his mind spiraled through the night's heavy echoes. His eyes roamed over the faded symbols carved deep into the wooden frame—ancient marks left by elders long gone, promises made in whispers and oaths, some kept, others broken and buried beneath years of silence.
The meeting hall still held the ghost of last night—an oppressive stillness thick with the weight of words spoken in trembling voices, and those swallowed whole, turned to cold stone beneath the crushing force of fear. The air inside seemed charged with regret, with truths long buried pressing upward, clawing for light.
But the woman they had left behind—the one who dared to speak what others silenced—was a shadow in his mind. Her wrists had been bound, her head bowed with a quiet dignity that shattered the room like thunder. Her voice had carried defiance and truth in equal measure, shaking the elders into silence even as it threatened to unravel their carefully maintained order.
Her image haunted him now: the steady calm of her resolve in the face of a judgment she could not escape. And the elders' faces—cold, grave, etched with the weariness of years spent looking away, of complicity silently kept in the folds of their robes. Their guilt was a living thing, a river running deep beneath the surface of the village's collective memory.
He could still hear Èkóyé's voice, cutting through the darkness like a blade pressed to raw skin: "They stayed silent not just out of fear, but by choice. And that choice has a price."
The words dug into his chest, carving a hollow ache beneath his ribs. How many had looked away? How many had swallowed the truth whole because the river's curse—the relentless reckoning—felt safer than the chaos of justice? How many had chosen silence because it was easier than facing the pain, the shame, the cost of remembrance?
A soft step broke the heavy quiet. Èkóyé approached, her presence as steady and unwavering as the earth beneath their feet. Her dark eyes caught the pale light of dawn, reflecting a sharp resolve that brooked no argument or denial. There was no softness in her gaze—only the cold clarity of one who had seen too much and refused to look away again.
"You look like you carried the whole night on your shoulders," she said quietly, her voice a thread woven from care and challenge.
Ola exhaled slowly, the tension in his shoulders easing just a fraction. "Maybe I did," he admitted, voice low. "Maybe all of us did."
They fell into a companionable silence, walking side by side toward the river's edge where the reeds swayed softly in the morning breeze. The scent of wet earth mingled with the sharp tang of smoke from the dying fires of last night. The river itself lay still—an unbroken mirror reflecting the trembling sky, holding the weight of memory and the burden of forgetting in its cool depths.
Ola's thoughts drifted to the masks—the living remnants of fear and sorrow that grew from the river's dark soil. Each mask carried a name, a story, a debt that would not be left unpaid. They were not merely objects; they were entities, hungry and restless, breathing curses into the wind and waiting patiently for the names of the living and the dead alike.
Èkóyé's fingers absentmindedly played with the worn beads around her neck—each one a prayer, a protection, a whispered wisdom passed down by Iyagbẹ́kọ herself. "The Watcher's mark is spreading," she said softly, eyes never leaving the river. "It touches more now, grows heavier on those who carry the weight of silence."
Ola clenched his fists, nails biting into the rough fabric of his wrapper. "The masks will come for more than just names soon. They'll come for the stories we've hidden, the wounds we refuse to heal."
Her nod was slow, heavy with unspoken understanding. "And if we are not ready, those stories will consume us. The river will demand its due."
They paused at the water's edge, where the river lapped gently against time-worn stones. The reeds bowed in a silent hymn, their rustling a soft susurration against the stillness that wrapped the world like a shroud. Ola watched a ripple chase the surface—an ephemeral echo of movement beneath the calm, as if the river itself was breathing, alive with secrets and waiting.
"The river remembers," he said quietly, almost to himself. "Every name. Every silence. Every lie."
Èkóyé's gaze sharpened, her voice low and certain. "And it does not forget."
The river was more than water. It was memory—judgment, mercy, wrath—all at once. It held the songs of ancestors and the cries of the betrayed, waiting for the day when the voices buried beneath would rise again like a storm breaking through a long drought.
Ola's breath hitched, the weight of his own failures and fears pressing down. "What if the voices are too many? What if the river's memory drowns us all?"
"Then we learn to listen," Èkóyé said steadily. "Not just hear, but truly listen. To the river, to each other, to the parts of ourselves we try to hide."
He swallowed hard, the knot of doubt tightening in his throat like a noose. The river was a mirror—sometimes cruel, sometimes mercilessly clear—but always truthful. To face it was to face himself, to confront the cowardice, the courage, the names he had held back in the dark for far too long.
The morning grew brighter, the sky pulling away the last threads of night as villagers began to stir in distant huts. Their eyes were heavy with unspoken fears and quiet desperation. Somewhere, a child cried—a raw, sharp sound breaking through the fragile calm like a wound opening anew.
Ola reached into the folds of his wrapper and touched the faint imprint beneath his skin—the Watcher's mark glowing faintly, a slow pulse of power and burden alike. It was a reminder that the story was no longer his alone to bear.
"We cannot wait for the river to call us," he said finally, his voice steady with newfound resolve. "We have to speak first."
Èkóyé's gaze softened just a little, though the fire in her eyes remained—a fierce, unyielding flame. "Then we speak. Together."
He looked back toward the village, toward the faces hiding behind tired eyes and guarded smiles. They would have to be ready. Ready to face what silence had allowed to fester—the betrayals, the scars, the names left unspoken.
Because the river was patient. But it was not merciful.
The village slowly came to life under the fragile morning light, the weight of the night's reckoning settling like dust over everything. Mothers stirred children awake; elders moved with slow, deliberate steps. The air was thick with an unspoken tension, as if everyone held their breath against an unseen storm.
Ola and Èkóyé walked through the waking village, their footsteps soft on the dirt paths that wove between huts and gardens. The eyes that met theirs carried questions, unspoken but clear. What now? How do we carry what has been revealed? How do we heal what has been broken?
At the center of the village, the circle of stones from last night lay scattered with offerings—reed baskets, twisted vines bound with beads, river clay pressed into shapes that spoke of mourning and hope. The river's voice echoed faintly in the wind, a call to remembrance and reckoning.
Ola stopped by the circle, running his hand over a basket filled with wildflowers—fragile things, beautiful yet fleeting.
"We have to find the courage to speak in the daylight," he said, voice steady but low. "Not just in the safety of night's shadows."
Èkóyé nodded. "The river demands the truth in the light as much as in the dark. The weight of unspoken truths grows heavier with every day we wait."
A child ran past them, laughter ringing clear and innocent, a sharp contrast to the heaviness that hung in the air. For a moment, Ola felt a flicker of something he thought he had lost—hope.
But the river's memory was long, and its reckoning would not be hurried.
He looked toward the water once more, the pale sun glinting on its surface like shattered glass.
"We speak first," he repeated, the words a quiet vow. "Before the river has to remind us."
And with that promise, the day began.