Chapter: 11
There had once been a flame in Iduoma.
A fire that burned during naming rituals, marriages, and ancestral offerings.
But the elders had smothered it long ago—out of grief, fear, and shame.
Now, that fire burned again…
Not in the center of the village.
But in Amira's chest.
The Council of Iduoma
The summons came at dawn.
Six robed elders stood in a semicircle beneath a wide palm canopy, carved staffs in hand. Their eyes were sharp with age, their lips sealed by generations of silence.
"You were not invited," said Elder Ekon, voice cold. "We neither seek your rituals nor your stories."
Amira met his gaze without fear.
"But your children dream of my name," she said. "And your silence is rotting their tongues."
Gasps rippled. One elder stood abruptly.
"You speak treason!"
"I speak truth."
"Truth kills."
"Truth heals."
A long silence.
Then, Elder Nwogu, the oldest among them, leaned forward.
"We will allow one ritual. One night. One flame. After that, you leave."
Amira nodded.
"Then may that flame remember what your hearts forgot."
The Old Altar Unearthed
Obinna led Amira and Elias to a secluded hill just beyond the yam fields.
There, buried beneath overgrowth and vines, lay the ancestral altar—a stone circle engraved with glyphs now nearly invisible. It had once been the heart of Iduoma's spiritual life.
Together, with quiet reverence, they cleaned the altar.
They placed the five stones Amira had received from the vision into the center.
One by one, they began to glow.
"They remember," Elias whispered.
The Night of the Flame
Word spread.
Despite threats of punishment, hundreds gathered beneath the tangerine sky, as twilight bled into night.
Amira stood at the center of the altar. She wore a red-and-white wrapper, her hair braided with cowries. The girl with no name stood beside her, her hand gripping Amira's tightly.
Obinna lit the ritual fire with the ancient flint.
A strange wind swirled.
The flames burned blue.
Then… the names came.
Softly at first, from old women clutching faded amulets.
Then from the children, singing in a tongue no one had taught them.
"Nnena… Obiajulu… Ifedayo… Amira…"
Even the guards who had once banned language stood frozen—some weeping, some whispering names of mothers they'd buried in unmarked graves.
The fire pulsed with every name.
Then came the final voice:
Elder Nwogu.
"Chibundu," he said, his voice cracking. "My son. I buried you in silence. Forgive me."
Visions in Flame
As the flames danced, Amira saw visions:
A woman drowning in a red river—but smiling.
A boy drawing a map with blood, pointing at the stars.
A massive baobab tree with hundreds of glowing names etched into its trunk.
The whispers grew louder—not threatening, but welcoming.
And then, silence fell.
Not from fear.
But from reverence.
The flame died down on its own.
In its ashes lay something small and round—an onyx amulet carved with the symbol of unity: two hands wrapped around a drum.
Amira picked it up.
She didn't speak.
She didn't have to.
The Aftermath
The next morning, Iduoma awoke to birdsong again.
Children laughed freely. Elders embraced. Women baked in communal ovens, singing ancestral lullabies once forbidden.
The mango trees bore fruit—golden, ripe, almost glowing.
Amira stood beside Elias, watching them.
"You did it," he whispered.
She shook her head.
"We did. And the ancestors made the path."
Obinna approached.
"There are others," he said. "Villages even farther than mine. Places still buried in silence."
Amira looked down at the amulet in her hand.
"Then we go to them. One by one."