The last rays of sun faded behind the hills of Umuaka. The red earth cooled, and the festival market emptied like a calabash draining its last drop. Smoke from cooking fires drifted lazily over the village. Chickens settled into their coops. The drums, once loud and jubilant, now thumped low and slow, like a heartbeat echoing across the land.
Chike sat on the porch of the small mud-brick hut he had rented near the outskirts. The roof creaked softly as the night wind picked up. He could still smell palm oil and roasted maize on his clothes. In his palm lay the kola nut Chief Priest Okeke had pressed into his hand. It was cracked but untouched. He rolled it between his fingers, thinking of the old man's warning.
"When the midnight flute calls, do not answer."
He told himself he didn't believe in such things. But he had never been in a place like Umuaka before. Even the air tasted older here, heavier.
From where he sat, he could see the flicker of torches moving toward the shrines. Villagers carried goats, palm wine, and iron filings as offerings. Women's voices rose in a chant that braided names of the gods:
> "Ogun of iron, strong our hands!
Sango of thunder, shield our homes!
Amadioha of justice, watch our hearts!
Mami Wata of the midnight waters, spare our children, guide our dreams!"
The voices faded into the night as the procession wound down to the river.
---
Amaka knelt by her mat in her father's compound, hands clasped around her amulet. The festival always unsettled her. The drumming, the sacrifices, the whispered laws. She had grown up with them, but since her mother's death the river songs made her skin crawl. She could still see that night in her dreams: the flute, the spiral of water, her mother's scream.
Her stepmother Mama Kika sat nearby, plaiting another wife's hair. She glared at Amaka. "You still dey pray, abi? No prayer go clean your mama sin. Na river take am because she no pure."
Amaka didn't look up. "I no dey pray for my mama. I dey pray for you. Make your tongue no poison you."
The other wives gasped. Mama Kika hissed. "Small pikin. You go follow your mama soon if you no careful."
Amaka stood, tucking the amulet under her wrapper. She had learned to wear pride like armor. Without a word she stepped out into the night.
The compound's courtyard was empty except for a palm oil lamp sputtering in the breeze. Beyond the gate the festival drums pulsed like distant thunder. She walked toward the sound of the river, drawn as always by something she could not name.
---
Chike lay on his mat but could not sleep. The night was too alive. Crickets sang. A goat bleated once, then went silent. Far off, the drumbeats faded, replaced by the soft rush of water. He sat up. His window faced the forest edge. Between the trees he thought he saw a flicker of white cloth moving, gliding rather than walking.
He hesitated, then grabbed his flashlight and stepped outside. "Just a walk," he muttered. "Nothing more."
The path to the river was narrow, lined with plantain trees whose leaves rustled like whispers. In the distance he could see torches — villagers returning from the shrines. A child carried a clay pot of water on her head; an elder sprinkled chalk powder as he walked. Chike kept to the shadows.
Halfway down the path, he heard it: a flute, soft and sweet. Not from the villagers. Not from any instrument he knew. The sound curled around him like mist, beckoning. His skin prickled. He remembered the chief priest's words.
Do not answer.
But his feet moved anyway.
---
Amaka reached the riverbank. The moon hung low, fat and silver. The water glimmered like a snake's scales. She crouched to fill a small gourd but stopped. A shape stood at the edge of the water—a tall man in a simple shirt, his face half in shadow.
"City farmer," she said quietly.
Chike turned, startled. "You shouldn't be here," he whispered.
"I should be telling you that." She stepped closer, eyes narrowing. "You no know law? Nobody dey come here for midnight."
He glanced at his watch. It was just before twelve. "I couldn't sleep. I heard… music."
Her heart tightened. "You hear am too?"
The flute rose again, clearer, the melody like a lullaby and a warning all at once. The water rippled though no wind blew. The trees stilled. Even the crickets fell silent.
Amaka grabbed his arm. "We must go."
But the river glowed faintly, a soft blue light rising from its depths. Shapes moved under the surface, too quick to see. The flute swelled. And then they heard it—a voice, low and melodic, speaking not in English or Igbo but in something older.
Chike's knees went weak. "What is that?"
Amaka's amulet grew hot against her skin. She hissed and pressed a hand to it. "Mami Wata. She dey come out."
The water at the center of the river bulged upward, forming a spiral just like the night Amaka's mother died. From its heart rose a figure—a woman with hair like black water and eyes like moonlight, her body draped in a cloth of shimmering scales. Cowries adorned her wrists. Around her the river bowed, as if in worship.
Mami Wata.
Behind her, thunder rolled though the sky was clear. Somewhere in the forest, a metallic clang rang out—the sound of Ogun's hammer. A streak of unseen lightning cracked in the distance—Sango's warning. The gods were awake.
Chief Priest Okeke appeared at the far bank, staff in hand, chalk dust swirling at his feet. His voice boomed across the water, carrying words older than the village.
"Children of Umuaka! Keep back! The goddess walks! Sacrifice done, law must hold!"
But the goddess's eyes fixed on Amaka. She raised one hand, palm out. The flute stopped. The night seemed to fold inward.
"You," the goddess said—not with her mouth but in their minds. "Daughter of the river. You carry my mark."
Amaka trembled. Chike stepped in front of her instinctively. "Leave her alone!"
The goddess tilted her head, almost amused. "And you, son of iron. You carry destiny you do not understand."
Chief Priest Okeke's staff struck the ground. Sparks flew. "Back to the depths, queen of waters! The midnight law binds you!"
The goddess's smile faded. The river surged. For a moment Chike saw shapes in the water—faces, arms, hair streaming like seaweed. Then the glow dimmed. The goddess lowered her hand.
"Soon," she whispered. "When the moon bleeds, you will come to me."
She sank into the river. The water smoothed. The glow vanished. The flute was gone.
Silence returned.
Amaka staggered back. Chike caught her arm. They stared at the dark river. On the far bank, Chief Priest Okeke lowered his staff and looked straight at them.
"You have broken the midnight law," he said, his voice heavy. "And now the gods will take their due."
Thunder rumbled again, closer this time. The wind rose, carrying the scent of iron and rain. Amaka clutched her amulet. Chike still held the kola nut from the priest, now cracked open in his palm though he had not touched it.
Above them the moon seemed to pulse red for an instant, then faded back to silver.
---
They ran back up the path, not speaking. Behind them the river whispered like laughter.
When they reached the edge of the forest, Amaka finally stopped, chest heaving. "You no suppose follow me. You don't understand this place."
"I'm trying to," Chike said, his voice hoarse. "What was that?"
She shook her head. "Not what. Who. Mami Wata. She don't forget face."
"And the priest?"
"Chief Priest Okeke. He the mouth of all the gods. Ogun, Sango, Amadioha. Even Mami Wata listen sometimes. But not always."
Chike looked at her. "Why did she call you daughter?"
Amaka's eyes darkened. "Because of my mama. Because of what happen that night."
They stood in silence. In the distance, the festival drums started again, slow and ominous.
Chike swallowed. "What happens now?"
She looked at him, her face pale in the moonlight. "Now? We wait. The gods don't warn for nothing."
Above them the iroko tree creaked. Far away, thunder rolled again though no clouds moved.
And somewhere, unseen, a flute began to play.
---
Cliffhanger Ending:
Back in the village, Chief Priest Okeke knelt before his shrine, drawing symbols in chalk. He muttered names: Ogun, Sango, Amadioha, Mami Wata. "They have broken the law," he said to the empty air. "The sacrifice was not enough. The gods will take what is owed."
In the river, a cowrie shell floated, glowing faintly. It sank slowly, leaving ripples shaped like a hand.
And in Lagos, hundreds of miles away, a boardroom clock stopped at exactly midnight.
The gods of Umuaka were awake.