The dawn broke over Obade like a fragile sigh—pale gold tracing the reed beds, gentle mauve light unfurling across the sky. But the village awoke slowly, as though uncertain whether the day would offer grace or judgment. The hush that settled was not peaceful—it was tentative, the sound of hearts not yet sure they could beat freely again.
Ola sat huddled at the threshold of the meeting hall, her legs drawn close and arms wrapped tightly around her torso. The wood beneath her felt solid, grounding her, yet all she could see were the faded symbols carved deep into the frame—words in the old tongue she barely remembered once meant promise, but now they trembled with weight.
The night's shadows clung to her, whispering in silence. A breath, a memory—
She saw her mother's face once more: wrapped in bright cloth, smiling faintly in a moment that felt both real and imagined.
Hallucination born of grief? Or the voices of ancestors calling through time?
Ola gripped her shawl tighter.
Around her, the courtyard was waking too—not with bustle, but with those small, deliberate gestures of people rediscovering their shape after trauma. Lanterns swung gently in tired hands. Figures moved quietly, voices reduced to whispers. No one broke the hush, lest sound crack the fragile balance they all clung to.
Somewhere close by, Iyagbẹ́kọ spoke softly to Èkóyé in a tongue older than the river's legends, syllables measuring out time like drops of water in a carved basin. The words reached Ola's ears as soft echoes—still, anchoring, but not meant for her to understand just yet. She wanted to go over, to ask—what did you say? What is the river telling her?—but something rooted her to the spot.
The courtyard felt layered—folded over itself in history. She could sense the lines of long-gone voices threading through the present. They watched her, too. Their shapes were shadows behind her eyes, but she felt them.
A lantern light drifted past, close enough that she squinted and thought she saw her mother. Whole. Unbent. Waiting.
And then—blink—the image vanished.
The ache in her chest unfurled like smoke. It was more than grief. It was the weight of all the collective stories, hopes, and silences she carried now. Something that was not hers alone but that landed in her, stubborn as the roots of the ancient fig tree.
At last, dawn light bled fully into the courtyard. Those who remained were nearly all older women—keepers of quiet rituals, tasked with tending the altar until the next gathering. Iyagbẹ́kọ released them softly into the new day, her voice gentle, words like a benediction.
Ola watched as they left. Then she moved toward Iyagbẹ́kọ and Èkóyé. Her voice was hushed when she finally spoke.
"What did you tell her?" she asked, nodding toward Èkóyé.
The elder's eyes followed hers, then settled on the girl. Èkóyé stood still, tracing the edge of the altar's carved basin with her fingertips—absorbed in something deeper.
"I told her to listen," said Iyagbẹ́kọ softly. "…not to me, but to what the river is saying now. It does not speak the way it used to. Its voice has changed."
Ola frowned. "Changed how?" Her question came small, but it trembled with everything she felt—incompletely understood, yet urgent.
Iyagbẹ́kọ regarded her steadily. "That is not a question that honors the river—or the silence that has fallen before it," she said finally. "It remembers more than it used to. And it will expect more from those who walk beside it."
The words dropped into her chest, cold and clear. Expect more. Like the river had been weighing their offerings, their secreted names, their betrayal, and return.
Ola let out a breath she didn't know she'd been holding. "Then we'll need to give more." She didn't know to whom she was speaking—Iyagbẹ́kọ, Èkóyé, or the river itself.
The elder's lips curved once, a faint echo of a smile. "We will," she said. "But not all at once. The earth teaches in seasons. We answer in seasons too."
It was a promise—and a warning.
Ola looked toward the river, its surface broken into restless fragments by the dawn light. This was the heartbeat of memory, not just water—but time's mirror, and maybe its judge.
——
The morning stretched warmer, but Obade still moved in reluctant rhythm. The market opened, but the usual clamor was gone. Traders set out produce without the customary shouts. Children followed close to mothers, voices cloak-lighted, learning what to not yet speak.
Everyone carried their eyes differently.
They lingered on Ola sometimes—glancing with something heavy, something changing.
At a stall selling smoked fish, the woman behind it handed over the parcel without meeting her eyes.
"You were in the courtyard last night," the woman said in a low voice—not quite accusation, not quite curiosity.
"Yes," Ola answered gently.
"You saw…?"
Ola met her gaze. "I saw enough."
The woman drew a breath, expression closing like a flower at dusk. "Be well," she offered.
At the far edge of the square, the river's call wove through her senses again—low but insistent, like a thread pulling her forward.
She found Èkóyé crouching at the water's edge. The girl's dress—white but muted—hung heavy, wet to the waist. Her fingertips played with the surface, as if searching for something beneath.
"It's colder today," Èkóyé said softly. "As if it's hiding something."
Ola knelt beside her, warmth of presence in the quiet. "Or keeping it safe," she replied.
They watched as the river moved—pulling surface scum, stray leaves, fragments of silt, and sometimes, something more elusive.
In the long pause, what was unspoken sank into both their hearts.
At length, Èkóyé withdrew her hands. Tiny droplets beaded on her fingertips, slipping down her palms before falling back to the water.
"It's not finished," she said.
Ola didn't ask what she meant. She knew.
As the river carried on—carrying memory, husk of petals, the scent of deep earth—guilt and yearning mixing in its currents—Ola understood something deeper:
Whatever the river gave back this dawn, it could take again.
And now, they had to live, knowing that.