The Song That Was Buried

The moment Iyagbẹ́kọ whispered the name Ẹ̀nítàn Ola's world shifted.

The name was a stone dropped into a still pool, sending ripples through every layer of his being. It echoed inside his skull, down his spine, into the soles of his feet. It was not just a name it was a memory, a rhythm, a door.

He staggered, clutching his chest as the earth tilted beneath him.

Not physically but spiritually. Reality bent like heated iron, the firelight warping, the ground pulsing in rhythm with something unseen. The air thickened.

Then he heard it.

A sound.

Not thunder.

Not the river.

Singing.

Soft. Wounded. Ancient.

It came from nowhere and everywhere. From beneath the soil. From the trees. From his own heartbeat.

The fire blurred. The edges of the world trembled like water disturbed by breath.

Ola's vision dimmed and then extinguished completely.

He opened his eyes to a sky split with lightning.

But this was not Obade. Not now.

He stood beneath a stormy sky, the clouds swirling like they too were watching. The air smelled of new earth and river clay. A drumbeat echoed in the distance not warlike, but solemn. Ritualistic.

He was not alone.

All around him stood figures dressed in ceremonial robes, adorned with shells, leaves, and river-painted clay. They moved in slow, reverent circles along the banks of a mighty river. Its current, clear and fierce, shimmered in the storm's light.

These people he recognized them somehow. Not their faces, but their presence. They were his blood. His root. Ancestors.

At the center of their sacred formation stood a woman.

She radiated presence, like the river had grown arms and stood upright. Her posture was tall and regal. Her skin gleamed bronze, her hair braided and wrapped in river reeds and gold wire. In her hands, she held a drum no ordinary instrument, but a golden cylinder carved from sacred iroko wood, etched with ancient glyphs that glowed faintly.

The drum pulsed with energy.

So did she.

She began to sing.

But her voice was not of celebration.

It was warning.

"Do not break the silence.

Do not strike the cursed rhythm.

Do not awaken what sleeps."

The villagers fell still.

Even the wind seemed to listen.

Ola's breath caught as he looked upon her this woman with fire in her eyes and sorrow in her voice.

Ẹ̀nítàn.

He knew her without needing to be told. This was her. Before the sorrow. Before the songs turned to silence. Before she became what they now feared.

Her song echoed across the valley.

It was not a lullaby. It was a plea.

And then he saw it.

How it unraveled.

How the river was betrayed.

Some of the villagers young, ambitious, drunk on their own cleverness stepped away from the circle. They carried smaller drums, etched with foreign designs. Their robes were bright, too bright. Their feet moved too fast, their smiles too proud.

One of them called out:

"Why should we fear what gives us life?

Let us strike the rhythm and bring harvest early!"

Another laughed, banging his drum in defiance.

Tóh! Tóh! Tóh!

The rhythm was off. Jagged. Ugly.

Others joined in.

Even as the elders cried out. Even as Ẹ̀nítàn raised her hand.

Even as the river itself began to retreat, pulling back like breath before a scream.

But it was too late.

The sacred rhythm meant to align with the river's heartbeat had been violated.

They had played the cursed rhythm.

The sky split open with a shriek.

Lightning forked across the clouds like ancestral fury. Rain poured like blood from the heavens.

The river convulsed.

Its banks exploded outward, waves surging like arms reaching to pull down what dared forget its laws. The villagers panicked, some fleeing, others freezing in place. The drums fell from their hands.

And from the depths of the river, a figure rose.

Not slowly.

Violently.

Cloaked in grief. Humming a broken melody.

Hair dripping with kelp and pain. Skin torn by silence. Eyes that held the memory of betrayal.

Ẹ̀nítàn.

But… changed.

No longer the queen of song. No longer the keeper of sacred rhythm.

She was the embodiment of the river's pain. She was the cry of all things silenced. The echo of every forgotten name.

Ola watched, powerless, as the villagers fled in terror. Some tried to fight. Others tried to plead.

But the rhythm was already broken.

What they had awakened could not be chained.

Not with iron.

Not with prayer.

Not with regret.

Ola stumbled backward. His chest felt tight.

She turned her gaze on him.

Not in accusation.

But in recognition.

As if she saw through him through time, through blood, through memory and into the hollow left by generations of silence.

He tried to speak.

But the vision shattered.

He awoke with a gasp.

His body jerked upward from the ground, chest heaving, sweat running down his brow.

The fire still burned beside him, though lower now. Shadows danced across the trees. He could hear the hum of night insects again.

And two figures leaning over him.

Èkóyé and Iyagbẹ́kọ.

Ola's mouth moved before his thoughts could catch up. "I saw her."

Iyagbẹ́kọ's eyes narrowed with knowing. "What did she show you?"

He wiped his face with trembling hands. "She warned them. She sang to protect them. But they didn't listen."

He swallowed hard, voice low. "They struck the cursed rhythm."

Èkóyé's face twisted. "So it was true…"

Ola's voice dropped. "She wasn't always darkness."

"No," Iyagbẹ́kọ said, barely above a whisper. "She was our voice. And we silenced her."

Ola's gaze turned to the river in the distance. The current seemed still too still.

"But it wasn't just the rhythm," he continued, piecing the vision together. "They changed the purpose. The drums became tools of pride. Of power. They forgot."

Èkóyé sat back on his heels, stunned. "Then maybe… to stop her… we don't fight."

Ola looked at him.

"Maybe…" he said, eyes distant.

"…we listen."

Iyagbẹ́kọ's voice was steady now. "The river does not destroy without reason. It only reflects. What it shows is what we've hidden."

Ola's hands curled into fists, then slowly relaxed.

"She became what we feared," he said, "because we made her fear herself."

A long silence followed.

Then Iyagbẹ́kọ stood, gripping her staff. "The name has been spoken. The path has opened. Now you understand why it must be you."

Ola turned to her.

"Because I saw her?"

"No," she said softly. "Because you heard her."