Rerẹ́’s Choice
The morning after the waters receded, silence returned.
Not the brittle kind that follows fear.
This silence was full.
Heavy.
Sacred.
The kind that listens.
And waits.
The Drum of Decision
In Obade, the sacred drum platform was swept clean.
Three gourds rested on it:
One filled with water from the risen river.
One filled with ash from the old Archive.
And the last, sealed—containing a single breath, saved since the day the Third was named.
Rerẹ́ stood before them.
Eyes closed.
Heart steady.
She had dreamed the same dream for six nights:
A path made of braids.
A voice whispering: "Not all Keepers wear age."
And a face—young, untried, but listening.
Council of the Triad
In the dream-space of memory, she knelt before the Three Queens.
Ẹ̀nítàn, voice steady. Ẹ̀jìrẹ́, fire glowing. Ẹ̀lúru, stillness alive.
They said nothing.
They only watched.
Waiting to see if she would choose with tradition—or with truth.
The Candidates
Obade had always chosen Keepers through bloodlines.
Daughters of prior priests. Sons of drum-holders.
But this time, tradition could not hold the river's rhythm.
So Rerẹ́ called forward three children.
Not heirs.
Not initiates.
Just listeners.
Asha, the girl who woke crying every night for names she never learned.
Fọlárìn, the boy who could speak to water as if it answered.
And Kẹ́hìndé, the quiet one, who heard songs in silence and walked barefoot through memory.
The Test
She did not question them.
She did not lecture.
She placed each child before the sealed gourd and asked only:
"What do you hear?"
Asha wept. "I hear mothers humming, far below."
Fọlárìn laughed. "It's rhythm! A dance I've never seen, but somehow know."
Kẹ́hìndé said nothing.
He sat.
Waited.
Then whispered: "It's not just a sound. It's a story trying to be born."
The Choice
Rerẹ́ turned to the gathered circle.
She placed her staff before Kẹ́hìndé.
The boy did not flinch.
He stood.
"You are not Keeper because you know everything," Rerẹ́ said.
"You are Keeper because you are still enough to hear what others silence."
The people bowed—not to authority.
But to witnessing.
The Sealing and Unsealing
The sealed gourd was placed before Kẹ́hìndé.
He took a breath.
Opened it.
A wind swept through the village.
Soft. Warm. Uncoiling.
And in its center, a name drifted upward—one no one had ever spoken aloud.
Not a queen's.
Not a villain's.
A child's.
The first ever buried by the Archive for dreaming out loud.
The first Keeper who never got to speak.
And now, through Kẹ́hìndé, she was heard.
The River Approves
The water near the ceremonial platform shimmered.
A ripple moved upstream.
Fish leapt in spirals.
Trees hummed low.
The river did not roar.
It nodded.
And then fell still.
Final Lines
Rerẹ́ stepped back.
Her staff now only wood.
Her role complete.
As Kẹ́hìndé stood in her place, eyes closed, head lifted, mouth parted not in command—but in invitation.
The river had remembered.
And now, the Keeper would listen forward.