The River’s Secret : The Coming Darkness

That night, beneath a sky dense with stars stars that burned as if watching from beyond time the old meeting hall in Òbádè came alive for the first time in decades.

The circular structure, built from age-worn timber and clay, had once echoed with song, debate, and the rhythm of community. Now, it bore the quiet rustle of tension. The council had convened, but this was no ordinary gathering. This was a war council dressed in tradition, with elders, youth, and even once-neutral villagers drawn by something larger than themselves: the rising darkness.

At the center of the room, a long woven mat was unrolled, and atop it lay faded maps of the region old drawings inked with tributaries, spiritual sites, and forgotten shrines. A flickering lantern cast long shadows across them, as if even the light was uncertain.

Amáká stood over the map with her arms crossed, her face unreadable. Beside her, Ola's fists were clenched, knuckles pale. Èkóyé sat to his left, eyes narrowed, listening to every word being spoken.

The stranger the man who had stumbled into the square earlier that morning sat on a low stool near the wall, swaddled in dry cloth, face pale but focused. His voice was rough, broken from exhaustion and whatever horrors had chased him through the forests.

"They're called the Nightborn," he rasped, every syllable scraping his throat.

"Creatures twisted by forgotten magic. They walk like men, but they are not men. Eyes like ink. Bones that move wrong beneath their skin. They feed on the river's essence they're drawn to it, like moths to flame. The more sacred the water, the more violently they thirst."

He coughed, then added, "They've already taken two villages near the outer banks. No fires. No survivors. Only silence where people once sang."

A hush fell.

Even the crickets seemed to pause their evening songs.

Ola's jaw tensed. "Why now? Why awaken after all these years of silence?"

The stranger looked at him, gaze hollow. "Because someone touched the rhythm again. Someone entered the heart of the river. The veil has thinned and they can smell it."

Èkóyé inhaled sharply. "So we stirred them… by trying to restore the covenant?"

The man nodded. "They were once guardians too. Twisted by power and greed, long ago exiled beyond the sacred river's edge. But they've been waiting, just like the Guardian warned you. And now… they come to take what was never theirs."

Amáká's face darkened. "If they drink from Ọ̀ṣun's source… it won't just be Òbádè that falls. The balance of the entire region will tip. Rivers will blacken. Spirits will flee. And night will swallow the land without end."

The youngest elder a stooped man named Ọlátúnjí cleared his throat.

"Then what choice do we have? We send our sons and daughters to fight spirits in flesh? The drums are fractured. The shrine is weak. We are too few."

His words sparked murmurs around the room.

Ola slammed his fist against the table, the sound sharp, final. It silenced the chamber.

"No," he said, rising to his feet. "We are not too few. We've faced darkness before. The river has known grief, betrayal, and silence. Yet it endures. And now it speaks again—through us."

He looked around the room, meeting each gaze with fire in his own.

"We have the rhythm. We have memory. That is more powerful than fear."

Èkóyé stood as well. "The river's secret is not just a burden it's a weapon. One forged by truth, suffering, and spirit. But we must learn to wield it."

Amáká placed a steady hand on the map. "We will not send our children to war. But we will prepare them for ritual defense. Rhythm is our shield. Song is our spear."

She turned to the youth gathered at the edge of the hall Aleshọ́rú among them.

"Young drummers, your task is no longer ceremonial. It is sacred warfare. Every beat you learn must carry memory, every chant must echo truth. The Nightborn are deaf to weapons but they tremble at rhythm made holy."

Ola turned to the stranger. "How many days until they reach us?"

The man blinked. "Three. Maybe less. They travel through shadow. They'll strike just before dawn when even light forgets how to rise."

Èkóyé's mind was already turning. "Then tomorrow we return to the shrine. We amplify the rhythm. We speak the names of those lost and call Ọ̀ṣun's gaze to us. She must see our defiance."

Amáká nodded. "And I will prepare the village. Every elder will bless the drums. Every child will know a line of the river's song. We are not preparing for war—we are preparing to remember. And remembrance is power."

The meeting continued deep into the night. Plans drawn in chalk and blood memory. Guard positions. Escape paths for children. Drums assigned. Candles blessed. Sacred herbs divided.

The wind outside howled louder now, carrying with it a sound not unlike laughter—a mockery of drums.

The Nightborn were getting closer.

And they were not afraid.

But for the first time in generations, neither was Òbádè.