The Last Verse

The village of Obade had fallen into silence once more.

But this time, it was not out of fear.

It was reverence.

The kind of quiet that blankets a sacred place. The kind of hush that precedes a storm, not in dread, but in respect. All who had heard the name Ẹ̀nítàn now carried it in their hearts like a sacred ember fragile, powerful, and impossibly old. Even the river, once restless and churning with unspoken truths, seemed to flow with deliberation, as if it too had remembered a forgotten name from its depths.

At the center of the village, in a hut older than most remembered, Iyagbẹ́kọ sat cross-legged before an ancient woven mat. Her hands moved slowly, laying out brittle scrolls, etched calabash fragments, and slivers of ceremonial gourds carved with markings now nearly extinct. Each object bore a whisper of the past memories preserved in texture, rhythm, and silence.

The fire nearby cast flickering shadows against the mud walls, illuminating the deep grooves on Iyagbẹ́kọ's face, each one a story, a scar, or a secret. She looked up at Ola and Èkóyé, who sat beside her, listening intently.

"There was a song," she said, her voice soft as parchment. "Not a hymn. A prophecy. Hidden inside a lullaby passed from voice to voice three verses, woven like threads. But one…" she paused, eyes glinting with the weight of lost time, "...one verse was lost."

Ola leaned forward. "Do you remember any of it?"

Iyagbẹ́kọ nodded slowly and closed her eyes.

And then she sang.

Her voice was raspy but melodic, shaped by age yet cradling a haunting tenderness. The lullaby's rhythm felt like a cradle rocked by the tides of memory.

"I was born where silence weeps,

In water's breath and memory deep.

Strike not the rhythm of broken sleep,

Lest song be drowned and sorrow keep…"

She stopped.

"That was the first verse," she said. "The warning. A caution to keep the sacred silence unbroken. To leave the Drowned One undisturbed."

Ola felt the hairs on his neck rise. The lines echoed what he had seen in the vision Ẹ̀nítàn, radiant and pleading, warning the people not to strike the forbidden rhythm.

Iyagbẹ́kọ shifted a few scrolls aside and retrieved another calabash shard, tracing the faded carvings with her thumb.

"The second verse," she said, her voice trembling slightly, "was the binding. The covenant formed after she was buried."

She inhaled deeply and sang again, this time the rhythm heavier, more ceremonial like an oath recited at the edge of ruin.

"Drum the beat with open hand,

And mark the oath with sacred sand.

If you forget, the water will stand

Not still… but against every land."

Èkóyé whispered, "Not still… but against…" and looked at Ola. "That's what she's doing now."

"Not just can do," Iyagbẹ́kọ murmured, "will do. If she's forgotten again."

The wind shifted. A breeze, uninvited, slid through the seams of the hut, circling the mat like a watchful spirit. The fire guttered. Papers rustled. Scrolls fluttered like startled birds.

Iyagbẹ́kọ stiffened. She didn't move. "There was a third verse," she said after a moment. "Said to be the key to her forgiveness, if she ever woke again. A final piece never spoken aloud in Obade. It was either lost… or hidden."

"And without it?" Èkóyé asked.

Iyagbẹ́kọ's reply was slow, and heavy with dread.

"She won't just drown this village. She'll drown every voice that ever tried to silence her. All lands, all rivers, will echo her sorrow."

Suddenly, the fire surged high, casting a brief flare of golden light across the scrolls. One page fluttered out from the pile and landed at Ola's feet.

His fingers moved instinctively, catching the fragile parchment before the flames could reach it.

And there faint, but intact was writing.

Not in ink, but singed into the page by an old ritual burning. The letters shimmered slightly in the light.

Ola's eyes scanned the lines.

Then, with breath held, he read aloud:

"If her voice you truly seek,

Find the tears she could not speak.

Kneel where moonlight cracks the peak—

And offer back the song made weak."

Silence fell, more profound than before.

Even the fire paused its crackling, as if the verse had frozen time.

Èkóyé whispered, "The last verse…"

Iyagbẹ́kọ nodded solemnly. Her hand rested on her chest, over her heart. "The verse of return. The one meant to be sung only when the world was ready to hear her again."

Ola stared at the parchment, the words sinking into him like stone into water.

"'Find the tears she could not speak,'" he murmured. "What does that mean?"

Iyagbẹ́kọ's eyes lifted toward the ceiling beams, as if seeing beyond them. "Her grief was sealed her voice buried. The tears she wasn't allowed to cry still lie in the land. According to legend, there's a place near the river cliffs… a stone cleft by moonlight, where the songbearer once wept alone."

Èkóyé narrowed her eyes. "The Cleft Rock."

"Yes," Iyagbẹ́kọ confirmed. "Where moonlight splits the cliff above the river. That's where her final voice was laid to rest. Her last cry. Her final note."

"And if we find it?" Ola asked.

"You must kneel," she said. "Not as warriors, not as saviors but as those willing to carry her sorrow. Only then may she listen."

The fire resumed its crackling, soft again, like a heartbeat returning to rhythm.

Ola rose to his feet, his resolve solidifying like drying clay.

"Then we leave by dawn."

Èkóyé stood beside him. "How far is the Cleft Rock?"

Iyagbẹ́kọ closed her eyes. "Half a day's walk. North-east, through the whispering woods. It lies beyond the Crooked Stream, past the old shrine where no birds sing."

Amaka, who had been standing quietly in the doorway, stepped forward now, her expression tight. "I'll prepare food and lanterns. You'll need both."

Ola gave her a grateful nod.

Iyagbẹ́kọ began carefully wrapping the scrolls and broken gourd fragments again. "Take the twin drums. And remember if she begins to rise before the verse is complete, do not run."

"Why?" Èkóyé asked.

"Because she'll know you still fear her," Iyagbẹ́kọ replied. "And fear is not an offering. It's an insult."

They nodded.

The hut grew quiet as preparations began. Outside, the village was still awake faces peering from behind reed walls, children pressed against mothers, elders watching the river as if waiting for it to blink. No one spoke, but everyone understood:

This was the final night before the reckoning.

Before sunrise, Ola stood at the village edge. The sky was a bruised gray, the moon still lingering, reluctant to set.

He carried the broken drum over his back, wrapped in linen and memory. Èkóyé carried the twin slightly smaller, but pulsing faintly with a warmth she could feel through her fingers. It was as though the drum knew it was returning to the one who had first shaped it.

Iyagbẹ́kọ stood between them, placing a hand on each of their shoulders.

"Say her name when you reach the rock," she said, her voice nearly breaking. "Sing the last verse without pride. Without fear. And above all do not lie."

Ola nodded. "We'll return."

Iyagbẹ́kọ looked away. "I hope so."

As they disappeared into the morning mist, the river gave a low hum.

Not threatening.

Not welcoming.

Just waiting.