Morning came with no sun.
Just clouds heavy with steam from the river's rage. Obade was still, but not from fear—this was the stillness before a storm of memory.
At the center of the village, where the old shrine once stood, the people gathered.
Not for mourning.
Not for prayer.
But for confession.
The Ritual of the Voices
"It must be done," Ìyá Mú had told them, before she vanished again into the mist. "To heal the land, we must call out every mouth that once stayed silent."
So they gathered in a circle.
A sacred drum placed in the center not the cursed one, not her heart, but a new drum, carved by Ola from a tree near the river's mouth.
It bore no symbols. Only scars. Real. Honest. Human.
Each person was to place a hand on the drum and speak only truth.
No force. No accusations.
Just memory.
And the drum would decide whose truth was real.
The first to step forward was Madam Okonkwo, the widow who once owned most of the fishing contracts by the river. She was old. Proud. Silent.
But her hand trembled when it met the drum.
"I knew what they did," she whispered. "I knew girls were going missing. I saw the priest take a child one night and said nothing. I... I feared for my own sons."
The drum groaned beneath her fingers. A low sound, like grieving wood. But it did not crack.
She told the truth.
She wept, and the people embraced her.
The next was Pastor Eli, whose chapel faced the river.
"I preached of heaven," he said, "but never spoke of the hell our ancestors created. I knew about the drums. I knew about the pact. My father taught me to look away."
The drum pulsed. Twice.
But did not shatter.
He, too, had spoken truth.
More came.
Market women. Hunters. The headmistress of the primary school. A man who confessed he once buried a dead girl's bracelet by the tree behind his farm.
One by one, their truths entered the drum.
Some caused it to hum.
Some made it sing.
But then—
The drum cracked.
Not from a lie.
From a silence.
All eyes turned to the woman who had just stepped forward.
She was young. Dressed in city clothes. A stranger.
She didn't give a name.
Just placed her hand on the drum.
And said nothing.
The drum shook beneath her. Split down the side.
Ola stepped forward. "Who are you?"
She didn't answer.
Until her eyes turned completely black, and a voice not hers rose from her chest:
"She walks with me still."
A gasp rippled through the crowd.
It wasn't a possession.
It was a reveal.
Amaka whispered, "She's a vessel…"
And the stranger nodded, finally speaking in her own voice:
"My name is Ifeoma. I am the blood of the drummaker.
My mother hid me.
My father died to protect the silence.
But I never believed in forgetting."
Kareem stepped forward. "Why are you here?"
She looked straight at Ola.
"To give you what's left," she said. "The last voice."
From beneath her coat, she pulled out a tiny wrapped bundle soft, faded skin. Hair woven into a ring. A baby's anklet made of bone.
Ola felt his knees give out.
"That's hers," he said.
"The first girl," Amaka breathed. "The one whose voice was sealed first. The one the river cries for."
Ifeoma nodded. "Her name was Abeni. My great-aunt. The first sacrificed. The song that never ended."
The drum, though cracked, began to hum.
Not from grief.
Not from pain.
From recognition.
Ola placed the bundle in its center.
And for the first time since the river was cursed
It began to heal.
The crack sealed. The wood glowed. The air stilled.
The truth had been named.
And truth has a body.
That night…
The river was calm.
Not silent.
But peaceful.
The people sang not to forget, but to remember.
Abeni's name echoed between the trees.
And Ìyá Mú's spirit danced in the firelight, unseen but known.
Kareem turned to Ola. "Do you feel it?"
"Yes," he said.
"She's resting."
"For now," Amaka added.
Ola nodded.
"But the river never forgets."