Tàní had always spoken too soon.
Too plainly.
Too loud.
Adults told her to hush. That silence was wisdom.
But the day she stepped into the Flame Archive and told her story—her father, her mother's scream, the spirit of silence that clung to them—Obade changed.
Now, the Archive pulsed with names and fire.
And today, the Archive called hers.
The Call of the Flame
It came in the early morning.
Before drums. Before light.
A flicker outside her sleeping mat.
A shadow in the shape of a flame.
And a whisper:
"Come. It is time."
She woke without fear.
Only knowing.
She walked barefoot. No one stopped her.
Not even her mother, who sat silently by the door, tears already falling.
The River Prepared
Iyagbẹ́kọ waited by the riverbank.
Her staff was buried in the sand.
She wore no beads. No feathers. Only ash on her forehead.
Echo stood beside her, nodding once at Tàní as she approached.
Ola held a carved gourd filled with glimmering water—not from the surface, but drawn from the river's deepest memory, where names are born.
And in the center of the bank, the fire-circle had been drawn again.
This time with salt.
The Ceremony of Becoming
Tàní stepped into the circle.
She did not shake.
The villagers gathered. Quiet. Reverent.
The fire within the ring sparked with a soft blue flame.
Rerẹ́'s voice rose:
"Tàní, child of breath and burden.
You who spoke when others swallowed their voices—
Are you ready to be called?"
She nodded.
The wind stilled.
The fire whispered.
And then, Ola poured the sacred water onto the salt ring.
Steam rose in spirals.
And a name emerged:
"Ayọ̀bùkúnmí."
Joy that cannot be hidden.
The Meaning of the Name
Iyagbẹ́kọ turned to the village.
"She carries the memory of pain.
But also the rhythm of healing.
She is the first child of the Flame Archive.
And she shall no longer be unnamed."
Tàní—Ayọ̀bùkúnmí—stepped forward.
She did not smile.
She simply lifted her chin.
"I will carry the stories that burn.
And teach others not to fear their fire."
A Drum of Her Own
Echo handed her a small drum.
Woven with river reeds.
Etched with symbols of listening and defiance.
Rerẹ́ spoke softly:
"Do not let anyone ever tell you to hush again."
And Ayọ̀bùkúnmí answered:
"I won't."
Final Lines
In a village once silenced by fear, the youngest voice now carried its rhythm.
She walked through the square with her new name echoing in every heartbeat.
And the river?
It hummed.
Not loudly.
Not triumphantly.
But with a quiet joy that refused to be hidden.