They came from every corner of Obade.
Old women holding gourd rattles.
Young men with charcoal smeared across their foreheads.
Children carrying folded cloths stitched with forgotten words.
It was not a festival.
It was not a funeral.
It was something in between.
A reckoning.
A return.
A remembering.
The Flame Circle Reborn
The center of the village had been cleared.
At its heart: the flame circle.
But this time, it was wider.
Encircling not just the fire, but everybody.
A place where no one stood outside memory.
Ola placed the first name-stone into the fire.
A smooth piece of river clay, etched with three ancient lines.
The flames flared softly.
No smoke. No heat.
Just recognition.
The Names Begin
Echo stepped forward.
In her hand: a shard of the mirror pool.
It glowed faintly.
She spoke the first name:
"Àdùkẹ́—
She who was silenced when she saw too much."
She placed the shard beside the fire.
It did not burn.
It shimmered.
The wind sighed.
Iyagbẹ́kọ spoke next.
Her voice wavered.
"Tèmítọ́pẹ́, my sister…
who died giving birth in the season of shadows,
because no one listened to her screams."
A murmur passed through the crowd.
Not grief.
Witness.
The Bowl of Ash
Rerẹ́ brought forth the bowl from the Archive of Smoke.
She poured it slowly into the fire.
Ash curled around the names already given.
And whispered new ones.
Names no one had spoken in decades.
Names that were never allowed to be born.
Names erased before they could breathe.
Each swirl of ash sang:
"We were here."
"We remember."
"Do you?"
A Name That Resists
Then came the pause.
One name remained.
Written on a torn piece of drumskin.
But when Echo held it toward the flame—
The fire recoiled.
The wind stopped.
The air grew cold.
Ola stepped forward.
"Whose name is this?"
Rerẹ́ answered, softly.
"The one who betrayed the Archive.
Who broke Ẹ̀nítàn's rhythm.
Who bound her voice in silence."
The crowd murmured.
Fear. Anger.
The name on the drumskin: Ọlábánjí.
Iyagbẹ́kọ's voice cracked.
"He was once my teacher."
The Debate
Voices rose.
"He must not be remembered!"
"He caused the drowning!"
"His name is a wound!"
But then a child stepped forward.
Ayọ̀bùkúnmí.
Her voice clear, certain.
"If we only remember the beautiful,
the Archive becomes a lie."
The flames flickered.
A gust of wind spiraled around them.
And the name—Ọlábánjí—floated from Echo's hand into the fire.
The flame hissed.
Then softened.
And wept.
The Final Voice
From the heart of the fire, a sound rose.
Not a scream.
Not a song.
But a name spoken by the river itself:
"Ẹ̀nítàn."
And all knelt.
Not in worship.
But in response.
Final Lines
To name is not to forgive.
To remember is not to excuse.
But when names are buried, the wounds remain open.
And when they are spoken—
Even the painful ones—
Healing begins.