There is a path.
A hidden trail, deep within the eastern forests of the old world—a place whispered about only in the oldest fireside stories, a road shrouded by mist and memory.
The leaves along its edge do not rustle. The wind that flows through carries no scent. Birds avoid it, flying far beyond the line where shadows gather. Even spirits—those ancient watchers who drift between worlds—step lightly when crossing.
And at the end of this silent path lies a town forgotten by time.
It is a place that appears on no map.
No traveler's journal holds its name.
Its roads twist like half-remembered thoughts, winding endlessly in patterns that defy sense and geography.
Those who find this town rarely return unchanged—if they return at all.
Some whisper it is cursed. Others say it is protected.
But the elders who still remember—those with eyes veiled by time—whisper its true name only in the safety of darkness:
Ìlú Tí Kò Ní Orúkọ
The Town with No Names.
Long ago, before shadows claimed it, this town was called Aṣàrí—meaning "those who reveal."
It was a place of golden rooftops that shimmered like liquid sun, where lineage was pride and legacy.
Each family bore a name—a title woven into cloth, carved into drums, etched on doorposts.
Names were more than words. They were shields.
They declared who you were.
Whose blood ran in your veins.
What the gods owed you.
In Aṣàrí, names were everything.
They were traded like precious currency.
Sold in marriage.
Used to seal alliances.
To end wars.
Children were not named at birth, but at their first successful bargain.
For a man without a name was not a man.
He was shadow.
Invisible.
Unseen.
But over time, the names grew heavy.
Not with pride—but with weight.
Those with many names began to speak less truth.
Ancestry turned to arrogance.
Nobility, to blindness.
And slowly, like a tightening noose, the town forgot the oldest warning:
"A name is not who you are.
A name is who others think you are."
The warning came too late.
The first sign came during the Festival of Lineage.
A grand event held once every decade.
Families paraded their scrolls—ancestors' names chanted aloud, powdered herbs thrown skyward.
The air thick with incense, chants, and the shimmer of history.
But that year, the powders fell back as ash.
Not light or fragrant.
But cold and dead.
The elders watched with clenched jaws, shadows darkening their eyes.
The second sign came weeks later.
A child was born—healthy, laughing, full of life.
She refused to speak any name given to her.
Not in baby murmurs.
Not in laughter.
Not even in dreams.
They named her Ẹ̀bùn, meaning "gift."
She wept for three days.
They renamed her Adùkẹ́, meaning "beloved."
She screamed through the night.
Finally, defeated, they called her nothing.
She slept peacefully.
Whispers began.
The town had lost favor with the gods.
Not because they had forgotten their names.
But because they had worshipped them.
Soon after, strangers appeared.
Not through gates or roads.
But from thin air.
Men and women with empty eyes.
Voiceless.
Walking barefoot.
Carrying no tokens.
Wearing no tribal cloth.
When asked their names, they pointed to the sky.
When asked their origins, they pointed to the ground.
When asked their purpose, they smiled.
Then wept.
The council of elders panicked.
They called for cleansing.
Sacrificed goats.
Sprinkled salt on the earth.
Beat sacred drums until hands bled.
But nothing changed.
The strangers stayed.
Worse—the names began to vanish.
First, from ledgers.
Then doorposts.
Then tongues.
One by one, names refused to be spoken.
The priest of Ogun—once called Báyọ̀mí Ọmọ Ẹ̀gbẹ́ Ọkùnrin—opened his mouth to bless a marriage.
But found only silence.
The herbalist's signboard, which read Ọlọ́runṣọlá, turned blank overnight.
The great scroll of family lines, kept in the council's shrine for centuries, crumbled to dust.
The town was unraveling.
Those who tried to leave found the road back gone.
Paths twisted.
Time folded.
Compasses spun in circles.
The only constant was the presence of the strangers—now called the Unspoken.
They tended gardens.
Rebuilt crumbling homes.
With gentle hands.
Never uttering a word.
In their silence, there was peace.
The townspeople resisted.
They tried to rebuild scrolls.
Write new names.
Tattoo titles into skin.
But each time, marks faded.
Ink turned to water.
Carvings became dust.
Eventually, even the elders surrendered.
And Aṣàrí, the town that once lived by its names, became a place of no names.
Years passed.
The town became quiet.
Children grew up never knowing the weight of expectation.
Never told what their ancestors demanded.
They learned to feel their names instead of owning them.
People began greeting each other with gestures.
Not titles.
Songs became hums.
Blessings became shared fruit.
Love became presence.
In losing their names, the people gained something else:
Truth.
No longer burdened by lineage,
They became choice.
And still, the Unspoken remained.
Watching.
Working.
Weaving meaning into the smallest acts.
One night, a great traveler came.
Cloaked in smoke.
Carrying a sponge wrapped in leaves.
He asked no questions.
Gave no name.
But knelt at the gate.
Pressed the sponge to the earth.
And whispered:
"You remembered what others forgot."
Then, he vanished.
Some say it was Eni Ọba.
Others believe it was Kọ́láyọ̀mí, the soapmaker.
A few think it was the river itself.
Come to give thanks.
After that night, the town bloomed.
The river nearby ran clearer than before.
Trees bore sweeter fruit.
The strangers—the Unspoken—began humming songs.
Songs with no lyrics.
Songs that made elders cry without knowing why.
They say the town still exists.
Not on any map.
Not in any book.
But if you ever get lost in grief.
Or tired of the masks that names demand.
If you ever forget who you are.
And grow afraid to remember.
You might find yourself waking in a town where no one calls your name—
But where you are truly seen.