The sky above Obuama cracked with a low, rumbling thunder—though there were no clouds. The air shimmered as if the land itself was holding its breath. Amara stood at the edge of the mangrove forest, staring into the green, breathing wall of roots and shadow. She could still feel the sweat of the fight on her palms, dried blood along her ribs from where the bullet had grazed her. Matteo was somewhere behind her, pacing like a caged cat, but for now, she was alone.
She hadn't come to the Delta for vengeance.
Not only vengeance.
She came for answers. For the source of the rot inside her family. For Ekene. For herself.
And now… for something older.
Something that had begun to whisper to her ever since she stepped foot on this land.
It began in her dreams: the silhouette of a woman wreathed in white chalk and feathers, whispering in a language she hadn't heard since childhood. Then it came in the mirror: her eyes catching flickers of movement behind her—shadows that vanished when she turned. And finally, here, in the Delta's heart, the air felt thicker, like it remembered her.
Like it recognized her.
That night, they took a dugout canoe deep into the creeks, guided by an old fisherman named Osei. His eyes were milked with age, but his voice carried weight.
"Your great-grandmother was one of us," he said, without looking at her. "Yoruba on her father's side. Igbo on her mother's. We called her Ifeoma-Oya—named for the goddess who rides the winds and summons the storm. She was born with the ash mark of dual sight. She could call the spirits of both rivers and wind."
Amara frowned. "I was told she died in childbirth. In Onitsha."
"She did. But her blood didn't die."
He turned then, blind eyes fixed right into her soul.
"She passed it on—to the Vulture. He buried it deep, under war and wealth and Western names. But you? You've come back. You're the first to return with open ears."
Amara laughed, dry and brittle. "You think I'm some kind of priestess?"
"No," Osei said simply. "But the spirits do. And they've been waiting."
Later that night, under the full moon, Amara knelt at the edge of a sacred grove deep in the mangroves. Fireflies pulsed like breathing stars. Matteo stood just beyond the clearing, tense, uneasy.
An old woman emerged from the dark. Naked but for strings of coral beads and cowries that clinked like rain. Her skin was ink-dark and tight over bones; her face a mask of power.
"Speak your blood name," she said in a voice that echoed in the trees.
Amara swallowed. "Amara Diri-Owei. Daughter of Alessandra Belladonna. Granddaughter of—"
The woman raised her hand.
"No. Speak the name beneath the name."
Amara closed her eyes.
Something moved in her chest. A memory not hers—of drums and wind, of oil flames and river chants. Her mouth opened, and a voice older than her own came out.
"I am Ifeamara. Blood of Oya. Daughter of storm and shadow. I call the winds that remember. I call the river that dreams. I return."
A hush fell.
Then the old woman smiled, revealing teeth filed into points.
"E don wake."
---
That night, in the grove, she was bathed in river clay and anointed with a bitter oil that smelled of kola, bloodroot, and salt. They braided charms into her hair—bronze fishbones, broken cowries, tiger nut beads—and whispered old incantations into her skin.
And as the wind rose around them, the grove responded.
Branches twisted toward her. The soil sighed. The wind carried the sound of distant drums that no one had played.
Amara saw a vision:
Ekene, standing in a blood-soaked room, surrounded by ghosts. His mouth was sewn shut. In his hands, he held a bronze anklet.
And above him, a black vulture circled.
She gasped and stumbled back, breath heaving.
The old woman's voice echoed behind her.
"You want truth? You must dig through the bones of your own blood. Some are buried in Europe. Others in the mud of the Niger Delta."
Amara wiped the tears from her cheeks.
"I will find them all."
As dawn broke over the creeks, Amara stood taller. Her silk dress was gone, replaced with a wrap of white cloth tied at her waist, her shoulders bare, arms smeared with sacred ash. The bronze anklet on her ankle gleamed with heat.
Matteo blinked when he saw her. "What the hell happened to you?"
Amara smiled, soft and dangerous. "We remember now."
She touched the charm in her braid, and for a split second, the wind obeyed her.
She turned toward the boat.
"It's time we go home."
"To Naples?" Matteo asked.
Amara shook her head.
"No. To the source."
And somewhere across the water, the gods turned their gaze toward the girl who had finally awakened.