The decision was made three days later under a sky the color of dull iron.
The queen‑mother summoned Baba to the palace again. This time Ifabola was not there to watch; she stayed in the compound as ordered, sitting under the mango tree with her bandaged hand in her lap, arguing silently with every breath she took.
When Baba returned, his face told her the answer before his mouth did.
"They agreed," he said. "I leave at dawn."
Pain stabbed her chest.
"How long will you be gone?" she asked.
"As long as it takes," he said. "Or as long as I live."
Her mother made a soft, wounded sound and turned away, hands clenching and unclenching in her wrapper.
"They call it a journey to seek wisdom," she muttered. "But it is exile, even if they do not use the word."
Baba did not deny it.
"The queen‑mother must show she is acting," he said. "If I stay, every new death will be tied to my doorway, whether by truth or by fear. If I go…perhaps some stones will move more quietly. And perhaps I will find a knife sharp enough to cut this hunger's root."
He looked at Ifabola.
"I wanted to wait until you were older before dragging you through narrow places," he said. "Time is a luxury we have lost."
He drew her closer.
"Remember what you have learned," he said. "Breath. Ground. Do not let your fear feed it. Do not chase every whisper. And if…the worst happens…listen to Mama Ireti's stories in your bones. They will tell you which paths lead home."
Tears blurred her vision.
"You talk like you are already dead," she choked.
He cupped her face, thumbs wiping at the wetness.
"I talk like a man walking into a wild forest," he said gently. "One who must consider that his children might have to walk out without him. That is not the same as wanting to die."
He kissed her forehead.
"Besides," he added, trying for lightness, "who else will argue with Ogunremi if I am gone forever? The man's head will grow too big to fit through doors."
She gave a shaky laugh in spite of herself.
Dawn came too quickly.
The air was cool; the ground still held last night's damp. A small group gathered at the gate—Baba, Fẹ́mi, two Ifatedo warriors, and a squad of six Koleoso fighters led by Ogunremi himself.
"We travel light," the war‑chief said, checking straps and belts. "Speed is better than comfort. The path to Òkìtì is not friendly."
"Nor is the place we seek when we arrive," Baba replied.
Ogunremi grunted.
"If you start muttering strange names there, I will knock you unconscious and drag you home," he said. "Do we understand each other?"
"Perfectly," Baba said.
They clasped wrists.
It was not quite friendship—too much lay unsaid between them now—but it was trust forged in many old battles.
Ifabola stood with her mother and the younger children a few paces back. Her stomach felt hollow, as if someone had scooped it out with a dull spoon.
Baba bent to hug Kike's unmoving body one last time, murmuring something into her ear in case her spirit was listening.
Then he came to Ifabola.
He pressed something small and cool into her left hand.
It was a bead—plain, carved from some dark stone—but when she held it, a subtle warmth spread up her arm.
"It is tied to my staff," he said. "If it ever breaks without your hand on it, you will know I have fallen or the staff has."
She stared at the bead.
"I don't want this," she whispered.
"Neither do I," he said. "But we carry what is given."
He glanced at Fẹ́mi.
"You are my right hand here," he said. "Listen twice as much as you speak. When in doubt, remember: protecting the living comes before pleasing the dead."
Fẹ́mi nodded, jaw tight.
"Keep her away from trouble," Baba added, nodding at Ifabola.
"I will," Fẹ́mi said.
Baba snorted softly. "She will keep trouble away from herself only as much as the river stops to ask rocks where to flow. Watch her anyway."
Ifabola wanted to promise she would be good, that she would stay put, that she would not poke at things that hissed.
The words would not come.
Instead she threw her arms around him and held on as hard as she could.
For a long moment, he hugged her back.
Then the queen‑mother's messenger—waiting impatiently a few steps away—cleared his throat.
"It is time, Baba Ifa," he said.
Baba stepped back.
"Walk well," he said to his family.
"Return," his wife replied fiercely. "That is an order from your own house."
He smiled.
"I will try to obey at least one woman in this kingdom," he said.
Then he turned and walked through the gate.
Ifabola watched until the bend in the road swallowed him.
Only then did she unclench her left hand and look again at the small stone bead.
It pulsed faintly, like a distant heartbeat.
She closed her fist around it.
On the road east, the world narrowed to dust and breath.
They walked through fields where stunted yam vines clung to tired soil, past clusters of huts where people watched them with shuttered eyes. Word of Baba's "journey" had spread; some spat as the group passed, others bowed their heads quickly, as if afraid even eye contact might bring misfortune.
At night they camped in small clearings, setting a tight ring of fires.
Ogunremi's men took turns on watch.
Baba stayed awake most nights, staring at the sky.
"Do you feel it?" he asked one evening as they sat a little apart from the others, sharing roasted cassava.
"Feel what?" Ogunremi replied.
"The attention," Baba said. "Like the gaze of a hungry man watching a pot boil."
Ogunremi chewed slowly.
"I feel a storm that refuses to break," he said. "Whether it is your old friend or my god's anger, I do not know."
He glanced at Baba.
"If we find this shrine," he said, "and its power proves too strong, I will not let you finish any bargain this time. I don't care if you think it will save the kingdom. Better a broken house than a rotten one that stands."
Baba nodded.
"You may have to knock very hard," he said quietly.
Ogunremi snorted. "I will enjoy that."
They shared a grim smile.
Above them, clouds piled slowly, like spectators gathering for a show.
Back in Ayetoro, Ajani watched them go from a distance.
He sat on a low wall near the edge of the village, the half‑circle stone heavy in his pocket.
Let them walk, the presence murmured. Their feet stir old dust. I have crumbs there too.
Ajani's fingers traced the cracked grooves on the stone.
"Will you really kill him there?" he asked.
Why waste a useful crack so soon? the voice replied lazily. There are other ways to eat a house than biting the front door.
A group of men passed below him, talking loudly.
"…with Baba gone, maybe things will settle," one said.
"Or get worse," another retorted. "What if he was the only thing keeping that curse from swallowing us?"
Ajani's jaw tightened.
"They sent him away to protect themselves," he muttered. "And we still sit here waiting for the next mark to appear."
You do not have to wait, the presence said. You can act.
"How?" he demanded.
The stone grew warmer.
Call others like you, it whispered. Those the priests have failed. Those who lost when the king died, when Dupe died, when the boy died. Offer them a new path. Not of begging, but of taking.
Ajani snorted.
"I am no priest," he said.
Better, the voice replied. You will not pretend to be clean.
He stared toward the Ifatedo compound, where smoke rose in a thin, straight line.
Inside those walls, a girl with a marked hand clutched a bead and tried to breathe without choking.
Outside them, an ordinary man with an old scar and a new stone began to imagine himself as something more.