The morning after his decision, Iyi rose before the village stirred—before the first rooster called, before the mist lifted from the river's skin, before even the women who swept the paths each dawn could begin their quiet labor. The stars still blinked faintly in the bruised-purple sky, but a pale ribbon of light had begun to trace the eastern hills.
He stepped barefoot onto the cold earth, the hem of his robe whispering over the threshold as he left his hut. He carried only a folded cloth beneath his arm and a small bundle of dried herbs wrapped in palm fiber in his left hand. The silence was not empty—it was full, sacred, alive. Every breath felt like communion.
He took the long way through the village, past the sleeping houses, the old shrine at the center square, and the footpath winding toward the forgotten east field. His shadow stretched before him in the low light, long and solitary.
He did not go to the river where the elders would soon bathe their feet in ritual. He did not stop at the healer's hut where Tunde slept, nor at the communal kitchen where the scent of yam porridge would soon rise. His path was neither ceremonial nor habitual—it was a return.
The east field lay on the outskirts, a place once abandoned to weed and wind. No one had planted there in over a decade—not since the blight took the cassava crop and left the soil bitter. The land had become a place of whispers and avoidance. Even the wild dogs never lingered there. Too many stories had been buried in its cracked earth.
It was here, many moons ago, that Iyi had fallen.
He could still see it—himself, broken and lost, collapsing into the dirt with the first sponge burning in his hand. His lips cracked with thirst, his mind torn between memory and vision. The fever had gripped him, but so had something greater. The presence. The voice without voice. It was here that the river within had been stirred.
This field, this cursed and quiet place, had been the womb of his transformation.
Now he returned not as the boy who hungered, but as the man who had learned to feed others.
The wind met him like an old friend. It curled around his shoulders and rustled the tall grass that had reclaimed the land. The sky opened, and a soft blush of gold spilled across the soil. It did not feel cursed anymore.
At the far edge, near the hollowed stump of a once-great palm tree, someone stood waiting.
Tunde.
The boy was taller now. His shoulders had squared, and his hands no longer trembled when they worked. He had grown under Iyi's quiet tutelage—not only in skill, but in presence. Where once there had been a flicker, now there was a flame.
"You're leaving, aren't you?" Tunde asked as Iyi approached.
Iyi paused, then nodded. "Not forever. But for a while."
"To Lagos again?" The boy tried to keep his tone neutral, but a thread of worry tugged beneath the question.
"No. Not the city. Not yet." Iyi's voice was calm, his gaze faraway. "There are other places. Places with wounds that need tending. Villages forgotten. Children who walk without shoes, mothers who cry in silence, fathers who've lost the language of their hearts."
Tunde nodded, but his disappointment was visible in the way his mouth tensed.
Iyi stepped closer, placing a warm hand on the boy's shoulder. "I built this path so others could walk it, not so I would be the only one walking. You're ready now. Ready to teach, to guide, to hold space for others."
"But what if I'm not?" Tunde whispered. "What if I fail?"
"You will," Iyi said simply. "That's part of it. You'll fail, you'll fall, and you'll rise again. You'll find better ways than I did. That is the duty of every apprentice—to surpass the master."
They stood in silence, the wind threading between them like a song.
Then, wordlessly, Iyi knelt. He laid the folded cloth gently on the ground and unwrapped it. Inside was a wooden sign, carved by hand and carefully smoothed. He had worked on it each night after the village slept, scraping the letters by lamplight.
The inscription read:
Ọmọ Iyi: Soap & Healing.
All Are Welcome.
Give As You Have Received.
He handed it to Tunde.
The boy traced the letters with a reverent finger.
"This is yours now," Iyi said. "Hang it above the new stall. Let it be your offering."
Tunde looked up. "But they'll still ask for you."
"Then show them what I've shown you. And show them more. Don't live in my shadow. Make your own light."
From the satchel tied at his hip, Iyi drew one final item—the fourth sponge. It was pale and untouched, the only one never used in any ritual. It had not been soaked in sacred oil or blessed in ceremony.
For a long time, he didn't know what it was for.
But now, he did.
It was a seed. A symbol.
He placed it in a shallow wooden bowl filled with clear river water. The sponge floated, stiff at first, then slowly began to soften, its fibers blooming as it drank in the water and light.
"For memory," Iyi whispered, "and for beginning again."
Tunde watched, tears glinting in his eyes.
They remained there for some time, standing side by side at the edge of the field, as the sky continued to rise around them.
By midmorning, the village awoke to find something new.
In the central square, nestled between the old palm storage hut and the path to the healer's home, a small stall had appeared. Its frame was made of bamboo and its roof was thatched with dried palm leaves. It was modest, but sturdy, its corners reinforced with clay.
The carved sign hung proudly above the opening. Behind the counter stood Tunde, dressed in a clean wrap, his hands already busy mixing a blend of shea and eucalyptus.
Children were the first to approach, their curiosity outweighing their shyness. They asked for balms for their mothers' backs, soaps for bathing new babies. Tunde welcomed each with a word, a smile, a careful wrapping of herbs.
Then came the women—the matriarchs who had once raised eyebrows at Iyi's return, who had questioned his silences, who now approached with nods of deep respect. One by one, they placed coins, seeds, or eggs on the counter and left not just with remedies, but with peace.
The elders arrived last.
They lingered. They asked questions, subtle and probing. And Tunde answered—not with arrogance, but with clarity. They watched him, and then they blessed him.
The whispers began by late afternoon.
"Ọmọ Iyi's stall," they said.
"No—Ọmọ Tunde now."
"The light still burns."
And yet, by then, Iyi was already gone.
He did not say goodbye.
He did not want tears or ceremony.
He walked the winding path beyond the village, his satchel light, his heart lighter.
He passed the river and paused. He knelt beside it, cupped water in his hands, and bowed. The currents recognized him. They shimmered in the sun.
He passed the great tree where the first sponge had glowed, where his hands had trembled and his soul cracked open. The leaves rustled above him like applause.
He passed the old house—once hollow, now reclaimed by ivy and peace.
And still, he did not stop.
At the crest of the hill, he turned once more.
The village lay below, peaceful and alive. Smoke from cooking fires curled into the air like prayers. Laughter echoed. Drums stirred somewhere beyond the grove.
He smiled.
No monuments. No crowns. No gold.
Only peace.
Only light.
Only the knowledge that he had planted something that would outlive him—not his name, but his gift.
The sponge in the bowl. The stall in the square. The boy with steady hands. The people with open hearts.
That was his legacy.
A life poured out like water.
A light passed forward, not upward.
A goodbye wrapped in blessing.
And far beyond, as the road curved into the unknown, Iyi walked on—no longer seeking, but carrying.
Not the weight of expectation.
But something far greater.
Hope.