The air in Umuaka hung thick with the scent of rain that refused to fall. Dawn crept over the hills, painting the red earth in muted gold, but the village felt heavy, as if the night had left a shadow that lingered. Chickens clucked uneasily, and the iroko trees stood unnaturally still. The festival drums were silent now, replaced by the low hum of morning prayers from scattered compounds.
Chike woke on his mat, the kola nut still clutched in his hand. Its cracked shell had spilled red dust across his palm, staining it like blood. He stared at it, the chief priest's words echoing in his mind: "The gods will take their due." His city instincts told him to pack his bag, pay his rent, and catch the next bus back to Lagos. But something deeper—a pull he couldn't name—kept him rooted. He washed his hands in a clay basin, but the red stain wouldn't fade.
Outside, the village stirred slowly. Women swept compounds with brooms made of palm fronds. Children carried water from the stream, their chatter quieter than usual. Chike stepped onto the porch, scanning the path to the river. No sign of Amaka. No sign of the chief priest. Only the faint ripple of unease in his chest.
He tucked the kola nut into his pocket and headed toward the village square. If answers existed, they'd be there—or with Amaka, wherever she was.
Amaka sat by the riverbank, hidden in the shade of a mango tree. Her amulet lay in her lap, its carved surface warm despite the cool morning air. She traced its grooves, shaped like a spiral of water, and tried to steady her breathing. The goddess's voice still rang in her ears: "Daughter of the river. You carry my mark."
She'd heard the stories all her life—Mami Wata, the queen of the midnight waters, who blessed and cursed with equal ease. Her mother had worn this same amulet, had walked this same riverbank. And then, one night, the river had claimed her. Amaka had been nine, too young to understand but old enough to see the spiral of water, the glint of scales, the flash of her mother's wrapper vanishing beneath the surface.
Now the goddess had spoken to her. And Chike, the city farmer, had seen it too.
She heard footsteps and tensed, slipping the amulet back under her wrapper. A shadow fell across the grass. It was Nneka, her cousin, barely sixteen, with eyes wide and nervous.
"Amaka," Nneka whispered, glancing over her shoulder. "Why you dey here? Mama Kika dey look for you. She say you bring curse last night."
Amaka snorted, standing. "Mama Kika say plenty things. She no dey tire?"
Nneka didn't smile. "No be only her. Chief Priest Okeke dey talk too. He say the gods angry. Say somebody break midnight law."
Amaka's stomach twisted, but she kept her face hard. "And what they say happen now?"
Nneka hesitated, then leaned closer. "They say the river go ask for blood. Sacrifice no enough. Ogun dey hammer, Sango dey spark, and Mami Wata… she dey watch."
Amaka's hand brushed her amulet. "Let them watch. I no dey run."
Nneka grabbed her arm. "Amaka, you no hear? They say you be the one the river want. Because of your mama."
Amaka pulled free, her jaw tight. "Go back home, Nneka. Tell Mama Kika I dey come."
Nneka lingered, then turned and hurried back toward the village, her footsteps kicking up red dust. Amaka looked at the river. Its surface was calm, but she could feel it watching her, waiting.
Chike reached the village square, where a small crowd had gathered near the chief priest's compound. The air buzzed with murmurs. Men leaned on walking sticks, their voices low. Women adjusted their headscarves, eyes darting toward the shrine. A boy ran past, carrying a basket of yams, and nearly dropped it when an elder barked at him to slow down.
Chike spotted Chief Priest Okeke standing at the shrine's entrance, his staff planted in the ground. Chalk dust coated his hands, and his face was grim. Beside him stood two elders, their wrappers tied tightly as if bracing for a storm. One held an iron gong, the other a bundle of herbs that smelled sharp and bitter.
"You," Okeke said, his eyes locking onto Chike. The crowd parted, their whispers falling silent.
Chike stopped, his throat dry. "I no dey look for trouble, sir."
"Trouble no dey ask permission," Okeke said. He stepped forward, his staff tapping the earth. "You hear the flute last night. You see the river glow. You stand where no stranger should."
Chike's hand twitched toward the kola nut in his pocket. "I didn't mean to break any law."
"Law no care for intention," Okeke said. "The gods see what you do, not what you mean." He turned to the crowd. "This one, this city farmer, and Amaka, daughter of the river, they walk where the midnight law say no. Now the gods stir. Ogun's hammer sing. Sango's fire wait. And Mami Wata… she call."
The crowd murmured louder. A woman clutched her beads, muttering a prayer. A man spat into the dust, his eyes hard on Chike.
"What do they want?" Chike asked, his voice steady despite the weight in his chest.
Okeke's eyes narrowed. "The gods no want. They take. But we can offer. Tonight, we make new sacrifice. Blood for blood. Balance must hold."
Chike's mind raced. "Sacrifice? You mean an animal?"
Okeke's silence was answer enough. The crowd shifted uneasily. The elder with the gong struck it once, a low clang that echoed like a warning.
"Go," Okeke said. "Find Amaka. Bring her to the shrine before the sun fall. The gods no dey patient."
Amaka was halfway back to the village when Chike found her on the path. His face was tight, his shirt damp with sweat. "They're looking for you," he said. "Okeke says we broke the midnight law. They're planning a sacrifice."
She stopped, her eyes searching his. "What kind sacrifice?"
"He didn't say. But it's not a goat." Chike's voice was low. "They want us at the shrine by sundown."
Amaka's hand tightened around her amulet. "They think the river want me. Because of my mama."
Chike frowned. "What happened to your mother?"
She looked away, toward the river. "She go to the river one night. Festival night, like last night. She hear the flute. She answer. The water take her. They say she carry Mami Wata's mark, same as me."
Chike's hand went to the kola nut in his pocket. "And me? Why am I here?"
Amaka studied him. "You hear the flute. You see the goddess. She call you 'son of iron.' That mean Ogun, the god of iron, dey watch you too. Maybe you carry something you no know."
He shook his head. "I'm just a farmer. I came to study the soil, not… this."
She almost laughed, but her eyes were hard. "You think you choose what the gods see? Nobody come to Umuaka by mistake."
They stood in silence, the sun climbing higher, the air growing heavier. In the distance, a single drumbeat sounded, slow and deliberate.
"What do we do?" Chike asked.
Amaka straightened, her chin lifting. "We go to the shrine. We face Okeke. If the gods want me, they go talk to me direct."
Chike hesitated, then nodded. "Together?"
She gave him a sharp look, then softened. "Together."
As they walked toward the village, the sky darkened, though no clouds moved. The iroko trees creaked, their branches swaying as if whispering secrets. Somewhere far off, a flute played a single note, then stopped.
In the chief priest's shrine, Okeke knelt before a clay altar, his hands tracing chalk symbols that glowed faintly in the dim light. The air smelled of iron and herbs. A small iron blade lay on the altar, its edge catching the flicker of a palm oil lamp.
"They come," he muttered to the empty shrine. "But the river no dey satisfied with words."
Outside, a cowrie shell rolled across the ground, stopping at the shrine's threshold. It gleamed, as if kissed by moonlight.
And in Lagos, the boardroom clock ticked once, then stopped again.
As Chike and Amaka neared the village square, a scream tore through the air. They froze. It came from the riverbank—a child's voice, raw with terror. The crowd in the square turned, faces pale. Another scream, then silence.
Amaka's amulet burned against her skin. She started running toward the river, Chike close behind. The water was still, but a single ripple spread from its center, carrying the faint glow of blue light.
Above, the sky pulsed red, just for a moment.
The gods were no longer waiting.