The scream lingered in the air like a blade's echo, sharp and fleeting. Amaka sprinted toward the riverbank, her wrapper snapping against her legs, her amulet searing her chest. Chike followed, his flashlight bouncing in his hand, its beam cutting through the gathering dusk. The village square blurred behind them—faces frozen, prayers half-spoken, the iron gong silent. The sky hung low, heavy with the threat of a storm that refused to break.
The river came into view, its surface smooth as glass except for that single ripple, spreading wider now, tinged with blue light. Amaka skidded to a stop at the bank, her breath ragged. Chike caught up, scanning the water. "Where's the child?" he asked, voice tight.
Amaka pointed to a small sandal lying in the mud, its strap torn. Nearby, a clay pot lay shattered, water seeping into the earth. "Nneka," she whispered, her heart sinking. "She was here."
The ripple in the river pulsed, and the blue glow brightened. The air grew colder, sharp with the scent of wet stone and something sweeter, like overripe fruit. Amaka's amulet throbbed, and she pressed a hand to it, wincing. Chike's hand went to the kola nut in his pocket, its red dust still staining his palm.
"We have to find her," he said, stepping toward the water.
Amaka grabbed his arm, her grip fierce. "No. You no dey understand. The river take what it want. You go in, you no come out."
"Then what?" he snapped, his city pragmatism fraying. "We just stand here?"
Before she could answer, the water stirred again. A shape broke the surface—not a child, but a cowrie shell, gleaming like a tiny moon. It floated, spinning slowly, then drifted toward the bank. Amaka's breath caught. "Mami Wata," she said, her voice barely audible.
The flute began again, soft and insistent, curling through the air like smoke. The trees along the bank swayed, though no wind blew. Chike's skin prickled, the kola nut in his pocket suddenly heavy. "What does she want?" he asked.
Amaka's eyes were fixed on the shell. "She want what she always want. A life for a life. Balance."
In the village, Chief Priest Okeke stood at the shrine's threshold, his staff trembling in his hand. The chalk symbols on the altar glowed brighter now, pulsing in time with the distant flute. The iron blade beside them vibrated faintly, as if struck by an unseen hammer. The elders behind him whispered prayers to Ogun, Sango, Amadioha, their voices overlapping in a frantic chant.
"The river no dey satisfied," Okeke said, his eyes on the cowrie shell at the shrine's entrance. It had rolled there unbidden, its glow casting shadows that twisted like fingers. "The sacrifice was too small. The law broken too deep."
One elder, his face lined like cracked earth, stepped forward. "The girl, Amaka. She carry the mark. The river want her."
Okeke's jaw tightened. "And the stranger. Ogun's hand on him. Iron no dey lie."
The second elder, clutching the herb bundle, shook his head. "Two no enough. The child, Nneka, already gone. Mami Wata dey count."
Okeke struck his staff against the ground. Sparks flew, and the chalk symbols flared. "Then we prepare. Blood for blood. The gods no go wait."
Outside, the crowd grew restless. Women clutched their children, men gripped machetes, and the air hummed with fear. A single drumbeat sounded, slow and heavy, like a heart struggling to beat.
Amaka knelt by the sandal, her fingers brushing the torn strap. "Nneka no suppose be here," she said, her voice breaking. "She too young. Why she come?"
Chike crouched beside her, his flashlight sweeping the bank. "Maybe she followed you. You said she was scared."
Amaka's eyes darkened. "Or Mama Kika send her. That woman hate me since I born."
The flute swelled, its melody weaving through their thoughts, pulling at their resolve. The cowrie shell on the water spun faster, and the blue glow deepened. Shapes moved beneath the surface—long, fluid, neither fish nor human. Chike's hand tightened around the kola nut. "We can't just wait for the priest. We have to do something."
Amaka stood, her face set like stone. "You no know this place, city farmer. You think you can fight a goddess?"
"I'm not fighting," he said, meeting her gaze. "But I'm not running either."
She studied him, then nodded, a flicker of respect in her eyes. "Then we go deeper. To the shrine in the forest. The old one, where the gods meet."
Chike frowned. "Okeke's shrine is in the village."
"Not that one," she said. "The first shrine. Hidden. Only few know it. My mama show me before she… before the river."
The flute stopped abruptly. The air grew still, heavy with expectation. The cowrie shell sank, and the water rippled once more, this time forming a spiral that glowed like moonlight. A voice—not heard but felt—whispered in their minds: "Come."
Amaka's amulet burned hotter, and she hissed, clutching it. Chike felt the kola nut pulse in his pocket, as if alive. Thunder rumbled, closer now, and a metallic clang echoed from the forest—Ogun's hammer, striking iron.
"We go now," Amaka said, her voice steady despite the fear in her eyes. "Before the river come for us."
The path to the forest shrine was overgrown, tangled with vines and roots that seemed to shift underfoot. Amaka led, her steps sure, though her hands trembled. Chike followed, his flashlight flickering as if the batteries were dying, though they were new. The air grew colder, the scent of iron and water stronger. Above, the sky pulsed red again, a heartbeat in the heavens.
The shrine appeared suddenly, a clearing ringed by iroko trees, their trunks carved with symbols that glowed faintly. At the center stood a stone altar, weathered and cracked, surrounded by offerings: rusted machetes, cowrie shells, dried herbs, and a single iron hammer, its handle wrapped in red cloth. The air thrummed with power, as if the gods themselves stood watching.
Amaka knelt before the altar, her amulet glowing through her wrapper. "Ogun, Sango, Amadioha, Mami Wata," she whispered. "If I carry your mark, tell me what you want. If Nneka pay for my sin, take me instead."
Chike stood beside her, uneasy. "What are we doing here?"
"Asking," she said. "The gods no talk clear, but they listen. Sometimes."
He opened his mouth to argue, but the ground trembled. The iron hammer on the altar shifted, falling to the earth with a dull thud. The air crackled, and a streak of lightning lit the sky—Sango's fire. The flute began again, louder, closer, coming from everywhere and nowhere.
A figure emerged from the shadows of the trees—not Mami Wata, but a man, tall and broad, his skin dark as charcoal, his eyes glinting like polished iron. He carried a machete, its blade etched with symbols. Ogun, god of iron, stood before them.
"You break the law," he said, his voice like metal on stone. "The river call. The fire wait. The hammer strike. Balance must hold."
Amaka rose, her chin high. "If the river want me, let it take me. But spare Nneka. She no part of this."
Ogun's eyes shifted to Chike. "And you, son of iron. You carry my mark, though you no know it. Why you stand here?"
Chike's throat tightened. "I… I don't know. I heard the flute. I saw the river. I couldn't walk away."
Ogun's machete gleamed, catching the red pulse of the sky. "The gods no ask. They choose."
The flute swelled, and the ground shook again. Water seeped up through the earth, pooling around the altar, reflecting the blue glow of the river. A woman's laughter echoed—Mami Wata, unseen but near.
Amaka stepped forward, her amulet blazing. "Tell me what you want!" she shouted. "No more games!"
The water at the altar swirled, forming a spiral. From its center rose a single cowrie shell, glowing brighter than before. Ogun's eyes narrowed. "The river no talk. It take."
Before they could move, the water surged, wrapping around Amaka's ankles like a living thing. She gasped, struggling, but it pulled her toward the altar. Chike lunged, grabbing her arm, but the water was strong, cold, alive. The kola nut in his pocket burned, and he heard a voice—not Mami Wata's, but deeper, like iron striking iron: "Hold fast."
He gripped Amaka tighter, planting his feet. The water recoiled, as if startled, then retreated, leaving the ground dry. The cowrie shell fell, its glow fading. Ogun nodded, almost imperceptibly, and stepped back into the shadows.
The flute stopped. The air stilled. The sky returned to silver.
Amaka collapsed, panting. "What… what happen?"
Chike's hand shook as he opened it. The kola nut was whole again, uncracked, its surface smooth. "I don't know," he said. "But I think… Ogun spoke for us."
Cliffhanger Ending:
They stumbled back toward the village, the shrine's power still humming in their bones. The river was silent now, its glow gone, but the sandal still lay in the mud. Nneka was nowhere.
In the village, Chief Priest Okeke stood in the square, his staff raised. The crowd parted, revealing Mama Kika, her face pale, her hands clutching a torn wrapper—Nneka's.
"She gone," Mama Kika whispered, her voice breaking. "The river take her."
Amaka's knees buckled, but Chike caught her. Okeke's eyes met theirs, heavy with warning. "The gods pause, but they no forget," he said. "The balance no complete."
Far off, a single flute note sounded, sharp and final. In Lagos, the boardroom clock ticked once more, then fell silent.
And beneath the river, a cowrie shell glowed, waiting.