The village square felt like a wound, raw and pulsing under the midday sun. Nneka's torn wrapper lay in Mama Kika's hands like a accusation, its colors faded in the harsh light. The crowd murmured, a low tide of grief and fear, as Chief Priest Okeke lowered his staff. His eyes, sharp as flint, fixed on Amaka and Chike. "The river has taken its first due," he said, his voice carrying like thunder's echo. "But the gods hunger still. Balance no dey easy."
Amaka stood frozen, her knees weak, the weight of her cousin's absence crushing her chest. Nneka—innocent, wide-eyed Nneka—who had only warned her that morning. Tears burned her eyes, but she blinked them back, her pride a fragile shield. Chike's arm steadied her, his touch warm and firm against her elbow. In that moment, amid the stares and whispers, it felt like an anchor, pulling her from the edge of despair.
Mama Kika turned, her face twisted in rage and sorrow. "You!" she spat at Amaka. "Your mama curse follow you. Now it take my pikin!" She lunged forward, but an elder held her back, his grip gentle yet unyielding.
Amaka's voice cracked. "I no want this. Nneka... she no deserve."
Okeke raised a hand, silencing the crowd. "The gods pause because Ogun speak. But Mami Wata no forget. Tonight, we consult the oracle. Blood may spill yet." His gaze lingered on Chike. "Stranger, you carry iron's mark. Stay close. The hammer may fall on you too."
The crowd dispersed slowly, casting wary glances. Chike guided Amaka away, his hand sliding to the small of her back—a gesture both protective and intimate. She didn't pull away. Instead, she leaned into it slightly, drawing strength from his nearness. The red dust of the path rose around their feet as they walked toward her father's compound, the air thick with unspoken words.
In the shade of the compound's mango tree, Amaka collapsed onto a wooden bench, her wrapper pooling around her like spilled water. Chike sat beside her, close enough that their shoulders brushed. The village sounds faded—children's laughter muted, cooking fires crackling softly—as if the world held its breath.
"Why you no run?" Amaka asked, her voice barely above a whisper. She turned to him, her dark eyes searching his face. Up close, she noticed the lines of worry etched around his mouth, the way his city polish had worn away, revealing a man shaped by more than soil and spreadsheets. "You come for farm, not this. Not gods and curses."
Chike met her gaze, his hand hovering near hers before settling on the bench between them. His fingers brushed hers accidentally—or perhaps not—and a spark jumped, like Sango's lightning in miniature. "I told myself that," he admitted, his voice low and rough. "Pack up, go back to Lagos. But then I saw you at the market, with your pride like a flame. And last night... when the water pulled you, I couldn't let go." He paused, his thumb tracing a slow circle on the back of her hand. "It's not just the gods keeping me here, Amaka."
Her breath caught, her heart pounding louder than any drum. The amulet at her chest warmed, but this heat was different—human, alive. She had always armored herself against the village's judgments, against Mama Kika's barbs, but Chike's words slipped through, stirring something deep and unguarded. "You no know me," she said, though her fingers curled around his, holding on. "I carry trouble. The river mark me."
He leaned closer, his free hand gently tilting her chin up. Their faces were inches apart, the scent of palm oil and earth mingling with something sweeter, like the bloom of night jasmine. "Maybe I carry it too," he murmured. "Ogun called me son of iron. And iron bends, but it doesn't break. Not alone."
For a heartbeat, the world narrowed to the space between them. Amaka's eyes fluttered shut as Chike closed the distance, his lips brushing hers in a kiss tentative at first, then deepening with the urgency of shared secrets. It tasted of salt and promise, of city lights and river depths. Her hands rose to his shoulders, pulling him nearer, as if to merge their fates. The kiss lingered, a quiet rebellion against the gods' demands, until they parted, breathless, foreheads touching.
"I no dey afraid with you," she whispered, her voice trembling with emotion she'd long buried.
Chike smiled, a soft curve that lit his eyes. "Then we face them together. Whatever comes."
But peace was fleeting. As the sun dipped lower, casting long shadows across the compound, a messenger arrived from Okeke—a boy with chalk-dusted hands, his eyes wide. "Chief Priest say come now. The oracle speak. The gods want offering."
Amaka and Chike exchanged a glance, the warmth of their moment cooling under the weight of duty. They rose, hands still linked, and followed the boy to the shrine. The path wound through the village, where whispers followed them like ghosts. Women paused in their sweeping, men nodded gravely. The air grew heavier, scented with herbs and impending rain.
At the shrine, Okeke waited, his staff glowing faintly with chalk runes. The altar held new offerings: a live rooster, cowrie shells arranged in a spiral, and an iron blade that hummed softly. The elders flanked him, their faces solemn. Mama Kika stood to the side, her eyes red-rimmed but hard.
"The oracle has spoken," Okeke intoned, his voice echoing off the mud walls. "Mami Wata holds the child in her depths. To free her, balance must be paid. A life willingly given, or a bond forged in blood."
Amaka's grip on Chike's hand tightened. "What bond?" she asked, her voice steady despite the fear coiling in her gut.
Okeke's eyes gleamed. "The daughter of the river and the son of iron must unite. Marry under the gods' eyes, or one must go to the water."
Chike's jaw clenched, but he stepped forward, pulling Amaka with him. "Marriage? To save Nneka?"
Okeke nodded. "The gods weave fates. Your kiss in the compound—they see all. Iron and water must blend, or the river claims more."
Amaka's cheeks flushed, realizing their private moment had been witnessed by unseen eyes. But beneath the shock, a flutter stirred—hope, perhaps, or the budding of something real amid the chaos.
As dusk fell, they stood at the riverbank once more, the village gathered behind them. Okeke chanted, sprinkling chalk into the water, which rippled in response. The flute played softly, not a call but a melody of anticipation. Chike turned to Amaka, his eyes fierce with resolve and something deeper—love, unspoken but blooming.
"If this is what it takes," he said softly, for her ears alone, "then I choose you. Not for the gods, but for us."
She squeezed his hand, her heart swelling. "And I you."
But as Okeke raised his staff to begin the rite, the water surged, the blue glow returning brighter than before. A spiral formed, and from its depths, a voice echoed: "Not yet. The bond must be tested."
The ground trembled. Thunder cracked, and Ogun's hammer clang rang out. Shapes rose from the water—not Mami Wata, but shadowy figures, arms outstretched.
Cliffhanger Ending:
Amaka gasped as the water wrapped around her waist, pulling her in. Chike dove after her, but the current was swift, dragging them both under. The village cries faded as darkness enveloped them.
In the depths, Nneka's face appeared, pale and pleading. Mami Wata's laughter bubbled around them. "Prove your bond," she whispered. "Or stay forever."
Above, in Lagos, the boardroom clock shattered, glass raining like tears.
The test had begun.