"Gods of our land!" Amanse screamed, lurching awake from a terrible nightmare. Sweat ran down his body in rivulets, his heart pounded like a drum, and he gripped the edge of his wooden cot in a futile attempt to steady his breath.
Visions from the dream clung to his mind like wet leaves—scenes of blood, slaughter, and death. He saw a shallow stream choked with bloated corpses. A dying child, face blistered and pale, stretched out the pus-filled stump of her arm toward him, whispering that he—he—was the only one who could save the land.
But how could he help? What could he do?
He was a stutterer. A chronic one. Every word was a battlefield. He stomped his feet, waved his hands, clenched his eyes tight—just to say "Ndeewo."
People had long stopped listening. To them, he was dumb. Broken. Useless.
But if only they knew what he was.
This dream wasn't just a dream. It was an omen. The latest in a string of disturbing visions he'd had since the strange happenings began.
For months now, the land of Amaaku had twisted itself into something unrecognizable. The young were dying—or vanishing. Women miscarried. Livestock dropped dead without cause. Strange lights flickered in the night sky, and the rains came, but the crops withered. There was fear in the air, like the land itself held its breath.
Amanse sat in silence as dawn crept over the thatched rooftops of the village. And as the light grew stronger, the fear from the nightmare began to dull. He was almost ready to rise when the deep BOOM of the ikoro drum echoed across the kingdom.
The big drum. Summoning every able-bodied man to the village square.
He froze.
The ikoro only spoke on rare occasions: the start of the New Yam Festival, the passing of a high chief, or… tragedy. Lately, its voice had become too familiar, too frequent. No one jumped when it beat anymore.
Amanse wrapped himself in his cloth and stepped out into the morning. He joined the slow-moving river of men heading toward the square. Many women followed, even though they weren't summoned. They clutched sickly babies to their breasts, whose constant, hollow cries twisted the morning air.
When they arrived, the village square pulsed with grief.
Beneath the sacred Iroko tree, in the center of the square, sat men and women in dust and despair. Some stared blankly at the sky. Others beat their chests or tore at their hair in silent agony. Amanse recognized many of them—parents of the missing children.
His eyes found Amadi, a kind man who had never mocked his stammer. He had helped search for his daughter, Amarachi, the day she disappeared after a visit to Eke market. Now, Amadi sat on the ground like a man made of stone, staring at the heavens as if they owed him an answer.
Above, vultures circled—dozens of them. Some perched on the Iroko's thick branches, watching with eyes too intelligent, too patient. Amanse frowned and made a claw with his left hand, flinging it downward to ward off evil.
To his shock, several vultures took flight at the gesture, joining their kin in the slow death-dance overhead.
A hush fell over the crowd as an elder from the king's council made his way to the raised platform, flanked by royal guards in isiagu robes. His eyes were bloodshot, his shoulders sagging.
"I greet you, my people," the elder began. "I come on behalf of the king, Amadike the Great, and the council of elders. The king wishes to hear your counsel. Does anyone have knowledge, a vision, a whisper from the gods to explain the sorrow consuming our land?"
A sharp voice rang out from the crowd.
"Where are our children?!"
It came from an emaciated old man near Amanse. "Our wives weep, our crops die, strange beasts walk the forests—and you ask us what we think? Your king and priest hide while we bleed!"
Before he could say more, two guards descended on him, silencing him with force. The crowd roared, anger rising like smoke. But none dared strike the guards. To harm anyone in royal fabric was an abomination.
The elder waited, unbothered. "Please," he said when the noise died, "we understand your pain. This suffering does not know class or kin. Even Ichie Ude lost his son. We are combing the forests. We are searching."
"Yet your king hides in his palace," someone spat. "Where are his children? Which queen mourns with us?"
The elder sighed. "We gather here to seek answers. If anyone among you knows anything—anything at all—we beg you to speak."
The square fell into a thick, uncertain silence. No one spoke.
Then Amanse raised his hand.
His fingers trembled.
Murmurs spread through the crowd like fire. People stared at him, some with curiosity, others with barely concealed disgust.
Then someone shouted.
"Amanse, put down that hand! We don't have all day. You won't finish greeting us before the sun reaches our heads!"
Laughter erupted.
Even those sitting in sorrow chuckled, wiping their tears. The elder raised his hands for quiet, but his lips twitched, betraying amusement.
Amanse lowered his hand.
And with it, his voice. His truth.
He had meant to tell them everything—the nightmares, the visions, the truth of what he was. He had wanted to name names, to expose the shadow behind the veil. He had even seen her—Obulu—in the crowd, the very creature who had haunted his dreams. She wore a human face today, but Amanse knew better. He had seen her true form. He knew what she was capable of.
He knew the killings weren't random. He knew the famine had purpose.
He knew the gods had fled.
But now…
Now he said nothing.
And the land continued to rot in silence.