The river at Nsukka ran dry for three weeks.
Villagers whispered that the earth had turned
its back on them. A young man vanished during
the drought, last seen near the old oracle’s
grove. The police sent a woman inspector, a rare
sight in the force, to investigate. She arrived
with a notebook and no local ties, her uniform
stiff with the weight of city life.
The village elders refused to speak. They
pointed to the shrine, a circle of stones etched
with symbols older than the nation. The
inspector found the boy’s sandals by the stream,
halfburied in mud. She asked about the oracle,
but the chief only said, “The spirits do not
forgive.”
A second boy disappeared. This time, the village
council demanded a sacrifice. They brought a
goat, but the inspector stopped them. She had no
faith in the old ways, not after years in Lagos,
where gods were replaced by contracts and
prayers by algorithms. The council warned her:
“The oracle sees all. You will not leave this
place alive.”
On the third night, the inspector walked alone
to the shrine. The air thickened. A voice, not
human, echoed from the stones: “You have
trespassed.” She turned, but no one was there.
The ground trembled. A shadow rose from the
earth—a figure with hollow eyes and a crown of
bones. It spoke in the tongue of the ancestors.
She did not run. She pulled out her notebook,
flipped to a blank page, and wrote: “I am here
to find the boy.” The figure tilted its head.
The earth cracked open. A hand reached out,
pulling her into the dark.
When she emerged, the boy stood beside her,
unharmed. The village erupted in chaos. The
inspector left without saying goodbye, her
notebook empty. The oracle’s voice lingered in
her mind: “You have seen the truth. Now live
with it.”
The boys returned, but the village never
recovered. The river filled again, but the
people no longer trusted the land. The inspector
returned to Lagos, but the silence in her
apartment felt heavier than before.
