The Penitent

The sky blinks and caws in the shadow of a storm. Thick-set mothers dimple and rattle their backsides to the beat of drums, appreciating their efforts with shrieks. They square off in dance duels, reliving their carnival day. Children cartwheel and race each other, encouraged by the inattention of adults. The wind squeals and swooshes, ruffling the scrappy pale of obeches around the hamlets, gathering barbets into a swarm and scattering them. A bonfire thrashes like an angry piece of washing. Goats run amok in their pens. Trees nod oddly to one side—in their leeward lean, they seem at the end of a swipe from a giant broom. The wind fades. Obeches return to their vertical balances. The threat of a downpour lasts, but no droplet of rain falls. Shango has played them a practical joke. The dark clouds fade like smoke, and the day brightens. Relieved, Tinu joins her mother and the others in mocking Iya Pelumi and her rain-dance gathering. “It’s not rainclouds. It’s a dark force,” her mother says. “How can you tell?” Iya Pelumi asks. “Baba Folarin told me so. He said he heard voices in the wind. Frightened voices.” Iya Kemi muses. “Where is he?” “He left. He went to see Iya Yetunde. I ran into him on his way.” Bosun thumps his drum. “But Baba Folarin only hears voices that tell him something about wine.” “No. He hears voices, period. He’s a clairaudient.” “He’s a joke, Adeola,” Iya Bolanle says. “You can’t take him seriously.” Aburo Laide rests her pregnant frame against a hut’s wall. "Whose voices, Iya Adeola? Did he say?" "The ancestors, obviously," her mother says. “And what did they say?” Iya Bolanle asks. Her mother sighs. “He said their words weren’t clear. That’s why he has gone to Iya Yetunde’s hamlet. She might know more. She’s a clairvoyant who sees things in her sleep.” “We know what she is,” Iya Kemi mumbles. “She doesn’t remember her dreams, but thankfully, she talks in her sleep—so someone must be listening.” “Ah,” Iya Bolanle sighs, “if Baba Folarin didn’t ruin his mind with palm wine, he wouldn’t be running to her. He’d hear clearly on his own.” Aburo Laide chuckles, squinting at the clouds. "Tell me, has anyone seen such a spectacle? That was no ordinary storm—that was Shango and Ogun at war!” Iya Temi wrinkles her brow. “I hope it's not a bad omen. Our men are still out in the forest.” "Don’t say things like that, Temi." Iya Bolanle fumes. "Negative thoughts attract negative energy." "I'm not saying that anything has happened to them. I'm just pointing out that our men are still away while all this is happening." "And I'm saying you shouldn't point that out after saying the sky could be a bad omen." "I said I hope it's not a bad omen." "Same thing." "Bolanle, keep your opinions to yourself. Who are you to tell me what to say and how to say it?" "I’m only giving you advice. It would be remiss of me if I didn't." "Look at her." Iya Temi bats her eyelids. "Who does she think she is? 'It would be remiss of me if I didn't.'" She mimics Iya Bolanle and scoffs. "The problem with you, Temi, is that you don't know how to talk," Iya Bolanle says. "Yes, you’re too insensitive," Iya Pelumi says. "And who asked you, Pelumi?" Iya Temi snaps. "Stay out of this. I know where you’re coming from, and it's not a good place. You’re so petty." The two women trade insults. Bosun beats his drum to distract them, but it doesn’t work. Iya Bolanle and her mates side with Iya Pelumi and express long-held resentments. Her mother storms into the hut they share, and Tinu follows. *** Her mother grabs the broom in the corner and goes to work. The broom's bristles scrape against the floor in slow, listless strokes—back and forth, back and forth—like she’s sweeping away more than just dirt. “Iya, what’s wrong?” Tinu asks. “Something has happened to our men, I feel it.” Iya Adeola says. “I think Temitope has a point. I wish I could help. I hate feeling powerless.” “Well, it doesn’t help to worry. What if it’s all for nothing?” “What if your father is dead? What if Wande is too?—both slaughtered on the battlefield.” “Mother, stop saying things like that. Negative thoughts attract negative energy.” “Oh, please. Don’t give me that crap—” The distant sound of talking drums rises as the drummers near our hamlet—deep, urgent pulses that shake the air, their sacred thrums older than words. Every soul knows a summons to the village square when they hear it. There, something from the palace waits to be spoken. “Let’s go,” Tinu says. *** At the village square, an uneasy hush falls over the crowd—whether from eagerness to listen or the grim weight of the court messenger’s stride, no one can say. Tinu presses close to Iya Adeola, stretching onto her toes and craning her neck behind a wall of mostly women and children for a glimpse, sweat beading down her brow. The messenger’s solemnity thickens the already thick air. The messenger clears his throat as a toddler’s piercing whimper is swiftly smothered. Tinu’s fingers tighten around her mother’s arm. The oba’s Aròkìn steps onto his podium—an old tree stump—and the silence deepens. “It is common practice for Modekun not to put her women in harm’s way. But sadly, the time has come for us to call on them for a different service." The crowd erupts—a sharp gasp slices the air before voices crash like waves. "What’s happened?" "Are the men safe?" "What service? Speak clearly!" The questions fly, frantic and overlapping, as bodies press forward, straining for answers. "Our warriors are alive," the messenger announces, his voice cutting through the murmurs. "But they are lost—vanished into the heart of the forest. Something... took hold of them and scattered them like leaves in a storm." A ripple of unease passes through the villagers. The messenger’s gaze hardens. "The palace is gathering search parties. Those of you who wish to join—go now. Fetch your cutlasses, pack food, and return immediately. We move well before nightfall." He grips his drum and yells, "Do not be afraid. No enemy lies in wait. There will be nothing to fear besides mosquitoes and snakes." He jumps down from the stump and voices swarm him—"Will we be camping overnight?" "What overcame them? Aren't there wild animals in the forest?" The crowd breaks apart, some rushing home, others lingering in noisy clusters. Tinu scuttles off, pacing down the grounds faster than her mother. “Iya, hurry up,” she calls to her mother. “Come here, young woman,” Iya Adeola says. “Where are you rushing to?” “Home.” “Good. I thought you planned to return here and join the search teams.” “Aren’t we…?” “We’re not.” “But you said… You said you hated feeling powerless.” “I hate having more things to worry about, I’ll tell you that.” “Oh, mother.” “I can’t think of going into that forest. Can you?” “Yes. I’ve always wanted to. Now’s my chance.” “It’s not a romantic getaway. You’re not going to run into Wande’s arms and kisses.”