woven in time

The drums were loud. The crowd was louder. And the sky over Adebayo College was painted in streaks of gold and purple as the sun dipped beneath the horizon. It was the school’s annual cultural festival—students in vibrant ankara, adire, and agbada paraded across the open field, dancing, singing, and showing off months of preparation. Laughter echoed through the compound, smoky suya and puff-puff scents filled the air, and everywhere you turned, someone was either performing or clapping for someone else. That’s when I saw him. Standing near the masquerade display, slightly apart from the crowd, was a boy who looked exactly like me. My feet froze. My heart skipped—no, tripped. He had my nose. My jawline. My brows. The same deep brown skin tone kissed by the sun. The same eyes. Exactly. Like. Me. He must’ve felt me staring, because he turned his head, caught my gaze, and walked toward me like he’d already made up his mind. We stood facing each other in the center of the festival chaos, everything and everyone fading into a low hum. He wore a forest green danshiki and black trousers. Simple, but he looked like a prince. “You were thinking it,” he said, voice calm, unreadable. “Thinking what?” His lips curved in a half-smile. “That we look alike. That maybe, just maybe, we’re twins.” I blinked. “Well… yeah. It’s kind of impossible not to.” He nodded slowly, hands in his pockets. “We’re not twins.” I tilted my head. “How do you know?” “I’d know if I had a twin,” he said simply. “And besides, I’m Kehinde Afolabi. Just transferred here last week.” “Ayotunde Oladele,” I said, still staring. Our classmates began whispering before we even walked away from that spot. --- By Monday, our resemblance had already become a wildfire rumor. Some swore we were long-lost siblings. Others said it was a prank. One girl even claimed she saw us walk into a mirror and come out on opposite sides. Kehinde handled the attention like someone used to being watched but not understood—quiet, careful, a little too still. I, on the other hand, tried to ignore it. But the questions kept coming. Even Mama Dara, my grandmother and the town’s most well-known herbalist, stared at Kehinde’s photo longer than necessary when I showed her. “Hmmm,” she murmured, fingers tracing the image like it held answers. “This one… e ni nkan.” He has something. --- Then came the night of the Ojú-Orun Festival—the sacred celebration where the town honored the “Eyes of the Sky,” the unseen spirits that watched over Agbede since the beginning. Everyone was dressed in white. The town square glowed under the full moon. Dancers twirled around bonfires while masquerades swept through the streets like ancient spirits reborn. Kehinde found me without saying a word. We didn’t talk. We just stood, side by side, as chants rose into the night air. That’s when I felt the burn. It started at my wrist. A small, warm pulse like a heartbeat beneath my skin. I looked down. A crescent-shaped mark—something I’d always thought was a birthmark—was glowing. Dim, but unmistakable. I turned to Kehinde, my breath caught in my throat. He was already staring at his own wrist. Same mark. Same shape. Same spot. Same glow. His eyes met mine. “We’re not twins,” he said again, but this time, his voice was hoarse. And I knew, without needing to ask— Because twins don’t share the same spirit signature. Whatever we were… it wasn’t natural. It wasn’t human. It was the beginning.