The day was already slipping toward dusk when Iyi found himself standing at the edge of the forest — the place the village elders called Igbó àfọ̀jú, the Forest of Echoes. It was a place whispered about in stories, where the voices of ancestors and memories of those long gone lingered like shadows caught between trees.
The forest was thick with trees whose trunks seemed older than time, their bark gnarled and twisted like the hands of ancient storytellers. Leaves rustled softly in the wind, but it wasn't the breeze that made the hairs on Iyi's neck rise—it was the sensation that the forest itself was alive, watching, waiting.
Iyi took a slow breath, the scent of damp earth and moss filling his lungs. His fingers brushed the worn leather pouch that hung at his side — the one given to him by the beggar who had regained his sight. Inside was the special soap, the fourth sponge, and the burnt coin — talismans anchoring him to both this world and the one beyond.
He stepped forward, the crunch of leaves and twigs beneath his feet sounding unusually loud in the heavy silence. Every step deeper into the forest seemed to pull him away from the village's familiar rhythms and closer to something unknown.
Ahead, the trees formed a natural archway, branches intertwining like fingers clasped in prayer. Beyond it, shadows danced between the trunks — faint shapes that blurred with the dusk.
Iyi paused, heart pounding.
The Forest of Echoes was said to be a place where the past and present collided, where voices long silenced could speak again, if one was willing to listen.
He closed his eyes.
And then he heard it.
A whisper — faint, like the rustling of dry leaves.
"Ọmọ Iyi…"
His name carried on the wind, fragile yet insistent.
He opened his eyes and moved forward, drawn by the voice.
As he walked, the whispers multiplied — fragments of conversations, laughter, cries, and prayers echoing through the trees. Some voices were warm and familiar; others cold and distant.
Suddenly, the ground beneath his feet shifted. The forest floor gave way to a clearing where an old, cracked drum lay abandoned, its skin stretched thin and frayed.
Iyi knelt beside it, feeling the pulse of the earth through his palms.
The drum was said to be the heart of the forest — the voice of ancestors who once used it to call forth protection, wisdom, and justice.
He remembered the stories his grandmother told him: of drummers who could speak to the spirits, whose rhythms carried the power to heal or curse.
Iyi raised his hands above the drum and struck lightly.
The sound was hollow but alive, a muted echo that seemed to ripple through the trees.
And then, the forest responded.
From the shadows emerged figures — translucent, shimmering — ancestors, guardians, and lost souls alike. Their eyes held stories of joy and sorrow, betrayal and forgiveness.
One figure stepped forward — a young boy with skin like dark wood and eyes like burning coals.
"You carry their rhythm," the boy said softly. "But do you understand the song?"
Iyi swallowed.
"I am learning."
The boy smiled, and the other spirits began to chant — a haunting melody that filled the clearing.
As the song rose, Iyi felt a weight lift from his shoulders. The echoes around him were not just memories; they were lessons, warnings, and blessings.
The forest was alive with the past, but it was also a place of rebirth.
When the chant ended, the spirits slowly faded, leaving Iyi alone with the cracked drum and the setting sun.
He knew the journey was far from over.
But in the Forest of Echoes, he had found a connection — a link to those who had walked before him and those who would come after.
And with that, a new strength took root in his heart.