Aderinsola woke before the rooster crowed.
At first, she thought it was the heat. The room was thick with it, the kind that pressed against the skin and refused to let go. Her wrapper clung to her back, damp with sweat. She turned onto her side and reached for the cool edge of the mat.
Then she heard it.
Her name.
Not spoken loudly. Not whispered either. It came gently, as though whoever called it was careful not to wake the whole compound.
"Aderinsola…"
Her eyes snapped open.
The room was dark, lit only by the faint glow of dawn pushing through the cracks in the mud wall. Morenike's mat lay empty. That was not unusual—her aunt often rose early—but something else was wrong.
The voice had come from outside.
Her heart began to beat faster. She held her breath, listening.
Nothing.
She sat up slowly, the warning from the night before rising in her mind like cold water poured down her spine.
If anyone calls your name from inside the trees—do not answer.
This voice had not come from the forest. It had come from the yard.
"Aderinsola…"
She slid her feet onto the floor, careful not to make a sound. The earth felt cool beneath her toes. She crept toward the doorway and peered out.
The compound lay still. The cooking stand was empty. The goat tethered near the fence slept with its head tucked beneath its body. Beyond the gate, the path leading to the forest rested quietly under the growing light.
No one stood there.
"Aderinsola…"
This time, the voice sounded closer.
Her mouth went dry.
"Who is that?" she asked, her voice barely more than breath.
There was a pause.
Then: "You don't remember me?"
Her chest tightened. "I don't know you."
Silence stretched between them, heavy and deliberate.
"Yet you knew to answer," the voice said softly.
Aderinsola stepped back from the doorway as though pushed. Her heel caught on the edge of the mat, and she stumbled.
"Aderinsola."
"Stop," she whispered. "Stop calling me."
The voice sighed. Not in anger. Not in frustration. In something that sounded almost… patient.
"You will hear me again," it said. "This was only the first time."
Then it was gone.
The silence that followed was worse than the voice itself.
By the time Morenike returned, the sun had fully risen. She carried a bundle of firewood on her head, her movements brisk, her face unreadable.
"You're awake early," she said, setting the wood down.
Aderinsola watched her carefully. "Someone called my name."
Morenike's hands stilled.
"When?" she asked.
"Just before dawn."
"From where?"
"I don't know," Aderinsola said. "Outside. Near the gate."
Morenike turned slowly to face her. "Did you answer?"
Aderinsola hesitated. "I asked who it was."
Morenike closed her eyes briefly, as if steadying herself.
"I warned you."
"I didn't know," Aderinsola said quickly. "It didn't sound like the forest."
"That doesn't matter," Morenike replied. "Voices move. They learn."
"What voice?" Aderinsola demanded. "What is happening to me?"
Morenike picked up the pestle and began to grind dried pepper with unnecessary force.
"You have always been noticed," she said at last.
"By who?"
Morenike did not answer.
Aderinsola stepped closer. "Auntie. Please."
Morenike sighed and set the pestle down. "When your grandmother was alive, she handled these things. She knew what to say and when to say it. I was not meant to."
"That doesn't help me."
"No," Morenike agreed quietly. "It doesn't."
She reached for a small leather pouch hanging near the doorway and pressed it into Aderinsola's palm.
"Wear this," she said. "Do not remove it. Not even to bathe."
Aderinsola stared at it. "What is it?"
"A reminder," Morenike said. "To whatever has begun paying attention to you."
The village noticed the change before noon.
Aderinsola felt it in the way conversations lowered when she passed, in the way eyes lingered too long before quickly looking away. Children who usually ran to greet her hung back, watching her as though unsure.
At the well, two women fell silent when she approached.
"Good morning," Aderinsola said.
They responded politely but avoided her gaze.
Zainab found her there, filling her calabash with sharp, hurried movements.
"What's wrong with everyone?" Aderinsola asked as soon as she reached her.
Zainab shrugged. "My mother says people dreamt strange things last night."
Aderinsola's stomach twisted. "What kind of strange?"
Zainab hesitated. "Footsteps. Names being called. Shadows where there shouldn't be shadows."
Aderinsola's grip tightened on the rope.
Zainab glanced at the pouch around her neck. "What's that?"
"Nothing," Aderinsola said too quickly.
Zainab raised an eyebrow but let it go. "They say the forest spirits are restless."
"I thought you didn't believe in that," Aderinsola said.
Zainab looked away. "I believe in what refuses to leave me alone."
That evening, the elders gathered beneath the old udala tree.
Morenike did not want Aderinsola to go, but she went anyway, standing at the edge of the crowd, listening.
An old man spoke. "The land is unsettled."
Another replied, "Something has crossed a boundary."
"Or someone," a third added.
Aderinsola felt the words settle on her like weight.
When she turned to leave, her foot brushed against the root of the tree.
The ground beneath her shifted.
Not visibly. Not violently. Just enough for her to feel it.
The forest, far beyond the village, answered with a single sound.
A low, distant call.
Her name.
And this time, the land itself seemed to listen.