The meeting beneath the udala tree did not end with shouting.
That was what frightened Aderinsola most.
The elders spoke in low voices, their words measured, careful, as though the air itself was listening. When decisions were ordinary, voices rose. When matters were dangerous, silence did most of the talking.
Aderinsola stood at the edge of the gathering, half-hidden behind a cluster of women. Her eyes kept drifting back to the forest line beyond the huts. The trees looked the same as they always had—tall, unmoving—but now she knew better than to trust appearances.
She felt Morenike's presence before she heard her.
"Come here," her aunt said quietly.
Aderinsola turned. Morenike stood a few steps away, her arms folded tightly across her chest. There was a tension in her face Aderinsola had never seen before—not anger, not worry, but something close to regret.
"I was listening," Aderinsola said as she approached.
"I know," Morenike replied. "You shouldn't have been."
"Everyone is talking about it. About me."
Morenike's lips pressed together. "They are talking about what they don't understand."
"Then help me understand," Aderinsola said. "Please."
Before Morenike could answer, a voice called out from beneath the udala tree.
"Morenike."
Both of them turned.
It was Baba Sadiq, one of the oldest men in the village. His back was bent with age, but his eyes were sharp and clear, missing nothing. He leaned heavily on his staff as he studied Aderinsola.
"Bring the girl," he said.
Morenike stiffened. "She is tired."
"She is involved," Baba Sadiq replied calmly. "Whether we like it or not."
The women around them shifted uneasily. Someone muttered a prayer under their breath.
Morenike hesitated only a moment before nodding. "Stay close," she murmured to Aderinsola.
They walked into the circle.
The other elders fell silent as they approached. Aderinsola felt their eyes on her—curious, wary, searching. She resisted the urge to fold her arms around herself.
Baba Sadiq gestured for her to sit on a low stone near his feet.
"What did you hear last night?" he asked her directly.
Aderinsola glanced at Morenike. Her aunt's face was unreadable.
"My name," Aderinsola said. "Someone called my name."
"Someone?" another elder repeated. "Or something?"
"I didn't see anything," Aderinsola said. "Just the voice."
"Did you answer?" Baba Sadiq asked.
Aderinsola swallowed. "I asked who it was."
A murmur rippled through the elders.
Baba Sadiq closed his eyes slowly. "Names are doors," he said. "Once opened, they are not easily shut."
"I didn't know," Aderinsola said, her voice shaking despite herself. "I didn't mean to—"
"We know," he interrupted gently. "Intent does not always matter."
Another elder, Mama Kudirat, leaned forward. "Has she ever shown signs before?"
Morenike answered before Aderinsola could. "She has always been… sensitive."
Mama Kudirat nodded. "Her grandmother was the same."
At the mention of her grandmother, something tightened in Aderinsola's chest.
"What does that mean?" she asked.
The elders exchanged looks.
Baba Sadiq sighed. "It means there are debts older than you."
Aderinsola stared at him. "Debts?"
"Sit with that word," he said. "You will hear it again."
---
That night, Morenike did not light the lamp.
They sat in darkness, the faint glow of the moon filtering through the doorway. Outside, the village settled into uneasy sleep. No laughter drifted through the air. Even the dogs were quiet.
"You should have told me," Aderinsola said softly.
Morenike did not respond immediately.
"Told you what?" she asked at last.
"That my grandmother left things unfinished," Aderinsola replied. "That something was waiting."
Morenike exhaled slowly. "Your grandmother believed in protection through silence."
"And you?" Aderinsola asked.
"I believed in survival," Morenike said.
Aderinsola turned to face her. "Are they afraid of me?"
Morenike hesitated. "They are afraid for you."
"That's not the same thing."
"No," Morenike admitted. "It isn't."
Aderinsola looked down at the pouch hanging against her chest. "What happens now?"
Morenike reached out and adjusted the cord gently. "Now, we watch."
"Watch for what?"
"For patterns," Morenike said. "For repetition. For mistakes."
Aderinsola frowned. "Mistakes made by who?"
Morenike met her eyes. "By you."
---
Sleep came slowly.
When it finally did, it carried Aderinsola somewhere else.
She stood at the edge of the forest, exactly where the village path ended. The ground beneath her feet was cracked and dry, though she knew it should have been soft. The trees leaned inward, their branches weaving together overhead.
"Aderinsola."
She did not turn.
"I know your voice," she said. "I will not answer again."
The footsteps behind her stopped.
"That is new," the voice said. "You are learning."
She felt a presence draw closer, not touching, not threatening. Just waiting.
"You belong to more than one story," the voice continued. "And some of them are older than names."
Aderinsola clenched her fists. "I didn't ask for this."
"No one ever does," the voice replied.
She woke with a gasp.
The pouch around her neck was warm.
Outside, far beyond the village, the forest shifted—just slightly—as though something had turned its attention fully toward her at last.