The Forgotten God — Movement 9
Rupture
Exodus is upon them
Their hearts heavy
their feet slow.
Pestilence sharpens its blade.
Death stalks the land.
It is time.
It is time.
Nayela was sitting outside, her back resting against the cool mud wall of the house, when she saw Oba running full tilt through the trees on the farthest side of the village.
Instead of slowing down when he reached the door, he pushed straight through, shouting,
“Fadda! Fadda!”
“Where him?” He rushed back out, his face ashen, eyes wild.
“With de farmers. Something wrong with de crops.” Nayela suddenly felt cold. As if someone had thrown a bucket of river water on her. “He say he goh be back by nightfall.”
“Too late. Too late, “ Oba muttered breathlessly. He ran back towards the treeline.
Nayela tried to push herself up. But she was so weak that by the time she managed to stand, he was already gone.
“Please. No more,” she begged the darkness pulsing in her belly.
She grabbed the walking stick that her cousin had cut from the tamarind tree for her, and putting one foot in front of the other, followed him—right down to the river.
By the time she reached the riverbank, a small crowd had already gathered. Everyone was talking at once, their voices strident, clashing like branches in a storm.
When a girl, barely past her teens, pointed to her, the villagers grew silent and parted to let her through.
The river was black. Not the tea-dark brown of the wet season when skies were overcast, or the glassy green, shot with yellow, when the leaves curled under the sun’s unrelenting heat and fell from the branches.
No. This black coiled and twisted like oil on the surface, iridescent colours shimmering within its depths.
And the fish—dozens, maybe hundreds, more than they could count—lay bloated along the banks, their silver bodies turned belly-up, their gills frozen mid-gasp.
Nayela’s stomach twisted.
A child, her voice shrill with panic, cried, “The river! The river dead!”
Oba stood at the edge, hands on his head, his breath ragged. He turned to Nayela, eyes sharp with knowing.
“Yuh see?” His voice was hoarse. “Yuh see what he been trying to tell we?”
Nayela couldn’t breathe. The stench of decay thickened the air.
Then Oba said it again, loud enough for everyone to hear, his arms outstretched as if he wanted to gather up the entire terrifying tableau and present it to them.
“Yuh see what he been trying to tell we?”
Somewhere behind Nayela, an elder whispered, "The rain bring it. The rain god turn against we."
Nayela felt the chill of realization run up and down her arms, pimpling her skin and making her breath catch in her throat.
She knew that the rain clouds passed over the city before dumping their burden on the mountains.
The thick haze that cloaked the city … it was poisoning the rain.
She wasn’t sure how she knew this, but once the idea lit up her insides like a lightning bolt, she could not ignore it.
The people started to wail. Women beat their chests. Men reached unsteadily for the ground, their knees weak.
Out of the corner of her eye, Nayela saw a tall figure turn away from the crowd. It was the sangoma, her white headwrap glimmering in the dappled light that filtered through the trees as she walked up the path to the village.
…
The night was restless, as if it too awaited the kgosi’s return. The villagers gathered in the clearing among the trees, speaking in low urgent tones. Some held each other. Some held themselves, their arms across their chests as if their insides were about to fall out.
Nayela sat on a low stool, her hand playing with the nkisi bag tied around her neck.
The flambeaux flickered, casting unsteady shadows among the trees.
They had not seen Zahare or the farmers since sunrise. Now, it was too late and too dark to go in search of them. The only thing to do was wait.
At first, she barely recognized him—the man who entered the circle of stamped earth. His tunic was streaked with dust, the hem stiff with dried mud. His shoulders, always square, now sagged with something heavier than exhaustion.
The men who followed him into the light were not better off. A sorry lot, they seemed to carry darkness with them, their feet faltering, their faces slack with despair.
Their wives and children ran up to them, crying out their names, gathering them into their arms.
Zahare had returned.
The people stepped back, making space for him at the centre of the gathering where a stool waited.
Once he had settled himself, Oba handed him a calabash, and retreated into the crowd, his eyes never straying from his face.
Nayela watched as the kgosi poured some water onto the ground and drank the rest, his head thrown back and eyes closed.
He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.
“Where de sangoma?” His voice, usually rich and booming, was threadbare, worn at the edges.
The crowd shifted uneasily. Some looked down. No one answered.
The kgosi tilted his head slightly, as if making a mental note, then he continued:
"The land sick. The water too.”
The villagers nodded; no one could doubt what he said after the river’s revelation.
“Is de rain. It passing over de city and dropping their poison here, on dis land."
Zahare lowered his head for what seemed to be an eternity. No one dared breathe.
Then he sighed. "We cyah stay here."
Someone let out a sharp breath. Another muttered a curse.
The woman standing next to Nayela pressed her hands to her face, her shoulders shaking.
Zahare’s gaze swept over them all. Then he rose to his full height.
"Gather what we could carry. At daybreak, we leave for the city."
His words cut through the night like his machete—the night whose bleeding maw swallowed their old life whole.
…
An Invitation to Ponder
Where in your life are you being asked to leave what you’ve known—whether or not you feel ready? What grief does that stir? And what possibility?
When a community faces a breaking point, someone often becomes the mirror. When have you been the one who sees—and when have you turned away?
What poisons have you inherited, absorbed, or carried without realizing it? What begins to heal when you finally trace the sickness to its source?
Thank you for your presence and intention. See you next weekend for the final movement of this story.
A Note on Cultural Context
This story draws inspiration from various Afro-diasporic spiritual systems and ancestral traditions. It presents a fictional, syncretic world—not a direct representation of any single belief or community. The Forgotten God was created with deep respect for the cultural and spiritual heritages that continue to shape and inspire Black diasporic storytelling.