The Forgotten God — Movement 1
Before You Enter
The Forgotten God is rooted in Caribbean Gothic traditions, and carries the weight of historical loss, ancestral longing, and ecological unravelling.
This story may stir old griefs, forgotten songs, and deep remembering. You are invited to move at your own pace, to rest when needed, and to listen gently for what rises.
Welcome.
The Arrival
She is coming.
The daughter.
The wind blowing across the mountains brings her scent to me.
Nutmeg.
Basil.
Gommier resin.
And festering beneath
the putrid haze of guilt and grief
hollowing her out like maggots feasting on flesh.
Her mother smelled the same when she left.
I was the only witness.
The only one to see them
drifting down the river with the early morning mist—
the woman and the life she carried
no bigger than a black eyed pea…
And here she is
fully grown.
Returning to us.
I will make myself known to her.
I will make my home in the darkness that eats at her heart.
And they will remember me.
If Nayela had not been rushing to catch up with Zahare—who stood waiting in the track, arms crossed and back stiff—the falling breadfruit tree branch would have knocked her flat.
She hardly noticed the crack of splintering wood. It was the whoosh of leaves and the heavy thud that made her jump and turn—just in time to catch a face full of dust and debris.
Zahare came running. And Oba, her cousin and Zahare’s youngest, sprinted out from behind the house, a large rooster pinned beneath one arm.
“Yuh hurt?” Zahare’s voice was loud, sharp with worry.
Nayela couldn’t answer. She was doubled over, coughing, tears cutting tracks in the dust that caked her face.
Her uncle touched her shoulder gently, his voice softer now.
“Come, come. Sit here.” He ushered her back to the bench just outside the front door.
Someone placed a calabash in her hands, the cool water sloshing over the sides and onto her lap. It was Oba. She would recognise those long, almost delicate fingers anywhere.
As she washed her face, Nayela realised that she liked her cousin.
It was he who helped her out of the boat three days ago, while Zahare and a few curious onlookers from the village stood on the bank, watching her struggle with her bags.
It was he who sat next to her during dinner later that evening, regaling her with village gossip as he handed tidbits to Dayo—the squirrel monkey sitting on his shoulder, its tail draped around his neck.
And earlier today, when she dropped her arms in defeat, the long ends of her headwrap trailing despondently down her back, he pulled a stool and told her to sit.
“Mama used to wrap Yagba’s head all de time.”
His hands, deftly folding the cloth around her head, faltered as grief shadowed his face—but only for a moment. So that as Nayela watched, it brightened again, as if a large bird had blocked the sun in its passing.
It was the first time he had mentioned his mother and their grandmother. Nayela had never met either woman, yet she, too, felt the ache of their absence.
Her mother had told her stories about Yagba. About how even though her husband was kgosi, it was really she who ran the village—the sangoma who could see far into the mists of time.
When the village women were pregnant—or wished to be—they came to her. She soothed aching hearts, rubbed herbal salves on wounds so they would not fester. And when Zahare took his father’s place, he sought her counsel, as his father had before him.
When Nayela saw her uncle for the first time, she immediately knew who he was. His shoulders, broad beneath the layers of his agbada, seemed built to carry the burdens of others. And there was something about his eyes and the set of his mouth that reminded her of her mother.
The resemblance took Nayela by surprise. She should have known that here, surrounded by family, she would see traces of Abeo, who she had lost just a year ago. She should have been prepared.
Instead, she was thrown into an icy sea of grief, fighting to maintain her composure before these people she hardly knew, while her heart dropped and tightened into a closed fist.
And now, as she dried her face and Oba adjusted the headwrap he had so carefully folded, chatting on about nothing in particular, she steeled herself for more of the same.
As they made their way out of the village, the sound of drumming grew louder. The villagers had started Yagba’s Ninth Night without them.
Zahare sucked his teeth and walked faster. Nayela struggled to keep up, the long ceremonial skirts that someone had placed on her cot tangling around her ankles.
When they reached the clearing—a large circle lit by smoking flambeaux—she stopped short, transfixed by the scene before her.
. . .
An Invitation
Dear reader,
Here are some questions that I asked myself as I wrote this part of The Forgotten God. I thought that I should share them with you, as an offering of sorts — an invitation to swim a little deeper, journey a little further with me.
You can read them quietly to yourself, use them as journal prompts, light a candle and hold them softly in your hands. It doesn’t matter what you do, as long as you are gentle with yourself.
What memories or emotions surface for you when you think about "returning" to a place, a family, a time, a part of yourself you thought was forgotten?
Who or what in your own life might be "watching" you—not with malice, but with a longing to be remembered?
When were you reminded—through small (and not-so-small) acts of care—that you are not alone, that you are seen and loved? And who have you held space for in their becoming?
Thank you for your presence and intention. The journey continues next Sunday. See you then.
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.