The Forgotten God — Movement 4
Emergence
Zahare and Adama were deep in conversation when Nayela stepped out into the yard.
It must have been after ten o’clock; the sun was already high in the sky. But the sangoma seemed no less imposing in daylight than she had last evening.
When they both turned to look at her—one with a quizzical expression, the other with a slight upturn of the lips that belied the concern in his eyes—Nayela realised her mistake.
She wasn’t ready to see anyone. It was too heavy to talk about—last night and the nightmare that had just woken her.
Besides, she was returning to the city tomorrow. Soon, all this would be nothing more than a bad dream.
She shouldn’t have come here in the first place. She had mistakenly thought she could find some sense of home, of belonging among these people—but she was wrong.
Abeo had told her so much about them—their foibles, their moments of grace— that when she died, opening a black hole of grief inside her, she thought she would find comfort here.
Yagba’s death and funerary rites had seemed like the perfect opportunity to return—both as a show of respect, and to meet her mother anew through the eyes of those who loved her. But last night had thrown everything off-kilter in ways she couldn't quite name.
“Nayela! Come, girl.”
Her uncle had risen and was beckoning her to the seat next to him, oblivious to the surprised annoyance that flickered across the sangoma’s face.
“Thank you, Uncle.”
Nayela bowed to them both before taking the seat.
“You sleep good, ah hope.” He looked at her intently, waiting for her response.
She wanted to say no. She wanted to say that something was deeply wrong with this place, and with her, and that all she wanted to do was run back to the life that she knew.
Instead, she smiled and nodded.
“Adama and I was talking about last night.”
Nayela’s heart dropped.
The sangoma huffed and turned away—whatever had passed between them, she clearly had no intention of revealing it to Nayela.
“Well?” Zahare turned to Adama, his eyebrows raised expectantly. And suddenly, Nayela understood.
Her uncle was not oblivious. He knew exactly what he was doing, and he was reminding the sangoma that this was his gayelle. The game would be played by his rules—or not at all.
For the first time since she had arrived at the village, Nayela felt protected.
“Is a god that mount you last night,” the sangoma said, her voice flat.
She had obviously decided that if she must speak, she would go for the jugular.
“The thing is—is not a god we know.”
“What yuh mean is not a god you know? What yuh mean a god mount me? I… I doh understand.”
Nayela’s world stopped, held aloft and bleeding on the knife point of the sangoma’s words. The only sound was that of her heart, pounding in her ears.
“No. No. It not on you still, Nayela. It gone. It gone.” Her uncle was holding her hands, kneading them between his.
“Is just that we doh know it … is not one of ours.”
He glanced across at the sangoma, his eyes dark with warning.
“Yuh have to stay here with us, Nayela. At least till we know what going on…” His voice trailed off. Nayela had started to moan, rocking back and forth.
She could hardly hear her uncle’s words. The world, skewered through its core, was now tilted towards a looming horror—open-mouthed and sharp-toothed.
Nayela struggled for breath, clawing at her chest, pulling at her hair.
“No.. no… no… ah cyah stay here.” Her eyes were wide with terror, fixed on the distance.
“No… no. Ah have to go back. Ah have to go back.”
So deep
this well of grief
and terror—
Enough to slake my thirst
assuage my hunger
of a hundred years.
So frail this woman
portal to my people—
Her ribs
a fragile cage
Her heart
a trembling bird.
Already
she flees.
Carries us away
from mountain mists
to smoke and fog.
From fast-flowing waters
to roads clogged
with the detritus
of their passing.
But not for long.
They will remember.
. . .
An Invitation to Ponder
Have you ever said you were fine when something inside you was unraveling? What needed to be seen? What might change if, next time, you give yourself permission to answer honestly?
Have you ever felt something move through you that you couldn’t explain or fully name? What did it leave behind? How did it change you—or those around you?
What truths have you been circling? What might happen if you stopped? What might open if you turned to face them?
Thank you for your presence and intention. See you next weekend.
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.