The Forgotten God — Movement 2
The Descent
Tongues of flame.
Incantation.
Invitation.
But not for me.
They have forgotten.
Drums thunder.
Hearts thump.
Blood thrums.
But not for me.
They have forgotten.
Feet stamp
tracing spirals
in the dust.
But the waymaker
they have forgotten.
It was I
who cradled their heads
in the ship’s fetid hold.
It was I
who rode their chants
and fanned rebellion’s fire.
It was I
who led them
here.
But they have forgotten.
Tonight
they will remember.
Nayela had never heard such drumming. The parties that she frequented in the city—drinking and dancing with friends till she passed out on the nearest couch—couldn’t compare to this implacable thunder that shook the ground and made her heart beat in tandem.
Now, standing at the edge of the clearing, she finally understood what her mother meant when—as she reminisced about the village—she would sigh and say, “I cyah quite tell yuh girl. You hadda feel it here.” And she would press her palm gently to her daughter’s chest—where the drums now echoed, deep and unrelenting.
Dazed by the whirlwind of sound and movement, Nayela felt a creeping fear, a slow panic that started to thread itself between the drum beats and the thud of bare feet on packed earth. It unspooled itself in her lungs and clogged her throat. She coughed, her hand to her mouth.
Zahare, who was just about to enter the circle of dancers, turned at the sound of her choked breath, his eyes searching her face.
“Ahhh! This is Abeo self! Ent Zahare? Even Yagba wouldn’ ah know de difference.”
Nayela gathered herself and turned to the woman who stood beside her uncle, arms akimbo, her smile glinting in the firelight.
She had been dancing. The rise and fall of her breasts and the gleam of sweat on her brow made that clear. But she exuded a self-possession that rivalled the kgosi’s.
Her uncle sighed and stepped towards Nayela. For a moment, his hand gripped her elbow firmly, as if to steady her, and then he led her towards the woman.
“Nayela. Adama, our sangoma.”
The woman stood taller as they approached—pulling her shoulders back, raising her chin so that she seemed to look down at Nayela from an imperial height.
Nayela, head bowed in greeting, lifted it just in time to see the sangoma wrinkle her nose, like a dog catching the scent of an intruder. A breath later, the expression was gone— a ripple on water.
Nutmeg.
Basil.
Gommier resin.
Dried.
Bundled in cotton.
Carried close to the heart.
A blessing.
My blessing.
The sangoma smells it.
Wears it too.
But she has forgotten
who made it so.
It is time.
Nayela wanted to leave. It was all she could do not to run through the twisting bodies—caught in a trance-like fervour—and out into the beckoning dark.
It was too much, this place: heavy with memory, every moment haunted by her mother’s absence and the spectre of a grandmother that she never knew. Grief roiled in her stomach, threatening to breach her defences. Around its edges, fear lurked, sharper now, more ravenous.
Clenching her hands into fists, Nayela squeezed her eyes shut.
“Breathe,” she told herself, counting each inhale and exhale like her mother had taught her when she was a child, overcome by the dusty cacophony of the city.
“Make yuh belly round like a tangerine,” Abeo used to say. “And count de pegs. One, two, three, four, five.”
“And den you eat dem … piece by piece. One, two, three, four, five… Wait! You eh leave none for me?”
Nayela’s exhale would spill over into giggles as her mother swept her up in her arms…
She looked up to find Oba standing next to her, hands clapping, eyes on the dancers, but his presence so finely tuned to hers that she knew he had sensed her discomfort.
The drums stopped. Silence draped itself over the gathering like a dark cloak, musty with the smoke of the flambeaux.
Adama stood in the centre of the circle, holding the rooster that Oba had brought firmly by the wings. She lifted the bird to the four directions, her voice unwavering as she chanted in a language that sounded familiar—like a forgotten dream. Then with a swipe of the knife, she cut its throat.
The flambeaux dipped and darkness rushed in. But when the flames righted themselves, the darkness—tinged with crimson red—remained. So that it was as if the night had been dipped in blood.
Nayela’s heartbeat roared in her ears, drowning out the world.
A weight, damp and reeking of decay, pressed down on her—into her. Her knees buckled and she fell to the ground, convulsing in the dust.
. . .
An Invitation to Ponder
When have you found yourself in a space or moment that felt overwhelming or too much? What helped you stay present and grounded?
Is there a sound, scent, or phrase from your childhood that still lives somewhere in your body? That carries you back to a specific time and place whenever you encounter it in your day-to-day?
Have you ever felt a pull—subtle or sudden—toward a lineage, story, or part of yourself that others around you may not see, understand or remember?
What might it be asking you to remember, reclaim, or carry forward? And what would it mean to answer?
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.