The Forgotten God — Movement 6
Messenger
No one was there to greet Nayela at the river bank. She wasn't surprised; they weren't expecting her. Besides, she didn't need any help with bags. She had thrown a few changes of clothes into a knapsack back at the apartment, and spent the rest of the night sitting upright in her bed, hardly daring to blink.
As she walked up to the village, being careful not to trip on the tree roots that snaked across the dirt track, she was struck by how little had changed. The forest was still alive with the cry of howler monkeys in the distance and the raucous squawking of parrots on their way to their evening roosts.
The village’s entrance—marked by tamarind and gommier trees, and appearing suddenly through a break in the foliage—was just as unexpected as the first time, even though she knew it was there.
Had it really been less than a week since she first arrived? Since chaos grabbed the reins of her life, hurling her into upheaval?
Dogs barked as she walked past houses, bringing the villagers out to see what the commotion was about.
She waved at a group of women standing outside Adama’s house. They didn’t wave back.
Unsettled by their watchful silence, she picked up her pace, heading straight for Zahare’s house in the middle of the village.
The door was open, like it always was. As she pushed the blind aside and stepped through, the clack of the wooden beads announced her arrival.
It took a moment for her eyes to adjust themselves to the shadowed darkness of the room. And so, when Oba emerged from another door to greet her, she couldn’t see the surprise that she knew must have been stamped on his face.
“Nayela! Yuh come back!”
He rushed forward to hug her tightly. And when he stepped back to look at her, his hands still on her shoulders, she knew that it was true. The lines of sorrow were clear as day on his face. Dayo had died.
“But how? Why?” Oba asked.
It took Nayela a moment to realise that he was referring to her return, not his pet’s death.
“Ah have a message for Uncle. Where him?”
“He gone with de hunters … Dey find something in the bush.” Oba’s face darkened and his eyes dropped to the floor.
“A whole troop of howler monkeys… Dead, dey say.”
“Oh, Oba…” She hugged him again. He seemed confused at the offer of comfort but accepted it anyway.
“Dayo …he …” he muttered into her shoulder.
“Ah know. Ah know.”
“How you know?” He pulled away, his eyes scanning her face.
“Because she bring it! She bring de ting that kill Dayo and de howler monkey dem.”
Adama strode through the door, not even bothering to part the blinds. The wooden beads clacked their indignation, loud and jarring.
Stunned silence filled the room followed by Oba’s disbelieving laugh.
“Yuh cyah be serious. What she could bring?”
“Yuh eh see de ting that mount she at de Ninth Night? How it cover she like a brooding hen? How she twist and turn under it like she ha no bones in she body?”
The sangoma’s voice was bitter like the blackest coffee.
“Yuh ever see one ah we own do that? She bring something back from that macajuel den!”
Nayela stepped back as if she had been slapped.
Was that what had happened that night? Had the god covered her, made her do inhuman things? And had the whole village seen it happen?
She wanted to scream, to pull her hair out. But something seated deep in her belly, pulsed, grounding her— A black hole that pulled everything in, but instead of swallowing her, held her disparate parts in orbit.
“Auntie, ah must ask yuh to leave.” Oba slipped in front of Nayela, blocking her from the sangoma’s venomous gaze.
“You cyah tell me what to do, boy.” Adama stepped towards them, her voice suddenly low and silky smooth.
“The kgosi goh handle dis when he reach.” Oba’s voice trembled slightly but he stood straight and tall.
“He goh want to know why the sangoma enter he house and threaten he niece.”
Adama stood there for so long that Nayela thought she would hold her ground. But silently, she turned and left. The beads clacked their protest long after she was gone.
. . .
An Invitation to Ponder
When you began to change — to grow, evolve, or return differently — how did those around you respond? What did their response teach you about belonging?
When others tried to name you — as threat, burden, or outsider — what truth did you hold onto to stay whole?
What do you carry that is not yours alone? And how do you hold it without letting it consume you?
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.