The Forgotten God — Movement 7
The Gathering
“Nayela!”
Zahare’s voice rang through the house as he parted the blinds.
He was sweating and grimy, his boots caked with mud. But the machete at his waist and the weight of his bearing ensured no one would question his authority.
“Come, girl.”
He took her by the shoulders, guiding her outside to the benches beneath the eaves.
“I hear yuh have something to tell me.”
The darkness at her center pulsed, sending pinpricks of cold through her limbs.
“Uncle …”
Where could she even begin?
“Uncle, something wrong with de land. It poison.”
Zahare shifted in his seat, his eyes unreadable beneath heavy lids.
“And—and de god dat mount me dat night. It telling me allyuh must leave now—before death take people.”
“How yuh know dis god now? Ent yuh didn’t know it before?”
Her uncle’s voice was soft, almost coaxing. He leaned forward so that his face was uncomfortably close, his eyes locked to hers.
“It didn’ leave me, Uncle.”
Her voice shook and her insides trembled at the confession. But the dark core at her centre held her steady.
“It here. In me right now. It been telling me things. Showing me things.”
Oba stepped out through the door and into full view.
"Is true," he said.
“She did know about Dayo before I tell her.”
The kgosi leaned back and stared at his son. Then his gaze settled on Nayela once more.
“What de god tell yuh about Dayo, Nayela?”
Her name was a warning in his mouth—a knife sheathed.
“He eh tell me. He show me.”
Zahare’s eyebrows lifted, but it was Oba’s sharp intake of breath that made her chest tighten.
‘What he show you?” The kgosi leaned in again.
“Dayo on de ground, his tail wrap around him.” The breath hitched in her throat.
“Go on… go on.” Zahare’s voice was calm, steady.
“He tongue was swollen and purple and he fur was grimy and sticking together.”
“Any blood?”
“No blood.”
The sudden clack of the beads announced Oba’s hasty departure.
She wanted to go to him but her uncle’s gaze held her prisoner.
When he sat back, his hands on his knees, she breathed again—the rush of air making her lungs ache.
“Call de sangoma!” the kgosi shouted.
…
Adama took her time. The stars were out and the crickets and tree frogs were in full chorus when she arrived at Zahare’s house.
The kgosi hadn’t moved from his bench. He hadn’t even changed his clothes. After speaking with Nayela, he sat with his head hunter and the elders in a circle so tight that no one outside its borders could hear what was being said.
When Adama swept up to the house, the men bowed and spread themselves out so that she could join them.
Nayela watched from the window, her pulse quickening when the sangoma appeared.
Deep inside her, something stirred.
“They decide your fate
little bird
while theirs hangs
by a thread.
It is time.
They will remember me.”
. . .
An Invitation to Ponder
When have you spoken a truth that made your voice and body tremble?
What do you carry that others cannot see or name? What happens when they finally do?
Who gathers around you during crises or major turning points in your life? Who claims authority and who offers care? Do you play a similar role in someone else’s life?
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.