iDeemlawfulBy: Yusuf Abiodun Wasiu (Literatus)
The dawn that followed Akànní’s departure was unlike any other.
No rooster crowed. The river ran slower, as though mourning. Even the wind that usually carried the laughter of the market children seemed to move in whispers.
In Ìlẹ̀ Àmọ̀tẹ́kùn, people woke to find Akànní’s footprints ending abruptly at the edge of Ìgbó Ìmọ̀lè—the sacred forest. The hunters who went searching returned pale, trembling, speaking of strange lights that danced among the trees and voices that sang without mouths.
“We saw no body,” one said. “Only his shadow… lying on the ground, without an owner.”
The village gathered in fear. Some said Akànní had been taken by spirits; others said he had angered the gods by entering forbidden land.
Ìyá Àdùkẹ́, his mother, sat before their hut, her wrapper soaked in tears. Her wail was not just grief — it was a question flung at the heavens.
“Oh Olódùmarè, did you call my son only to silence him?”
Old Bàbá Ìfẹ̀dáyọ̀ came slowly down from the hill that morning, leaning on his carved walking stick. He spoke softly to the gathered villagers:
“Do not mourn a child whose shadow is taken by light.
When the wind stops blowing, it is not dead — it has only gone to another place.”
The people bowed their heads, not understanding but sensing the truth in his words.
That night, Ìlẹ̀ Àmọ̀tẹ́kùn was restless. The dogs barked at empty air. Children cried in their sleep, saying they saw Akànní standing in a sky of gold, waving but unable to speak.
And when Ìyá Gbọ́njú, the old herb woman, poured libation by her doorway, she whispered:
“May the child of destiny find his road.
May the spirits of the forest guide him home.”
The wind answered with a long sigh through the trees, a sound that was not quite sorrow, and not quite joy.
Somewhere beyond the mortal sky, in a realm unseen, Akànní stirred awakening to a world of light, a world where words had color and silence had weight.
And thus, the gate between earth and heaven opened fully.
Àkànní awoke to silence.
Not the silence of night or sleep, this one breathed. It had texture, color, and rhythm.
He opened his eyes and saw a sky made of light, its hues shifting between gold and silver like rippling water.
He was lying on something soft—not earth, not grass, but a shimmering field of mist that moved with his heartbeat. When he sat up, he realized there was no sun, yet everything glowed; no shadow, yet everything had form.
“Am I dead?” he whispered.
The words drifted upward and hung in the air as glowing symbols then dissolved like dust.
A wind brushed past him, warm and weightless. From its center, a voice emerged, calm and deep as thunder wrapped in song.
“You are neither dead nor alive, Akànní. You are becoming.”
He turned quickly.
Before him stood a tall being clothed in light—its face hidden, yet its presence felt like the truth made visible.
“Who are you?” Àkànní asked, trembling.
“I am Aṣọ̀ròdayò, the Keeper of the Gate. I guard the path between worlds.”
Àkànní bowed instinctively. His heart pounded as he remembered the words of Bàbá Ìfẹ́dayọ̀:
“When the light calls you, do not run. Its shadow is your destiny.”
“Why am I here?” he asked.
“Because you heard,” the being said. “And because your spirit remembered its name.”
The air shimmered. Behind Aṣọ̀ròdayò, a vast archway of gold appeared, carved with living symbols that shifted as if breathing. Through it pulsed a gentle hum, neither music nor speech but something between both.
“This is the Gate Between,” Aṣọ̀ròdayò said. “Beyond lies Ọ̀run, the Celestial Realm. But to cross, you must unlearn the language of flesh.”
Àkànní frowned. “I don’t understand.”
The being extended a hand not made of bone or flesh, but woven from light itself.
“Then step forward, child of earth. Understanding will follow motion.”
He hesitated. “If I cross, will I return?”
“Every crossing is a circle,” the voice said. “Return depends on what you find.”
He took a deep breath, closed his eyes, and stepped through.
The moment Àkànní crossed the Gate, sound flooded him, chimes, whispers, laughter, songs that felt like memories.
He stood upon a bridge made of clear crystal that stretched across nothingness. Beneath it flowed rivers of light, carrying shapes that looked like thoughts given form.
All around, beings of different brightness moved gracefully—some winged, some robed, some barely outlined of energy. They bowed slightly as they passed him, their voices harmonizing into a single chorus:
“Àtòrun wá, ọmọ ayé…
From earth you come, child of earth.
Remember what your shadow forgot.”
Àkànní’s eyes widened. “Are these the spirits of the dead?”
Aṣọ̀ròdayò smiled faintly.
“Some are. Others were never born. Ọ̀run is the womb of all that was, that is and will be.”
They walked together along the bridge. Below them, visions unfolded like reflections in water—scenes of his village, his mother weeping, Adétòkunbọ̀ searching the forest, the old man praying beneath the ìrókò tree.
Àkànní reached toward the vision, but his hand passed through it like smoke.
“They think I am gone,” he whispered.
“To them, you are,” said Aṣọ̀ròdayò. “To us, you are awakening.”
They reached the end of the bridge, where stood a hall carved from light and air, the Hall of Origins. Upon its walls were inscribed names, quadrillions of them, glowing faintly like stars.
“These are the names of all spirits?” Àkànní asked.
“Yes,” Aṣọ̀ròdayò replied. “Each name is a story. Each story, a thread in the cloth of creation. Yours glows brighter than most.”
Akànní’s chest tightened. “Why mine?”
“Because you are chosen to walk the line between mortals and the eternal. A bridge must belong to both shores.”
From the hall flowed a narrow path leading to a river but not of water. This one shimmered with memories. Each ripple reflected moments of the living world: births, deaths, laughter, war.
It sang softly, mournfully.
“What is this river called?” Àkànní asked.
“Ọ̀sìmẹ́ta,” said Aṣọ̀ròdayò. “It remembers all things. Every lie told, every truth whispered.”
Àkànní knelt beside it and saw his reflection but it was not just his face. Behind it, flickering like another layer, was another form—radiant, ancient, serene.
“That is your true self,” said Aṣọ̀ròdayò. “The part of you that never left here.”
Àkànní stared in awe. “I look like light.”
“You are light. Flesh only borrowed you.”
He watched as scenes played within the water—him as a child, his father teaching him to hunt, his mother singing lullabies. Then the images changed, battles he had never fought, temples he had never entered, a sky he had never seen.
“What are these?”
“Lives,” said the guardian. “Echoes of who you were before the earth named you Àkànní.”
Àkànní trembled. “Then what am I supposed to do with this knowledge?”
Aṣọ̀ròdayò placed a hand upon his shoulder.
“Remember it when darkness comes. Knowledge without wisdom is a knife without a handle.”
The light around them began to dim. The river’s song turned low and distant.
Aṣọ̀ròdayò straightened. “It begins.”
“What begins?” Àkànní asked.
“Your first trial. No one crosses the Gate fully without facing what binds them.”
From the river rose shadows smoky, shifting, shaped like fear. They whispered in familiar voices: his father’s anger, his mother’s tears, Adétòkunbọ̀’s mocking laugh.
“You are no chosen one,” they hissed.
“You are just a hunter who dreams too loud.”
Àkànní stepped back, trembling. “Bàbá Ìfẹ́dayọ̀ said not all lights are meant to be followed…”
“And yet you followed,” one shadow sneered.
Aṣọ̀ròdayò’s voice cut through the dark.
“Face them, Akànní. Fear is only the echo of forgetfulness.”
Àkànní clenched his fists. The cowrie shell in his palm glowed faintly, he remembered the phrase the elder had taught him:
“Ọ̀run má jé kí ìmọ́lẹ̀ mi di òjò!”
Heaven, do not let my light become rain!
The shadows recoiled, hissing, melting into the ground. The air cleared, the river brightened, and the hall behind him shone again.
Aṣọ̀ròdayò nodded.
“You remembered. Few do.”
Àkànní panted, sweat glistening on his forehead though his body no longer belonged to heat or fear.
“Then I have passed?”
“You have begun,” the guardian said. “Beyond this river waits the Realm of the Scribes, where your purpose will be written. But remember, the heart that seeks light must be ready for fire.”
They walked again, the ground beneath them turning to luminous stone.
Far ahead, pillars of flame reached into the endless sky, each bearing symbols that danced and reshaped themselves.
Àkànní felt awe and a strange homesickness.
“I feel as though I have been here before,” he murmured.
“You have,” Aṣọ̀ròdayò replied. “Before you were born, you walked this path as spirit, choosing the burdens you now carry. All souls pass here twice—once before birth, and once before awakening.”
Àkànní looked at his hands, translucent now, pulsing with faint light.
“So this is what I am?”
“This is what you have always been,” said the guardian. “And soon, you will meet one who knew you before your first breath.”
They reached the edge of a vast doorway, two flames intertwined like serpents, forming an arch that hummed softly.
Aṣọ̀ròdayò turned to him.
“From here, I cannot guide you further. Beyond lies your teacher—the Scribe of Paths. Go with courage, Àkànní. Remember: light does not conquer darkness by fleeing from it, but by remembering it was never its enemy.”
The being’s form began to fade, like mist retreating before sunrise.
Àkànní bowed deeply.
“Thank you, guardian of the Gate. May your watch never dim.”
He stepped through the doorway.
The flames parted and before him spread a world of stars arranged like writing across the heavens.
And somewhere, faint but growing clearer, came a voice–ancient, gentle, infinite:
“Welcome, seeker of the path.
The ink of destiny awaits your hand.”
