iDeemlawfulBy: Yusuf Abiodun Wasiu
(Literatus)
THE DREAM THAT WOULD NOT END
The dawn was late that morning.
In Ìlẹ̀ Àmọ̀tẹ́kùn, the light did not burst from the east as usual — it seeped slowly, like palm oil through cloth. The air was heavy, the kind that holds its breath before a storm.
Akànní woke before the first rooster crowed. His body was soaked with sweat, and his mind was still tangled in the dream — that same strange vision that had visited him for seven nights:
A vast sky split in two.
A voice calling his name from a river of light.
A whisper that said, “Akànní… ọmọ Ọlódùmarè, the path awaits.”
He sat on the edge of his raffia mat, heart thudding. He whispered to himself, “Why me? Why always this voice?”
When he stepped outside, the village was still — too still. Even the wind seemed to crouch in silence. From afar, the forest loomed like a thought not yet spoken.
The air smelt of old secrets.
And Akànní, though only a hunter by trade, could feel the weight of something unseen pressing on the world.
“When the earth keeps quiet too long,” his father once said,
“spirits are planning their next move.”
Akànní shivered, not from cold, but from knowing.
MURMURS IN THE MARKET
By noon, the market had begun to stir, but not in its usual way. There were no songs of traders, no ringing laughter from palm-wine sellers.
Everywhere Akànní turned, he saw worry — old men whispering, mothers frowning at the sky, and children staring wide-eyed at nothing.
At the yam stall, he met Adétókunbọ̀, his friend since childhood — broad-shouldered, quick-tongued, always ready with a joke.
“Akànní!” Adétókunbọ̀ called. “You look like you fought ten spirits last night.”
Akànní sighed. “Maybe I did. The dream came again.”
“Dreams are smoke,” his friend said, waving it off. “You just need food and sleep.”
“It wasn’t smoke, Tókunbọ̀. The voice called my name. I saw a light that had no source.”
Adétókunbọ̀ chuckled, but the sound was uneasy. Then Ìyá Gbònjú, the village herb seller, stopped by. She was a tiny woman with eyes sharp as new cutlass blades.
“You think it is nothing, eh?” she asked. “When the forest falls silent, the wise ones listen. Spirits walk where men cannot see.”
Her gaze fixed on Akànní.
“You, young hunter… I see the mark of destiny upon your face. The forest knows your name.”
She dropped a kola nut into his palm and whispered,
“For protection. Not all lights are meant to be followed.”
Then she was gone, swallowed by the crowd.
Akànní stared at the nut — brown, veined, ordinary — yet it felt heavy as prophecy.
THE OLD MAN OF THE HILL
That evening, as the sun melted into red gold, Akànní climbed the rocky path to the outskirts of the village. There lived Bàbá Ìfẹ̀dáyọ̀, the oldest man in Ìlẹ̀ Àmọ̀tẹ́kùn.
He was no priest, no diviner — just a man of deep thought and long memory.
People said he remembered things even the earth had forgotten.
Akànní found him sitting beneath an ìrókò tree, tracing patterns in the dust with a stick.
“Ẹ kú alẹ́, Bàbá,” Akànní greeted, bowing.
The old man smiled. “Ah, Akànní, the restless dreamer. Sit. The wind brought your footsteps before your body.”
Akànní sat. “Bàbá, I need understanding. A dream keeps chasing me. A voice from the sky… a whisper that knows my name.”
The old man closed his eyes, silent for a while, as if listening to something beyond the air. Then he spoke slowly:
“Dreams are not only for sleeping. Some dreams walk in daylight.”
He picked up a handful of sand and let it slip through his fingers.
“Tell me, Akànní, when you wake from this dream, do you feel heavy or light?”
“Both,” Akànní said softly. “As though I am being pulled — to something I do not understand.”
“Then it is no ordinary dream. That is a calling. The voice you hear belongs to your spirit twin — your ẹ̀mí àtọrunwá. It remembers what your body has forgotten.”
Akànní frowned. “But why me, Bàbá?”
“No one chooses the wind, Akànní. It chooses where to blow.”
The old man leaned closer. His eyes glimmered like oil lamps.
“When next the moon becomes round, go into the forest. Alone. Take no weapon but your faith. The one who calls will answer.”
He placed a cowrie shell in Akànní’s hand.
“When fear grips you, hold this and say: ‘Ọ̀run má jé kí ìmọ́ mi di òjò.’
Heaven, do not let my light become rain.”
Akànní bowed deeply.
“May Olódùmarè bless your wisdom, Bàbá.”
The old man smiled faintly.
“My son, the path of light begins in darkness. Do not fear what you are meant to become.”
THE MOON’S SUMMONS.
That night, the moon rose full — round and white like the eye of an ancient god.
Akànní could not sleep. He sat outside his hut, listening to the whispers of insects and the sighs of trees.
His mother, Ìyá Àdùkẹ́, came out quietly, her wrapper drawn tight.
“My son, where are you going at this hour?”
“To seek peace, mother.”
“In the forest?” she whispered, trembling. “A child who walks where spirits dance may forget the rhythm of the living.”
He took her hands.
“If the call is from Olódùmarè, even silence cannot hide me.”
Tears filled her eyes. She pressed a charm of white beads into his palm.
“Then may your father’s spirit walk beside you. And may the forest remember your kindness.”
He nodded and turned away. The moon lit his path like a lamp of fate.
THE FOREST WHISPERS.
The forest was not asleep — it was listening.
Every leaf trembled as Akànní entered Ìgbó Ìmọ̀lè, the sacred grove where even hunters feared to tread.
He walked deeper, guided only by the moonlight and his breath.
At first, the night was filled with familiar sounds — the chirp of crickets, the rustle of small beasts.
Then, slowly, everything fell silent.
The trees stood still. The air thickened. The world began to glow faintly blue.
Then he heard it — that whisper again.
Soft. Clear. Calling from nowhere and everywhere at once.
“Akànní… ọmọ Ọlódùmarè…”
He froze, clutching the cowrie shell.
The ground shimmered beneath his feet. The trees began to blur, their forms melting into columns of light.
His skin tingled, and the air hummed like a hidden drumbeat.
“Who are you?” he cried. “Show yourself!”
The whisper returned — gentle, infinite.
“You have answered the call. The gate between worlds opens for the willing heart.”
A blinding light enveloped him.
He felt neither fear nor pain, only an overwhelming calm — as though every breath he had ever taken was finally exhaled into the universe.
The forest vanished.
The earth faded beneath him.
And in that suspended silence between breath and eternity, Akànní crossed over—not into sleep, but into destiny.
