iDeemlawfulBy: Yusuf Abiodun Wasiu (Literatus)
Akànní stepped into silence again but this silence was alive with thought.
He found himself standing in a vast circular chamber. The walls were made of sky— no stone, no earth, just flowing constellations that pulsed gently, each star moving in rhythm with the beat of his heart.
In the center stood a throne carved of crystal and flame, upon which sat a figure robed in ink-black light.
Feathers of gold rose from its shoulders, and in its hands, it held a quill that shimmered with every color of existence.
The being spoke, voice calm yet endless:
“Welcome, Akànní, son of Adé, child of dust and dawn.
You have crossed the Gate and faced your shadow.
Do you now wish to know why you were called?”
Akànní bowed deeply, trembling.
“Yes, great one. I seek understanding.”
The being nodded slowly.
“Then listen, and remember. I am the Scribe of Paths, custodian of the Book of Becoming. I do not create destiny; I record its motion. For even fate is a song, and every note must find its place.”
Akànní looked around, thousands of floating scrolls drifted through the chamber, unrolling and rolling back on their own.
Each one whispered softly, prayers, names, moments, regrets.
“Are these… lives?” he asked.
“Yes,” the Scribe answered. “Every being born of breath has a page here. Yours has been blank until today.”
Akànní’s breath caught. “Blank?”
“Because you had not yet chosen to awaken.”
The being motioned with his quill, and before Akànní appeared a pool of liquid light — a mirror not of reflection, but of revelation.
Within it danced fragments of his life: his childhood laughter, his hunts, his dreams. But woven between them were strange scenes he did not recognize — a city of glass towers, a storm swallowing mountains, a woman cloaked in fire holding his hand.
“These are paths,” said the Scribe. “Possibilities born from the choices you have not yet made.”
Akànní’s heart pounded. “Then destiny isn’t fixed?”
“Destiny is ink, not stone. You may choose your script, but once written, it echoes through eternity.”
He watched as one vision flickered stronger than the rest — himself standing upon a battlefield of light and shadow, surrounded by beings of both realms. His eyes burned with gold fire.
“That,” said the Scribe, “is the path that calls you. You are to become the Bridgebearer — one who restores balance when worlds collide.”
Akànní stepped back, voice trembling.
“But I am no warrior. I am a simple hunter.”
The being smiled faintly.
“So was Ògún, before the forge found him. So was Ọ̀rúnmìlà, before wisdom claimed him. The divine does not choose the worthy, Akànní — it makes them.”
From beneath his throne, the Scribe lifted a small vessel filled with dark, shifting liquid — it glowed with the light of countless souls.
“This is the Ink of Destiny. It is drawn from the essence of choice itself. Once it touches you, your path cannot remain hidden.”
He dipped the quill, then motioned toward Akànní’s chest.
“Do you consent, son of earth?”
Akànní hesitated.
He remembered his mother’s prayers, Adétókunbọ̀’s laughter, the wise man’s words — ‘The world needs those who remember light even when it blinds.’
He nodded slowly.
“I am ready.”
The Scribe touched the quill to his heart.
Light burst through him like a sunrise made of thunder.
He gasped, falling to his knees as visions flooded him — stars collapsing, gods whispering, men rising in rebellion, shadows walking the earth.
Through it all, he heard a single phrase repeated again and again, like a heartbeat:
“The balance trembles… The bridge must hold.”
When the light faded, his skin shimmered faintly with glowing markings — symbols older than speech.
“It is done,” said the Scribe. “You are now bound to the Song of Equilibrium. When chaos seeks to devour creation, you will hear its call.”
Akànní panted, clutching his chest. “And if I fail?”
“Then both realms shall forget their song — and silence will reign where creation once danced.”
The being handed him a scroll, smaller than the others, woven of light.
“This is your scroll, Akànní. It contains your true name — not the one your parents gave, but the one the cosmos whispers when it dreams of you.”
Akànní held it gently.
“May I read it?”
“Not yet. The name of power must be earned through trial. When you speak it, you will command both storm and silence.”
The Scribe turned, his wings unfolding like endless parchment.
“You will now descend — not back to earth, but to the Realm of Echoes. There, you must reclaim the fragment of your soul left behind when you crossed the Gate.”
Akànní frowned. “Another test?”
“Not a test. A remembrance. Even light carries shadow, and until you embrace yours, your power will consume you.”
The floor beneath Akànní began to ripple like water.
A spiraling portal opened — silver, deep, humming softly like a song remembered in dream.
“Go, Bridgebearer,” the Scribe said. “And when you return, the ink will flow again — not from my hand, but yours.”
Akànní bowed deeply, clutching the glowing scroll.
“I will not fail.”
“Do not promise victory,” said the Scribe, smiling. “Promise balance.”
Akànní stepped into the vortex — and the chamber vanished in a cascade of light.
Far away, beneath the mortal sky, Adétókunbọ̀ sat by the riverbank where Akànní had vanished.
He threw pebbles into the current, whispering his friend’s name.
“You always chased the wind, Akànní. I hope this time, the wind brings you back.”
Unseen by him, the waters glowed faintly — a single ripple forming the outline of Akànní’s face, smiling before fading again into moonlight.
