The words—"I am your son"—landed like thunder on dry earth.
Chief Adedayo stood still, his expression unreadable. His hand tightened around the staff he never went anywhere without. Beside him, the guards stiffened, exchanging glances, unsure whether to grab the stranger or bow to him.
But Yejide—she was the storm.
She clutched the wall beside her, her breath caught halfway between hope and horror. Her eyes darted across the young man's face like a woman searching for a dream before it faded. She hadn't called Adewale's name aloud in fifteen years. Yet there it was now, carved in the jawline of this stranger.
The young man stepped closer, lowering his head. "I didn't come to deceive you. I was raised elsewhere, but my mind… my heart has always been restless. I remember very little. Dreams. A burning kitchen. A clay drum. A voice… singing. Yours."
Yejide's lips parted. Her fingers rose slowly to her chest.
Chief Adedayo cleared his throat. His voice, deep and graveled by years of power, sliced through the thickening air. "You remember fire and song, and that makes you my son?"
Olumide met his gaze, not with arrogance, but with unsettling calm. "I don't know what else to believe. I was eight when I was taken. The people who raised me never gave me the full truth. One day, an old man on his deathbed told me—'Your name was Adewale. Your family is in Ilé-Ominira.' That's all I had. That's what brought me here."
Silence returned.
Then movement—sharp and sudden. Yejide rushed forward, grabbing his hand. She turned his wrist over.
There it was.
A mark. A crescent-shaped birthmark, just below the skin. Her son had one just like it. Her fingers hovered over it, trembling.
But she pulled away, as if burned.
"No. No…" she murmured, shaking her head. "This cannot be… Or maybe it is…"
She looked up at her husband. "Adedayo. It's him. Look at him."
The Chief's jaw tightened. "I am looking. And I see a face that resembles mine. But resemblance is not proof. I buried my heart once. I will not exhume it for a liar."
Olumide flinched, but didn't move.
"I'm not asking for anything," he said. "Not your land. Not your name. Only… your time."
By evening, the village was divided like the parting of a river.
Some swore on their ancestors that the boy was indeed Adewale. He had the nose, the walk, even the crooked left finger that matched the childhood accident from years ago. Others were wary.
"The gods don't return children. They take them," said Mama Rali, the oldest widow in the village. "This is no miracle. It is a test."
Children were told not to greet him. Mothers pulled their daughters indoors when he passed. Yet Olumide walked with the grace of someone who belonged, or someone who had nothing to lose.
Chief Adedayo summoned the council of elders. They gathered in the night under the great tree, with lanterns burning low and slow like judgment.
"We cannot allow any man to claim the Chief's name," one elder said.
"But what if it is true?" another whispered. "Can a mother's spirit lie to her?"
Chief Adedayo agreed to a process: the boy would stay within the compound, under watch. Over the coming days, he would be tested—stories, memories, knowledge of the land, even the lullaby only his mother sang.
Yejide was quiet as the terms were set. But when asked if she supported the trial, she spoke firmly.
"If I close my heart too quickly, I may lose my son twice."
That night, sleep refused to visit Yejide. She lit a small oil lamp and sat before a woven basket she had kept hidden for years. Inside were Adewale's old clothes, his drawings, and a small necklace she had made of cowries and thread.
She wept over it in silence, every sob locked tightly in her throat.
Meanwhile, in the other room, Olumide sat on the mat they gave him, staring at the ceiling. He could hear whispers through the walls—some prayers, some doubts. The household was a living tomb of memories, and he had walked right into the grave.
He closed his eyes and tried to remember.
A woman laughing.
A scent of bitterleaf soup.
The heat of a burning kitchen.
A song… yes, a song.
He began to hum it quietly.
Through the wall, Yejide froze.
It wasn't perfect. It wasn't full. But it was hers. A lullaby she had made up—never written down, never sung to another child.