The compound felt different in the morning. Not quieter—just heavier. Like a storm had entered but refused to rain.
Olumide sat in the open courtyard, the sun warm on his face. He could feel the weight of every stare. The guards. The maids. Even the birds seemed to chirp with suspicion. Still, he sat still—like someone waiting for judgment.
Chief Adedayo walked out in his white wrapper and slippers, flanked by two elders and his adviser, Pa Ojo. Behind them came Yejide, face firm but tired, holding a small clay pot. She hadn't slept. But her voice didn't shake.
"We will ask you questions," the Chief began. "Not to shame you. But to know the truth."
Olumide nodded. "Ask me anything."
One of the elders stepped forward. "What was your nickname as a child?"
Olumide paused, frowning. "I don't know."
Yejide's heart sank slightly.
The second elder asked, "What was the name of your father's best friend? The one who died when you were small?"
More silence.
Olumide blinked slowly. "I... don't know."
The Chief looked away.
But just as another question was about to be asked, Olumide spoke up.
"I remember... an injury. On my left hand. I touched a hot lamp."
Yejide gasped. She remembered that day. He was five. The scar was faint now, but the memory was clear as day.
"Where?" she asked.
He held up his palm—and there it was. The mark, just beneath the crease.
"I remember crying. You dipped my hand in cold water and sang to me," he added softly. Then, almost to himself, "You always sang."
The council fell quiet. Even Chief Adedayo was momentarily caught off guard. He shifted uncomfortably.
But just then, a maid entered the courtyard breathlessly.
"Baba... the journalists are outside."
Adedayo's eyes narrowed. "Who told them?"
No one answered. But Yejide's face paled.
Outside the gates, three men with cameras and notepads tried to push through the crowd that had gathered. The news had spread like wildfire across Ilé-Ominira and beyond.
The Chief's lost son has returned.
Speculations filled the air. Some claimed he was a fraud sent to destroy the family. Others insisted he had been taken by jealous relatives and returned by destiny.
A man in the crowd shouted, "They must take him to the shrine! Let the gods decide!"
An older woman shook her head. "No need. Look at him—he walks like the Chief."
Inside, Olumide watched the growing chaos through the window. "I didn't want all this," he murmured.
Yejide touched his arm gently. "It's not your fault. When the river returns, the land must shift to welcome it."
Chief Adedayo, however, saw the gathering differently.
"If he is lying," he told his adviser, "this scandal will destroy us. I won't let one stranger pull apart what I've spent decades building."
Pa Ojo nodded. "Shall I begin the investigation?"
The Chief's face hardened. "Do it quietly. Find out who he really is. Where he came from. Every place he's stepped in the past fifteen years—I want names, faces, stories."
"Yes, Baba."
That night, the compound was tense.
Yejide offered Olumide a new room—Adewale's old room, untouched since his disappearance. She opened the door with trembling fingers.
Inside, dust clung to everything like memories. A toy horse lay on its side. Drawings still taped to the wall. A torn pillow in the corner, where he used to curl when thunder scared him.
Olumide stepped in slowly.
He looked around in silence. Then he touched the drawing of a tree and said, "I used to think this was the tallest tree in the world."
Yejide broke down in tears.
Outside the door, the second wife stood watching them again.
She said nothing. But her eyes said everything.
She would not allow this boy—real or not—to change the story of the house. Not after all she had suffered in silence. Not after being mocked for her barrenness, pitied for her quietness.
Not now.