It began just before dusk. The thick grey clouds over Ibadan village was too dark, darker than any one had seen in months. The people looked forward to it with great anticipation because it signaled the coming of the rains. The land was dying slowly and they had continued to pray to their ancestors for an end to the drought. It seemed like after a year, their answers were finally on the way.
The wind was howling so loud that the big trees bent over, mothers took their kids indoors and doors were rattling. Goats went hiding under verandas.
Chief Muyiwa, stood on his porch, muttering, "This is not an ordinary rain, it has the voice of anger."
Then it began. A very fierce one, cold, and seemingly unending. And walking into the village square with the rain was a figure.
He was dressed simply in a white garment that remained unstained inspite of the rain. He carried no umbrella, no bag, no walking stick.
From their windows, the people looked at the figure as he slowly crossed the square and settled under the great silk-cotton tree at the heart of the rain.
Ice ran down peoples' spines as his eyes bore great sadness in them.
Mama Bosede whispered to her children, "Who sits in the rain like that? Does he want to die?"
Children peered through cracked doors, the entire village held its breath. They all had a sense of foreboding.
Later, Chief Muyiwa, under his umbrella walked slowly to where the stranger sat, under the tree.
“Brother, you shouldn’t sit here, you’ll catch your death. Come to my hut and get some warmth....”
The stranger lifted his head, meeting the old man’s eyes.
With a voice like a distant echo, he replied, “I am not here to catch death. I am here to return what was stolen.”
Papa Tunde who was standing beside Chief Muyiwa felt something eerie crawl across his skin. “ what?”
The stranger smiled faintly and said nothing more.
By now, more villagers were gathered round the tree and all pleas to make him spend the night in the hut fell on deaf ear. He remained under the tree, in the biting cold of the night.
"I'm not sure he's human, the village midwife, Mama Gbenga said, his clothes are not wet. Didn't you notice?"
"What was he saying about returning what was stolen?" Young Basira asked, confused.
"What was it that was stolen, and by who?" Nwoye, the village tailor asked, frowning.
But no one had answers to those nagging questions.
By half-past twelve that night, the square of the village was full of people. They were gathered around the tree, but still kept a little distance from it.
Chief Muyiwa stepped forward, bearing his staff.
“Who are you?” he asked. “What power is it that you carry?”
The stranger slowly opened his eyes which had been closed.
“I am the echo of something forgotten.”
Chief Akintola, who was recuperating from an illness, and had found his way to the tree, frowned. “Speak plainly, please.”
The stranger’s voice was low, sad— yet everyone heard him clearly.
Ten years ago, all of you — this entire village buried a truth. You drove out a young girl, Abiodun, and blamed her for the death of your children during that terrible sickness. But she was innocent. She had only refused the advances of Chief Akintola — she refused to compromise her chastity. So, enraged, he poisoned the herbal pot of those children and then turned you against her.
You hunted her down and cast her out. She died alone in exile. Her blood has cried out to the heavens ever since. And now I have come because the sky has chosen to remember the injustice done to that young maiden.”
The crowd went silent. Many began to cry silently. Chief Akintola's hands trembled. He remembered the girl — innocent, gifted in herbal medicine— framed by him and driven out into loneliness.
Chief Muyiwa swallowed hard. “What must we do?”
The stranger looked up to the heavens and then pointed to Chief Akintola. "Admit it. Confess it publicly. Speak her name. Seek her forgiveness so that mercy will follow. But if not, this land will not see another drop of rain, after tonight.... No, no."
Immediately, Chief Akintola fell to the ground and started confessing his crime, crying, asking to be forgiven.
One by one, the villagers knelt beside him, in the rain and stated aloud:
"We wronged Abiodun."
"We cast her out."
"We seek her forgiveness."
The rain seemed to soften. The thunder faded. A gentle atmosphere took hold.
By 4 a.m., the stranger stood up from his sitting position.
"Your hearts have spoken. She is now at peace."
Someone whispered, "Are you going to stay? Who are you really?"
"Just a traveler. A mix of human and immortal, who wanted this land to heal.
He turned and walked toward the path leading into the forest. No one followed. By dawn, he was gone.
The next morning was bright and peaceful. The air smelled of healing.
A small wild flower bloomed suddenly beside the silk-cotton tree — the same kind Abiodun used to pick as a child. People saw it and wept gently, but these were not tears of guilt — they were tears of release.
Chief Muyiwa gathered the village and quietly declared, “From this day, beneath this very tree, we shall celebrate Abiodun every year— let it forever be remembered as the day we paid for her injustice, the day the rain washed away our sins, and the village could breathe again.”
Images generated with AI.
Thank you for reading.