15/06/2025
Chapter 2: The Eyes of the Child
The morning after Ifeoluwa’s birth came slow and silver, as if the sky itself was unsure whether to rise.
Adesuwa lay awake in the hospital bed, cradling her newborn son. He had barely made a sound since his arrival. No hungry wails. No restless movements. Only those wide, alert eyes—eyes that did not belong to a child.
His gaze wandered as though he was watching things only he could see—corners of the room that held no furniture, patches of air that others passed through without notice.
A nurse, an elderly woman with tribal marks like brushstrokes across her cheeks, approached and peeked at the child. Her hand froze midair.
“Jesu Kristi,” she muttered, stepping back.
“What is it?” Adesuwa asked, instinctively shielding her baby.
The woman didn’t answer right away. She dipped her finger in the little bowl of ọṣun (camwood paste) tied to her waist and marked the child’s forehead. Then she spoke a proverb slowly, carefully, like reciting an incantation:
“Tí ọmọ bá dájú, ó máa dájú látọ́jọ́.”
If a child is certain in purpose, it shows from the very beginning.
---
Later that afternoon, Tunde arrived.
He entered the room with a bright smile, arms laden with fruit, baby clothes, and a small leather bag. But as soon as he looked into his son’s eyes, his face changed.
His pupils dilated. His hands trembled slightly. He bent close and whispered, “Adesuwa… his eyes. They look like my grandfather’s. And he died twenty years ago.”
Adesuwa was silent.
They both turned toward the window, where the wind whispered through the mosquito net like a voice searching for someone it had lost.
---
That evening, an old woman came to visit.
Mama N’iyonu was not a blood relative, but in Yoruba tradition, she was more than family—an alágba, a spiritual elder. Her wrapper was tied high, her cowrie necklace clicked softly with each step, and in her hand, she held a staff carved with the faces of the ancestors.
She took one look at the baby and shook her head.
“Ọmọ yìí kì í jẹ́ ọmọ àgbà.”
This child is not just a child.
She brought out a cowrie shell, blew on it, and let it fall to the floor.
Silence.
Then she looked Adesuwa in the eye and said:
“He has returned.”
Adesuwa’s throat tightened. “Returned from where?”
“From where the dead do not rest. He is Akúdàayà… the spirit that dies but chooses to live again, hidden in the skin of the newborn.”
“But why my child?” Adesuwa whispered.
Mama N’iyonu’s voice dropped. “Because he carries something unfinished. And something is following him — from the other side.”
---
That night, Ifeoluwa finally cried.
But it was not the cry of hunger.
It was the cry of a soul remembering too much.
And in the hallway, the shadows grew longer.
