KUTA'RA

  Prologue

  The sound of weaving filled the dimly lit hut, the rhythmic thak-thak of the loom like a heartbeat in the silence. Ariya's nimble fingers danced over the strands, binding them together with a precision she barely understood. Her grandmother always said the loom had a spirit, one that whispered secrets of the world to those who listened closely. But tonight, Ariya’s thoughts were louder than any whisper.

  Hours later, an old woman sat alone, her hands wrapped around a carved wooden staff. Her eyes lingered on the tapestry Ariya had been working on earlier- a pattern so intricate it could only come from hands destined for greatness.

  However, greatness come at a cost, she had seen it once before, felt it in the bitter wind that swept through the village. A storm was coming; not of rain or thunder, but of love and betrayal.

  "The threads we weave", she murmured, "often binds us in ways we cannot see"

  CHAPTER 1

  The night hummed with life as the village of Orekun prepared for the Harvest Festival. Fires crackled in clay hearths, casting warm light on the woven palm-leaf roofs of huts. The smell of roasting maize and freshly tapped palm wine wafted through the air, mingling with the rhythmic beat of distant drums.

  Ariya balanced a basket of yams on her head as she navigated the bustling event square located at the center of the village, weaving through children playing tag and women laughing over pots of bubbling soup. She greeted the elders seated on carved wooden stools with a respectful bow, her voice bright with the cheer of the evening.

  “E ku irole o, Baba!”(Good evening Baba )she called, earning nods and blessings in return.

  At eighteen, Ariya was a figure adored and loved by the younger children in the village. Her bronze skin gleamed in the fading sunlight, and her braids, adorned with tiny beads, swayed with each step she took. She carried herself with a natural grace, a reflection of the discipline instilled in her by her grandmother, Iya Agba.

  The village square buzzed with anticipation. Tonight, Ariya would perform the lead dance, a role reserved for those who carried the spirit of the ancestors in their movements.

  The old women of the village gathered around Ariya as she prepared for the performance. They wrapped her in a vibrant iro and buba, the fabric dyed in deep hues of indigo and orange. Intricate beadwork adorned her wrists and ankles, jingling softly with every movement.

  “Duro j?, ?m?” (Stand still, child) one of them chided as Ariya fidgeted.

  “Emi ko le ?e iranl?w?, Mama!” (I can’t help it, Mama!) Ariya laughed. “Aw?n ilu ti n pe t?l?” (The drums are calling already).

  The women chuckled, their hands steady as they tied her headscarf and painted her face with delicate patterns of white chalk.

  “O gbe igberaga wa lal? oni “(You carry our pride tonight), another woman said, her voice warm but firm. “Jo bí ?ni pé àw?n baba ńlá ń s??r?? nípas?? r?, j?? kí w??n ?àn láti inú ara r? wá sí ojú wa.” (Dance as though the ancestors are speaking through you, let them flow from your body into eyes). Ariya nodded solemnly, the weight of the words settling over her.

  As the drums thundered with ancient rhythm, Ariya stepped into the square. The villagers parted like a tide, silence falling over the crowd. The sun caught the shimmer of the white chalk traced down her arms, her ankles glinting with cowrie-wrapped bells.

  She paused — then raised her arms slowly, palms open to the sky, fingers trembling like leaves in wind.

  The iyá ilù drum spoke first. A call. An invocation.Ariya answered with a slow, spiraling step, hips swaying in a controlled circle, feet stamping in sync with the sacred pulse. Her body told a story — of gratitude, of unity, of mourning that births new strength.

  Suddenly, she spoke:

  “?gb??run ?run, gb?? orin mi. Mo wa fun àlàáfíà.”Spirits of the thousand heavens, hear my song. I come for peace.

  She lowered herself, knees bent deep, arms sweeping low like gathering the earth’s sorrow. Then, with one fluid motion, she rose — chest lifted, arms outstretched — as if offering her spirit to the sky.

  The crowd began to hum, then to sing.

  “Wa le wa, ?m? a?? tuntun…”Come home, child of new cloth…

  Children at the edge of the square swayed in imitation, eyes wide. The elders stood, nodding, their faces unreadable but reverent.

  Ariya twirled gracefully, her wrapper fluttering like the wings of an egret. Her wrists snapped sharply outward — a motion for cleansing. Her feet glided sideways in the pattern of the esé Ifá, the path of divination. The bells at her ankles jingled like distant spirits laughing.

  Her breath came steady. Her voice low.

  “Ola fun Orisha, iyin fun apej? aw?n agba.”Homage to the Orisha, homage to the gathering of elders.

  She turned thrice, shoulders rolling in tight circles, eyes closed as if caught in trance. A final cry escaped her lips:

  “Mà mi dák??, Olódùmarè ń gb??!”Let me not be silent — Olódùmarè is listening!

  Then — silence. She froze, arms crossed over her chest, head bowed. The spirits had heard.

  The square erupted into cheers and ululations.Ariya remained still, chest heaving. Then she bowed low to the earth, the hem of her wrapper brushing the dust.

  In that moment, she wasn’t just a girl dancing.

  Later that night, as the festival wound down, Ariya sat by the fire outside her grandmother’s hut. The stars above twinkled like scattered diamonds, and the cool night air carried the scent of freshly cut grass.

  Iya Agba, her face lined with age but her eyes sharp as ever, reclined on a woven mat, sipping from a gourd of palm wine. A group of children gathered around her, their faces lit with curiosity.

  “So itan kan fun wa, Iya Agba” (Tell us a story, Iya Agba!) one of them begged.

  The old woman chuckled, setting the gourd aside. “Ah, aw?n itan ko ni ?f? aw?n ?m? mi ?w?n, o m?. Kí ni ìw? yóò fi fún mi?” (Ah, stories are not free my children, you know. What will you give me in return?)

  The children giggled, offering her everything from roasted maize to handmade trinkets. Satisfied with their offerings, Iya Agba began her tale.

  “Tip?tip? s?hin, ?aaju akoko iya-nla mi paapaa, loom kan wa,” (Long ago, before even my grandmother’s time, there was a loom,) she said, her voice low and melodic. “Kii ?e loom lasan, ?ugb?n ?kan ti o hun a?? ti igbesi aye pup?. W??n s? pé f??nrán òwú tí w??n máa ń yí lè dá àw?n àyànm?? síl??, kí w??n di àw?n kan, kí w??n sì f?? àw?n mìíràn.” (Not an ordinary loom, but one that wove the very fabric of life. It was said that the threads it spun could shape destinies, binding some and breaking others.)

  Ariya listened from the edge of the group, her hands busy weaving a basket but her ears keenly attuned to every word.

  “ìdílé Fiorzin ti lo ohun ????? nígbà kan,” (The Fiorzin clan once wielded the loom,) Iya Agba continued, her tone heavy with sorrow. “W?n j? ala?? ti o ni ?bun, aw?n okùn w?n s? pe ki w?n di agbara aw?n ori?a funrara w?n. ?ugb?n agbara w?n wa p?lu ilara ati ib?ru lati ?d? aw?n ?lomiran. Aw?n ohun-??? di ohun elo ogun, aw?n okùn r? ti o di aw?n ?ta w?n ni ?na ti o k?ja ti ara” (They were gifted weavers, their threads said to hold the power of the gods themselves. But their mastery came with envy and fear from others. The loom became a tool of war, its threads binding their enemies in ways beyond the physical. Alliances fell, and empires crumbled, all at the hands of the Fiorzin weavers.)

  “Kini o ??l? si w?n, Iya Agba?” (What happened to them, Iya Agba?) a boy asked, his voice barely audible.

  The story has been illicitly taken; should you find it on Amazon, report the infringement.

  “W?n pa w?n” (They were destroyed,) she said simply. “W??n pa á nínú ogun tí w??n pa orúk? w?n r?? kúrò nínú ìtàn” (Slaughtered in a war that erased their name from history. The loom was lost, or perhaps hidden, its power too dangerous to remain in the hands of any one clan.)

  The children whispered among themselves, their imaginations alight with the possibilities. Ariya smiled faintly, amused by their wide-eyed fascination. Yet, deep down, she felt a shiver.

  She had heard the story many times before, always told with slight variations. Some claimed the loom was hidden deep in the forest, guarded by spirits. Others said it had been destroyed, its power scattered to the winds.

  To Ariya, it was just a tale—one of many her grandmother used to keep the children entertained. The fire crackled and the shadows danced on the walls of the hut, the festive air was calming down.

  Iya Agba continued, “Oriki ati asotele ni won fi sile leyin ogun pari bo tile je pe ko pe lona yii, lati inu ile ti awon baba nla ti n pokun ati ilu ?ra ti o gbagbe, Omode yoo dide, ti a bi ninu irora, èémí akoko re ti o fa lati afefe egun. Oun ni yoo j? ?ba ti il? ko si, ?w?-iná ninu iji, ti nf? il? ati ?run. Láti ?w?? r?? wá, àw?n odò yóò di iná,àw?n òkè ńlá yóò sì t?rí ba fún ìb??rù. ?ugb?n ?na r? ti wa ni ?ig?g?, ti a mu ninu aw?n okun ti Ala??. ?niti o rin ni ipal?l?, if?w?kan r? bi im?l? bi ..., iyokù ti r? ati s?nu ni akoko (“A poem and a prophecy was left behind after the war ended although incomplete it goes this way, from the soil where ancestors wail and the drums of the forgotten thunder, A child shall rise, born of agony, his first breath drawn from the air of curses. He shall be the King of no land, the flame in the storm, the breaker of earth and sky. From his hands, the rivers will turn to fire, and the mountains will bow in fear. But his path is tangled, caught in the threads of the Weaver. The one who walks in silence, her touch as light a..., the rest was faded and lost in time.”)

  The children’s whispers tuned down to fear and they all started to look grim, some even running towards their parents in tears, Ariya noticed the change in air and decided to come lighten the mood, “Mo ro pe o dara Mama, aw?n ?m?de n b?ru, j? ki gbogbo eniyan l? ki o t?siwaju aj?dun naa” (I think it's ok Mama, the children are getting scared, let’s all go and continue the festival)

  The festival’s echoes faded with the dawn, replaced by the hum of daily life. Ariya rose early, as always, to fetch water from the stream. She balanced the clay pot on her head with practiced ease, her bare feet treading the familiar path.

  The stream was alive with the chatter of women and the laughter of children. Ariya joined the group, greeting everyone with her usual warmth. As she dipped her pot into the cool water, she caught snippets of conversation.

  “Se o gbo ohun ti Iya Agba so ni ale ana?”’ (Did you hear what Iya Agba said last night?”) a woman whispered.

  “Nipa loom? Is?kus?.” (About the loom? Nonsense,) another replied, shaking her head. “Aw?n itan atij? lati j? ki aw?n ?m?de ?e ere” (Old tales to keep the children entertained.)

  Ariya smiled to herself but said nothing.

  By the time she returned home, the sun stood high overhead, casting golden light over a village teeming with life. The air buzzed with voices—children laughing, traders haggling, goats bleating—as the scent of roasting yams and palm oil drifted through the breeze. She spent the rest of the day helping her grandmother with chores: weaving baskets with practiced fingers, grinding spices, and stirring bubbling stews. It was a simple life, pulsing with rhythm and routine—one she cherished, even with its quiet burdens.

  Ariya’s grandmother, Iya Agba, was a woman of quiet strength and generally seen as the grandmother of the village. Her hands, weathered and strong, moved deftly over the loom as she worked. She hummed a soft tune, her voice like the murmur of a river, while Ariya sat beside her, plaiting palm fronds into a sturdy basket.

  “"Mami, se o ti re re ri wiwu?” (Mami, do you ever get tired of weaving?) Ariya asked, her tone light but curious.

  Iya Agba chuckled softly. “"Ihun, okun, wiwun ti j? i?? ti mo ti ?e ju ti emi le ranti l?, ?m?-?m? mi ?w?n. Kii ?e hihun lasan, igbesi aye ara r? ni. Gbogbo okun s? itan kan, ati pe gbogbo itan j? apakan ti nkan ti o tobi, gbogbo asop? ni okun sii nipas? bi o ?e le so ati t?le pap?” (Weaving, stringing, knitting has been a craft I have done for more than I can remember, my dear granddaughter. It is not just weaving, it is a life of its own. Every string tells a story, and every story is part of something bigger, every connection strengthened by how it can be tied and followed together.)

  Ariya smiled, not entirely understanding but enjoying the poetic cadence of her grandmother’s words. She had heard many tales of from Iya Agba about how weaving is an important thing to learn— Yet to Ariya, there were all just a hobby she picked up because to help her grandmother so they can both make money from selling of tapestries, basket and other products they weave together.

  As the afternoon sun dipped lower, painting the sky in hues of gold and amber, the village children gathered outside their hut, eager to hear Iya Agba’s stories. Ariya joined them, her laughter mingling with theirs as her grandmother wove tales of trickster gods, brave warriors, and cunning weavers.

  ---

  That night, as Ariya lay on her mat, the echoes of her grandmother’s stories lingered in her mind. There was one in particular that Iya Agba had shared the previous night—a tale of a weaver whose threads held the power to bind or break destinies. The weaver had been both revered and feared, her life a delicate balance of creation and destruction.

  Ariya stared at the thatched roof, her thoughts a tangled web. She wondered what it would feel like to hold such power, to be the one who could shape the world with a single thread.

  Sleep claimed her eventually, but her dreams were restless. She saw flashes of light and shadow, threads intertwining and breaking apart. In the center of it all stood a figure cloaked in gray, their hands working a loom that pulsed with life.

  ---

  The days passed in their usual rhythm. Ariya fetched water, helped with chores, and joined the village women in preparing for the upcoming festival. Iya Agba seemed more thoughtful than usual, her eyes often drifting to the horizon as if searching for something unseen.

  “Mami, nj? nkan ti o n y? ? l?nu?” (Mami, is something troubling you?) Ariya asked one evening as they sat by the fire.

  Her grandmother shook her head, a faint smile on her lips. “Rara, ?m?. O kan... aw?n af?f? lero yat? si aw?n ?j? w?nyi. Boya aw?n baba n s?r?” (No, child. It is just... the winds feel different these days. Perhaps the ancestors are speaking.)

  Ariya tilted her head, puzzled but unwilling to press further. Her grandmother’s cryptic words often left her with more questions than answers.

  The Festival Of Light

  When the day of the festival arrived, the village was alive with color and sound and multiple bonfires light across the large clearing. Ariya danced with the other girls, her movements light and graceful. The crowd cheered as they twirled and leaped, their joy infectious.

  Iya Agba watched from the sidelines, her eyes never leaving Ariya. There was pride in her gaze, but also a shadow of something else—something Ariya couldn’t quite place.

  As the festival drew to a close, Ariya helped her grandmother back to their hut. Iya Agba seemed tired, more so than usual, but she waved off Ariya’s concern with a soft laugh.

  “Emi ko kere bi mo ti wa, ?m? mi, ?j? ay?y? gba ipa r?” (I am not as young as I used to be, my child. A day of celebration takes its toll.)

  That night, after they had shared a quiet meal, Iya Agba sat by the loom, her hands moving slowly, almost hesitantly, over the threads. Ariya watched her from the corner of the room, feeling a strange weight in the air.

  “Mami,” she began, her voice barely above a whisper, “?e o ronu nipa aw?n baba ati ti aw?n ori?a ba gba adura ati ijó wa? (do you ever think about the ancestors and if the gods accept our prayers and dances?)

  Her grandmother paused, her fingers stilling on the loom and let out a subtle chuckle “O dara, ?m? mi” (Well, my child,) she said gently, her eyes soft with age-old wisdom, “a le ni idaniloju laelae ti w?n ba gb? tiwa… ?ugb?n a ni igbagb?. Ati ninu igbagb? y?n, a gbe ireti wa. ìrètí y?n ló mú kí àdúrà wa wà láàyè—pé bóyá, bóyá, bóyá, àw?n ?l??run ń gb??.” (we may never be certain if they hear us… but we have faith. And in that faith, we carry hope . It’s that hope that keeps our prayers alive—that maybe, just maybe, the gods are listening.”)

  Ariya looked at her in her grandmother’s direction with a look of dismay and said “Bí ó bá rí b???? nígbà náà, èmi yóò máa bá a nì?ó ní gbígbàdúrà sí w?n láti mú ? wà p??lú mi.” (If that is so then I will keep on praying to them to keep you with me)

  Iya Agba turned to her, her eyes soft and full of love. “Emi ma wa pelu yin nigbagbogbo omo mi. Ninu aw?n itan ti mo ti s? fun ?, ninu ?gb?n ti mo ti pin, ni gbogbo alafia u weave papo. Bí mo bá kúrò nísinsìnyí, inú mi dùn àti ìgbéraga nítorí pé kì í ?e ?m?-?m? mi nìkan ni mo rí níwájú mi, ?ùgb??n obìnrin olóore ??f??, tí ó b??w?? fún mi, inú mi dùn láti pè mí.” (I will always be with you, omo mi. In the stories I have told you, in the wisdom I have shared, in every peace u weave together. If I leave now, I leave happy and proud because I see before me not just my granddaughter, but a graceful, respectful woman I am proud to call mine.)

  Ariya didn’t know what to say. She only nodded, her chest tight with a smile popping from her face but tears rolling from her face.

  The next morning, Ariya awoke to an unfamiliar stillness. The usual chorus of roosters, children’s laughter, and the rhythmic beat of morning life was absent. A strange silence hung in the air, thick and unshifting.

  She called out softly, “Iya Agba?”No answer.

  Ariya’s heart quickened as she rushed to the loom hut—her grandmother’s sacred corner, where mornings often began with prayer and thread.

  There, she found her.

  Iya Agba sat motionless before the loom, her hands resting gently on the threads as if she’d only paused to breathe.Her face was calm—too calm.Ariya knew.

  She sank to her knees. Tears spilled freely, her sobs swallowed by the silence that surrounded her. The loom threads fluttered faintly in the breeze, as if mourning with her.

  By midmorning, the village gathered, draped in white cloths and solemn chants.Voices rose in ancient oríkì and elegies—songs passed down through generations to honor the departed.

  Ariya stood at the edge of the crowd, arms wrapped around a small bundle of her grandmother’s most cherished belongings

  As the burial began, the eldest woman of the village stepped forward, her voice rich with age and reverence. She raised her hands to the sky and began a chant that echoed through the gathered crowd:

  "Iya nla ti rin irin-ajo pada,A fi wa sile p?lu it?nis?na r?.Alàáfíà ni a f?? fun ?,Nítorí ìtàn r? yóò maa gbé wa l? titi."

  (“The great mother has made her journey,Leaving us with her guiding hand.We send you forth in peace,For your story will carry us forward.”)

  A call-and-response followed among the villagers:

  Elder: "?e àgùntàn ń sun ní oorun?"(“Does the lamb truly sleep under the sun?”)

  Crowd: "Rárá, ó padà sílé àw?n bàbá!"(“No, she has returned to the house of the ancestors!”)

  Ariya, still clutching her grandmother’s belongings couldn’t focus on the burial of her grandmother’s body only remembering the last conversation they had the previous day.