Time did not move forward in Ayepegba.
It spun in quiet circles, like smoke from a burnt offering.
The sun did not rise or set. The light hung in the air burnt orange, ghostly, unblinking.
Iyi stood at the center of the strange marketplace. Dust gathered beneath his feet, but the ground felt untouched, unused. Around him, dozens of villagers moved: women with calabashes on their heads, men carrying firewood, elders haggling over herbs. They traded yams for goats, leaves for water. But no one used coins. No one even spoke.
The air buzzed with silence.
He clutched the bag of gold and diamonds tighter against his chest. His legs felt heavy. His mouth dry.
"Please…" he called out, stepping toward a woman at a spice stall. "I just need something to eat. Anything. I can pay."
He pulled a coin from the sack. Shiny. Solid. Stolen. He extended it like an offering.
The woman met his eyes. Her face was aged, with tribal marks etched deep into her skin like carved history. She didn't take the coin. She didn't move.
Instead, she opened her mouth.
No sound came out.
Just the shape of words soft, measured:
"Ìwọ ò kì í ṣe ara wa."
You are not one of us.
Iyi blinked. "What does that mean?"
She looked past him, as if she hadn't seen him at all.
His heart raced. He turned in a slow circle. All around, villagers moved like whispers brushing by him, never touching, never pausing.
They did not see him.
Or worse they knew what he was.
He wandered deeper into the square.
Past the yam traders. Past the quiet butcher slicing meat without flies. The silence pressed into his ears like cotton.
"How do they know I don't belong?" he whispered. "I haven't even said anything."
But inside, he knew.
The gold on his back grew heavier with every step.
He staggered into a shaded alley. Collapsed against a wall. His legs shook. He dropped the bag beside him. Dust scattered. The market faded into the background, like a dream slipping through fingers.
He felt tired. Not just in body but in spirit. The kind of tired you don't sleep away.
Then—a hand touched his shoulder.
Gentle. Ancient.
"Because we recognize our own," a voice said, "and you… carry the wrong kind of weight."
Iyi spun around. A man stood behind him.
Not just a man something more. His skin was cracked like bark. His robe was simple, but shimmered at the edges like dew under starlight. His eyes grey and glassy felt like they had seen before light began.
"Who… are you?" Iyi asked, mouth dry.
The old man smiled.
"Eni Oba," he said, voice low, like distant thunder. "Witness of kings."
EXT. AYEPEGBA – UNDER THE TREE – LATER
They sat beneath a baobab tree that reached into the orange sky like a hand frozen mid-prayer. The air here felt lighter. Crickets sang somewhere nearby. The market was distant now, as though in another world.
Iyi's sack of gold sat in the dirt between them.
"I worked for this," Iyi said suddenly. "I suffered for this. I bled to get it. It's mine."
Eni Oba said nothing for a long time. Then he turned his weathered face toward the boy.
"Worked? Suffered?"
"Did you sow what you now carry? Or did you pluck it from another man's farm?"
The words hit Iyi harder than he expected.
He looked down. The bag his precious treasure looked different now. It wasn't just heavy. It was dark. The gold didn't shine. It pulsed. Like a wound.
"So what…" Iyi asked slowly. "I'm cursed?"
Eni Oba shook his head.
"No. You are seen."
He leaned forward. His voice dropped into a whisper.
"And that frightens you more than being poor."
Iyi flinched.
The old man continued, calm as a mountain.
"This is not a place of punishment. Ayepegba does not judge. It simply reflects. You carry a name you have not earned. A wealth that does not remember your sweat. That is why you are not welcomed."
Wind stirred the dry grass. A tree branch creaked overhead. The baobab wept no leaves.
"But it is not too late," Eni Oba said, and his tone changed warmer, but urgent.
"There is a second land. Fewer make it there. Fewer still return from it."
He placed a gnarled finger on Iyi's chest light, but firm.
"Yára má lọ sí ìlú kejì... osèṣe kí orí gbé ọ."
Hurry to the second village… perhaps your head may still carry grace.
Eni Oba stood.
"Wait," Iyi called. "What's your name, really?"
The man smiled this time with a sadness in his eyes and stepped backward.
"Eni Oba," his voice echoed. "The king's witness."
And then… he vanished.
EXT. DESERT ROAD BETWEEN REALMS – LATER
Iyi walked alone again.
But this time, the air was still. The road ahead stretched out endlessly, flanked by red sand. The sky, once orange, now bled into purple.
Each step felt heavier. As if the gold was not on his back but in his blood.
He passed a tree where spirits once danced.
A shadow crawled across the sky.
He still believed he could carry everything with him. He hadn't learned yet… that some treasures weigh down the soul.
EXT. EDGE OF THE SECOND VILLAGE – NIGHT
The buildings here were crooked. Mud huts leaned on one another like tired old friends. A lantern flickered in the distance.
And there lying in the dust was a man.
Old. Ragged. Blindfolded.
"Ẹ jọ̀ọ́..." the man croaked. "Ẹ ran mí lọ́wọ́... Please… help… anything…"
Iyi paused. His chest twisted. He looked at the man dirty, trembling, reaching out blindly.
"I don't have time," he muttered. "I need help too."
And he stepped over him.
INT. SECOND VILLAGE – MOMENTS LATER
He entered the heart of the village. It was… warm. Golden light spilled from huts. People moved about cooking, singing, talking.
He bowed his head respectfully.
"Ẹ káàbọ̀… Ẹ káàrọ̀… Ẹ kúrọ̀lẹ́…"
No one answered.
They walked past him like smoke. Their eyes never met his.
He waved. Yelled. Even clapped.
Nothing.
His voice didn't reach them.
He had not yet realized… only those who give can be received.
EXT. SECOND VILLAGE – GATE – MOMENTS LATER
He ran back.
The beggar was gone.
But in the dust footsteps.
He followed them.
At the gate, just before it vanished, stood a man no longer blind. Tall. Clear-eyed.
It was the beggar.
He walked now with strength, and vanished into the crowd.
"Wait!" Iyi shouted. "Please! I was wrong!"
No response.
"Òfọjú... Jọ̀wọ́... Rán mí lọ́wọ́…"
He dropped to his knees.
The gold sack tumbled from his back.
It ripped.
Coins spilled.
And in the quiet of that village gate, the gold turned to dust.
It blew away in the wind.
A HAND TOUCHED HIS SHOULDER. AGAIN.
INT. IYI'S ROOM – DAWN
He awoke with a gasp. The white garment clung to him, soaked in sweat. His body trembled.
The room was cold. Still.
The soap dish on the floor had cracked. One sponge had disappeared.
Only three remained.
The gold sack lay beside his bed ripped. Empty.
He sat there. Silent. Shivering. Remembering.
He had seen what lies behind the mirror. And now… he must choose what to do with the reflection.
TO BE CONTINUED...