The Return
The rain poured heavily, battering the windshield of Ololade’s car as she drove through the narrow, winding road towards her ancestral village. The path was surrounded by an endless stretch of trees, which appeared to get closer to her with each mile she traveled. Her headlights cut through the darkness to illuminate the trees. It was not the weather or the slick, dangerous road that unnerved her. It was the pull of this place that she hadn’t set foot on in over a decade. Abule Ewekoro, her birthplace, now felt foreign to her.
Ololade swallowed the spit in her throat anxiously. She had no intention of returning in this manner—rushing back due to a phone call because hearing the words “Mama Ireti is very sick” had felt like a sharp tug on her chest. Her grandmother, the woman who raised her while her parents toiled in the city, was now lying on her deathbed.
She started to get nervous as she got closer to the village, past the faded iron sign that said “Welcome to Abule Ewekoro” in faint, flaky letters, barely visible in the misty rain. The air changed as she passed the sign; it grew heavier carrying the scent of damp soil and something more pungent—something that made Ololade wrinkle her nose.
The road narrowed further as the forest crowded in on both sides. The trees grew twisted and gnarled like old bones. Beyond the village lay the forest that had been the subject of whispers for as long as Ololade could remember—the Igbo Irumole, the Forest of Spirits. She had never gone near it as a child. No one did. The elders spoke of it only when necessary, their voices hushed and eyes averted, as if the forest were alive and would hear them. Ololade could feel the tree’s presence like a watchful eye.
The rain had eased to a steady drizzle as she pulled up in front of her grandmother’s house. The house was much smaller than she remembered as if the years had shrunk it. Its once vibrant blue paint had faded into a dull gray, peeling away, and the iron roof sagged under the weight of time and neglect. The big baobab tree was still in front of their house, imposing as ever. Though its branches were thinner and more brittle, they seemed to twist towards the sky as if pleading for mercy.
Ololade stepped out of the car, her shoes sinking into the wet earth. She felt queasy due to the smell, even though the air was colder there. She paused, glancing toward the edge of the village, where the forest loomed dark and ominous. Even from a distance, it felt too close. She could almost hear the faint rustling of leaves, though the trees stood eerily still.
She shook off the unsettling sensation and hurried toward the house, her feet splashing through the puddles in the yard. As she reached, the front door creaked open, revealing Yetunde, her cousin. Her face was pinched with worry.
“Ololade, you came,” Yetunde said quietly.
“Of course I did,” Ololade replied, stepping inside. “How is she?”
Yetunde’s gaze flickered toward the narrow hallway that led to their grandma’s room. “It’s not good. She’s been calling for you, but... she’s been saying strange things. Things that don’t make sense.”
Ololade felt a chill creep up her spine. “What kind of things?”
Yetunde shook her head, her brow furrowing. “You need to see for yourself.”
They walked down the narrow hallway, the air growing colder as they approached her grandmother’s room. The aged wooden floor creaked under her weight, and Ololade felt the weight of years pressing down on her—memories of running in this house as a child, of Mama Ireti’s laughter echoing in the walls. But now, the house felt still, almost suffocating, as if the walls themselves were holding their breath.
When they entered the room, the first thing Ololade noticed was the smell—an odd mix of medicinal herbs and something faintly rotten, like decay. Her grandmother lay on the bed, her once-strong fame shrunken under the thin blanket. Her skin was pale, almost ashen, and her eyes were half-closed, fluttering restly as she muttered to herself.
“Mama?” Ololade kneeled by the bedside, her hand trembling as she reached for her grandmother’s.
Her grandmother’s eyes snapped open, wide and wild. Her voice came in a rasping whisper.
“Ololade… Ololade, is that you?”
“It’s me, Mama. I’m here now.”
Mama Ireti’s hand gripped hers tightly, too tightly for someone so frail. “You... should not have come,” she whispered, her voice hoarse and broken. “The forest...the spirits...they know you’re here.”
Ololade frowned. “What are you talking about? What spirits?”
“The Irumole,” her grandmother croaked, her voice cracking. “They have been waiting... waiting for someone from our bloodline. They want…they want—” Her words were cut off by a violent cough. Her whole body shuddered with the effort.
Yetunde hurried to fetch a cup of water, but Ololade stayed frozen. Her grandmother’s words were sinking in. The Irumole. The spirits of the forest. She remembered the stories and the warnings. But those were just tales to frighten children. Weren’t they?
Ololade shook her head. “Mama, it’s just the fever talking. You need to rest.”
“No,” her grandmother hissed, her voice suddenly sharp. “Listeb to me, Lola! They are angry. You must not go near the forest. Do not—” she broke off, gasping for breath. “Do not wake them.”
Ololade’s heard raced. She had expected to find her grandmother frail and sick, but this was deeper and darker. She glanced at Yetunde, whose face was ridden with fear. Ololade felt unease crawling under her own skin.
Outside, the wind picked up, rattling the windows. She heard it again, or perhaps she thought she heard it again, the faintest whisper, calling her name from the direction of the forest.
