The Weight Of Gold

Iyi awoke with a start, the edges of his vision hazy and his body heavy as if he had just surfaced from a deep river. The morning light filtered weakly through the narrow window of the small room he had been given back in the world he once called home. Outside, the city buzzed with its usual relentless rhythm—the blaring horns, the shout of street vendors, the persistent hum of Lagos waking.

But inside, everything felt quieter. Slower. Like the weight of what he had carried through Ayẹ̀pẹ̀gba still settled deep in his bones.

He sat up, running a hand across his face. His fingers trembled slightly. The three sponges still pressed against his soul, their weight unfamiliar, neither light nor freeing.

He rose slowly, each movement deliberate.

His reflection in the cracked mirror caught his eye.

The man looking back was the same Iyi but also not.

There was a hollow behind his eyes, a silence he couldn't explain.

His gaze lingered on the reflection, searching for a spark that might not be there anymore.

He touched the glass, tracing the lines of his face.

He was awake.

But unchanged.

Days passed.

Iyi moved through the streets as a shadow.

The sun scorched, the river called, but he felt distanced, as if watching through a pane of frosted glass.

Friends recognized him but their words felt hollow.

"You look different," one said.

"Have you been away?" asked another.

He nodded but couldn't find the words to explain.

The city's hunger gnawed as usual calls for quick money, for new schemes, for fast escape.

But Iyi felt trapped between two worlds: the tangible grit of Lagos and the shimmering spirit towns where giving and surrender had reshaped him yet not fully.

He wandered to the market, where the colors and noise assaulted his senses.

Vendors shouted over each other.

Children ran between legs with laughter.

Yet, Iyi's steps slowed.

He looked at the stalls selling fake blessings, empty promises wrapped in glitter and gold.

He remembered the Third Village how illusions shattered into dust.

He wanted to reach out, to change something.

But the old hunger, the old urges, whispered still.

One evening, Iyi sat beneath a tree near the riverbank.

The water glistened under the moonlight, rippling softly.

He reached into his pocket and felt the worn cloth soaked with camphor the gift from the Second Village.

He pulled it out and unfolded it carefully.

The scent rose, familiar and strange.

It reminded him of giving without keeping, of the slow lesson of letting go.

He closed his eyes.

But the tension inside him did not ease.

Something remained unhealed.

His thoughts drifted to Agba Oye.

Where was the old man now?

Did he still watch from the shadows?

A voice echoed inside his mind soft but firm.

"The journey is not in leaving or arriving, but in becoming."

Iyi opened his eyes.

The river reflected the stars.

He wished he could see clearly again.

Days later, a letter arrived.

A simple envelope, black with gold edges, resting on his doorstep.

He picked it up with cautious hands.

Inside was a single sheet of parchment, folded carefully.

The writing was elegant, in a hand he did not recognize:

"Come to the Market of Truth. Your presence is requested. There, all lies fall away."

No signature.

No name.

Iyi's heart raced.

The Market of Truth.

Had he passed it in his travels?

Was it real?

He folded the letter and slipped it into his pocket.

The next morning, he set out.

The Market of Truth was unlike any place he had seen.

It was hidden between alleys, behind walls draped with vines and shadow.

Inside, the air smelled of frankincense and wet stone.

Vendors stood behind tables covered in simple goods water, bread, leaves, and stones.

No gold.

No false promises.

A woman with eyes like deep wells approached him.

"You have been called," she said.

Her voice was steady, and yet kind.

"You carry burdens not yet shed."

Iyi nodded.

She led him deeper into the market, to a stall draped in white cloth.

"Here, you must trade what you hide."

He looked down.

"What do I hide?"

"Your fear," she said.

He swallowed.

The stallkeeper handed him a mirror framed with carved bones.

"Look deep," she said.

Iyi took the mirror, and as he stared, his reflection warped and shifted.

Faces from his past appeared: the boy he scammed, his mother's weary eyes, the girl named Ìfẹ́olúwa.

He saw every lie he had told himself.

Every time hunger had driven him to choose survival over truth.

He saw the cost etched in every line on his face.

The mirror shattered in his hands.

Iyi exhaled.

The shards scattered at his feet.

For the first time, he felt the barest flicker of release.

He was awake.

But change would come slowly.