The moon hung low above Arágbànlá Village, spreading soft silver light across the sleeping farmlands. The crickets sang, frogs croaked from the stream, and the wind whispered through the palm trees.

Alábà, one of the village’s oldest farmers, was returning home after a long day at the farm. His back ached, his hands heavy from hours of digging yam mounds. The night smelled of wet soil and smoke from distant fires.

He walked slowly, his hoe balanced across his shoulder, humming a faint tune. But midway through the narrow bush path, he froze.

A strange sound broke the calm — faint humming, like a woman’s lullaby, floating through the dark.

“Ẹni tó wà níbẹ̀, ta ni ẹ?” Alaba called, voice deep and firm. (Who’s there?)

No answer. The humming grew louder.

Alaba gripped his hoe tighter. He had seen enough in this world to know not every voice in the night belonged to the living.

Then, from behind a palm tree, a figure stepped forward — a woman, tall, wrapped in a dark shawl, her eyes glowing faintly under the moon.

Her voice was calm but sharp:

“Ẹ má bẹ̀rù, Bàbá Àgbà. It’s been a long time.”

Alaba blinked. “Who are you? What are you doing out here by this hour?”

The woman smiled softly. “You don’t remember me? I’m from the city… the Leader sent me. I came to give you something.”

Alaba frowned. City people rarely came this far into the forest, especially not at night.

“Oh oh, kí ni ẹ̀yí tí ẹ fẹ́ fún mi?” (What’s that you’re bringing me?)

The woman straightened her back, slipped the small backpack off her shoulder, and placed it on the ground. She opened it gently — and inside lay a baby boy, sleeping soundly, wrapped in white cloth.

Alaba’s breath caught. The forest went dead quiet.

“Ẹ̀yin Ọlọ́run… ọmọ ni yìí?” (My God… a child?)

The woman nodded. Her voice dropped low, urgent:

“His name is Ayàndá. Guard him well, Bàbá Àgbà. His life carries power — and danger. The city burns with greed and blood; they will come for him one day. Don’t let them find him until the time is right.”

Alaba’s heart pounded. “Who are ‘they’? Why bring him here?”

But before he could take another step, a sudden cold wind swept through the trees. Dust rose, leaves spun, and when Alaba opened his eyes — the woman was gone.

Gone. No footprints. No trace. Only the crying of the baby, echoing softly through the forest.

He looked down at the child, whose tiny hands glowed faintly in the moonlight.

“Olódùmarè… kí ni ẹ ti fi sí ọwọ́ mi?” (God… what have You placed in my hands?)

He hesitated for a long moment, then bent down, lifted the baby, and wrapped him in his scarf. The baby stopped crying immediately, eyes opening — calm, curious, unafraid.

“Hmm,” Alaba murmured. “Ayàndá, abi? Destiny’s child. Kí Ọlọ́run tó sọ pé ká pàdé, kò ní jẹ́ ká pàdé láì ní ìdí.” (If God made our paths cross, then there’s a reason for it.)

He started walking home, the baby tied to his chest. The wind whispered again, this time softer — like approval from the gods.

When he reached the village gate, Papa Joonu, the old night guard, sat half-asleep beside his lantern.

“Bàbá Alaba! Why so late? I thought you slept at the farm!”

Alaba stopped. “Something happened,” he said quietly. “Something strange.”

Papa Joonu squinted. “Ha! Is that… a child?”

Alaba nodded, his face unreadable. “From the city. Dropped in my hands.”

The guard crossed himself nervously. “From the city? Ó ní ìtàn o.” (This has a story behind it.)

Alaba didn’t reply. He just walked past him, heading toward his hut.

That night, when the baby’s cry echoed softly through the hut, people whispered. Some said Alaba found a spirit child. Others claimed he’d stolen a baby from the gods.

But Alaba stayed quiet. He named the boy Ayàndá, as the woman had said, and raised him as his own.

Under the roof of a farmer and the gaze of ancient spirits, the boy grew — strong, sharp-eyed, and fearless.

And somewhere far away in the city — behind golden gates and government walls — a powerful man woke up from a nightmare, whispering the same name in fear:

> “Ayàndá...”