Ayàndá – The Child of Destiny

Written by SpecialMide

Days had passed since the night Ayàndá met the guardian. The forest had gone quiet again, but peace was a lie — Aragbanla still mourned. Smoke from burned farms lingered in the air, and whispers spread through the marketplace like dust on the wind.

“Alaba ti kú ni?” — Did Alaba die?

No one knew for sure. Some said they saw him being dragged away by masked men; others swore his spirit walked the night path, watching over the boy he raised.

But one evening, as the sun bled gold across the horizon, a silhouette appeared at the edge of the village — limping, staff in hand. It was him.

“Alaba!” the villagers shouted, rushing toward him. His clothes were torn, his face bruised, but his eyes burned with something deeper — knowledge.

“Where’s the boy?” he asked hoarsely.

“Ayàndá,” Baba Joonu said, “he’s gone into the forest. Some say he vanished into the old shrine.”

Alaba’s jaw tightened. “Then it’s begun.”

He sat down on a log outside the market hut, and the villagers gathered around. “Those men who came from the city,” he said, “they are not soldiers. They are hunters — trained to find and destroy anything tied to the royal bloodline.”

“Royal?” someone gasped.

“Yes,” Alaba nodded slowly. “Ayàndá’s mother was no ordinary woman. She was Ọba Moremi Gbadebo’s first daughter — a leader, a reformer, and the council’s greatest threat. They feared her, so they erased her name from history. But they couldn’t erase her son.”

The crowd murmured. Fear mixed with awe.

“But why attack us?” asked Iya Onikokoo, clutching her scarf. “We are just farmers and traders.”

“Because they thought the power died with her,” Alaba said. “They didn’t know I hid the boy right here in Aragbanla.”

Silence. The truth hit them like thunder.

Meanwhile, deep within the forest, Ayàndá was far from safe. He was tracking a signal — a faint beeping from a device he’d taken off a fallen soldier. It led him north, toward the ruins of Asakoko, the neighboring village destroyed months ago.

As he moved, the forest shifted — branches curling, shadows whispering. He felt it again — the pull of the blood, the whisper of ancient spirits.

Suddenly, he froze.

A voice drifted from behind him. “You walk the path of kings, boy, but you still fight like a villager.”

Ayàndá turned. A man stepped out — tall, broad, scar across his left eye, wearing black tactical armor. His presence was cold and commanding.

“Who are you?” Ayàndá demanded.

The man smirked. “They call me Ekun Méjì. I’m the one sent to bring you home.”

“Home?” Ayàndá’s grip tightened on his spear. “You mean prison.”

Ekun laughed softly. “You have your mother’s fire. But tell me — do you even know who you’re fighting for? Or what she really did before she died?”

The words sliced through Ayàndá’s thoughts. “What are you talking about?”

Ekun raised a small chip-like device and tossed it into the air. A hologram flickered — an image of a young woman in royal robes, standing beside a man in military uniform. Her face was unmistakable. His was not.

“That,” Ekun said, “is your father — and he wasn’t who you think he was.”

Before Ayàndá could react, a dart shot from the trees and hit him in the neck. His vision blurred. Ekun’s voice echoed in his head as everything went dark:

“Welcome to the real war, prince.”