AYÀNDÁ — THE CHILD OF DESTINY

Written by SpecialMide

Gbadebo Adeyemi never liked early mornings, but this one dragged him out of sleep like a hand gripping his throat. The massive penthouse office overlooking the glittering Lagos skyline felt unusually cold, the kind of cold that didn’t come from AC — but from fate.

The encrypted tablet on his desk kept vibrating.

Same sender.

Same message.

“HE HAS AWAKENED.”

Gbadebo stared at it, exhaling slowly. The message wasn’t from a human monitoring team, not from CCTV networks, not from satellites — but from the ancient surveillance system implanted twenty-two years earlier. A spiritual–tech hybrid built by scientists, priests, and digital prophets.

A system built for one single boy.

Ayàndá.

Gbadebo rubbed his forehead. He had been waiting for that alert for decades — yet it still felt too soon.

A quiet knock tapped at the office door.

“Come in,” he said.

The door slid open silently. His personal AI assistant — a transparent hologram — appeared first, then the man who stepped through behind it.

Captain Dáramólá.

Chief Commander of the Oba’s Ilé-Asiri Unit — a covert force trained in cyber warfare, intelligence extraction, and ancestral combat. Warriors raised on science and spirit.

He bowed slightly. “Kábíyèsí, we received the same signal.”

Gbadebo didn’t look surprised. “How long ago?”

“Thirty-six minutes.”

“Location?”

Dáramólá tapped his wrist. A 3D projection unfolded — a forest region layered with digital symbols.

“Asàkókò.”

Gbadebo froze.

The village was supposed to be hidden — not physically, but spiritually cloaked. No mapping satellite, no drone, no GPS, no oracle, no remote-viewing babaláwo was supposed to detect it unless authorized.

So how did danger reach Ayàndá first?

Gbadebo leaned back. “Tell me everything.”

Dáramólá inhaled. “We intercepted a transmission. Unknown origin. Whoever sent it knows about Asàkókò. And… they’re searching for the boy too.”

Gbadebo’s jaw tightened.

“Enemy faction?”

“At least four possibilities. But we suspect the same group that attempted the abduction twenty-two years ago.”

That night still haunted Gbadebo. The night he made a decision no father — no king — should ever make: sending his newborn son away to survive.

Alábà had carried Ayàndá through the rainforest, bleeding, running, praying — until Asàkókò accepted the child. Until the village sealed him in secrecy.

That sacrifice wasn’t for lack of love — it was the ultimate proof of it.

Gbadebo stood and walked toward the glass wall. Lagos stretched beneath him — a city of ambition, noise, greed, brilliance, corruption, rebirth. He built half of it. Protected the rest.

But he had failed in one place — his own family.

“Prepare the team,” Gbadebo finally said. His voice was calm, but Dáramólá felt the storm beneath it.

“How many operatives, sir?”

“Not many. Power attracts attention. Send five. The best we have.”

“Yes, sir.”

“And Captain…”

Dáramólá paused.

“No firearms.”

Dáramólá blinked. “Sir?”

“Spiritual territory demands spiritual diplomacy first. Guns escalate war. This mission is retrieval, protection — not destruction.”

“Yes, Kábíyèsí.”

“Also…” Gbadebo added, “They must enter unseen. No helicopters, no drones, no satellites tracking them. Asàkókò must remain hidden.”

Dáramólá nodded. “Understood.”

He turned to leave, but Gbadebo’s voice stopped him.

“And Dáramólá — if they find Ayàndá in danger…”

Gbadebo’s eyes darkened.

“They are cleared to eliminate the threat.”

Dáramólá saluted. “It will be done.”

When he left, the office fell silent — except for Gbadebo’s heartbeat.

He walked to a small locked drawer, opened it, and pulled out a dusty wooden box. Inside, wrapped in faded cloth, was a photo — an old one — of a younger Gbadebo holding a baby with bright, curious eyes.

A child who didn’t know war was already waiting for him.

Gbadebo swallowed, voice barely a whisper.

“Forgive me, Ayàndá. I couldn’t protect you then. But now… I will move the heavens if I must.”

---

Deep beneath Lagos — far below the traffic, noise, and skyscrapers — an underground transport rail hummed to life. Doors slid open, revealing a metallic corridor lit by blue LED orbs floating midair.

The five operatives waited:

Ajanaku — muscle like carved stone, but carried a beaded charm that could freeze enemies mid-step.

Tamuno — Niger Delta tech sorcerer, could hack a computer or a spirit shrine with equal confidence.

Sade — stealth master, moved like wind, spoke only when necessary.

Imole — a priest-engineer hybrid, walked with quiet wisdom.

Kọ́lá — youngest, but deadliest marksman — except today, no bullets.

Captain Dáramólá faced them.

“You’ve been briefed. Your target is Ayàndá. Protect. Extract if needed. Do not interfere unless necessary. Zero collateral.”

They nodded — no fear, no ego — only readiness.

Tamuno adjusted his wristband. “Permission to ask?”

“Granted.”

“What if the village refuses us?”

Ajanaku chuckled. “Village ke? Hidden village? The boy we’re going for is the reason that place still exists.”

Dáramólá didn’t smile. “Do not underestimate tradition. Asàkókò bows to no outsider — not even royalty.”

“Kábíyèsí knows this?”

“He ordered the mission anyway.”

Silence.

That meant one thing — time was running out.

The lights dimmed… then a circular portal of shimmering gold opened in front of them — not CGI, not hologram — real.

Imole stepped forward, pressing his palms together. The portal stabilized. A forest breeze blew through it.

“Asàkókò awaits.”

The unit entered — and vanished.

---

Back in the penthouse, Gbadebo paced. The city lights reflected across his face. His advisors would say this was reckless — kings don’t intervene in destiny.

But Gbadebo didn’t believe in destiny without effort. Fate was just a direction — humans provided motion.

His private screen lit up.

INCOMING CALL — PRIVATE ACCESS

Only one person had that clearance.

He answered.

The face that appeared wore a dark hood, eyes hidden — voice roughened by age and secrecy.

“Kábíyèsí,” the unknown figure said, “You waited too long.”

Gbadebo didn’t flinch. “You said Asàkókò was safe.”

“It was. Until yesterday.”

Something inside Gbadebo sank. “Who breached it?”

The hooded figure paused, then spoke slowly.

“The enemy didn’t find Ayàndá by searching… they were told.”

Gbadebo froze.

“Told? By who?”

“I don’t know yet — but someone wanted those assassins to reach him before you did.”

Rage flickered in Gbadebo’s eyes — controlled, contained, deadly.

“Find the traitor.”

“I already started.”

“And?”

A breath.

“Kábíyèsí… the betrayal came from within your house.”

Gbadebo felt the room tilt — not physically, but spiritually.

His enemies weren’t outside the kingdom — they were sitting at his table.

He gripped the edge of the desk. “Listen carefully — if anything happens to that boy…”

“No one will survive it,” the figure finished. “We understand.”

The call ended.

Gbadebo looked out at Lagos again — but now, the city seemed like a ticking weapon waiting to explode.

He whispered into the silence:

“Ayàndá… please hold on.”

---

Inside Asàkókò, far from modern life, beneath ancient trees older than history — Ayàndá stood unaware that forces were already moving toward him.

Watching.

Protecting.

Attacking.

And somewhere in the shadows of the same forest… a different team — not Gbadebo’s — marched quietly, blades coated in spiritual poison, faces hidden, hearts fueled by greed.

Because the world didn’t want Ayàndá saved.

It wanted him erased.

Forever.

And destiny had just started counting down.