The Way of Stone by Damilola Awe
Synopsis
For six years, the sacred kingdom of Ife has bled under the iron fist of Okan, a cruel tyrant who commands a terrifying hive-mind horde of supernatural serpents and elite warriors. In a desperate, final bid to reclaim the throne, the Egbe Awon Iya, a secret and powerful sisterhood of magical matriarchs, orchestrates a high-stakes heist to smuggle the rightful infant king, Emun, to the ultimate sanctuary of the Orishas of Stone. Bound within a magically sealed Iroko wood box that only the ancient Orishas of Stone can open, the child must be carried up a treacherous mountain pass by a divided vanguard of fierce women.
1
The red earth of Ile-Ife was a pulsating force that supported the weight of the world.
In the golden haze of the eleventh-century sun, the kingdom loomed as a magnificent mountain of clay, thatch, and shimmering bronze. From the high battlements of the outer walls, the city looked like an endless, swirling tapestry of human ambition. It was the Ilé-Ayé, the cradle of existence, and at this, its economic and magical zenith, its heartbeat could be felt for a thousand leagues in every direction.
Through the massive timber gates, a ceaseless tide of humanity flowed. From the arid expanses of the north came Tuareg and Hausa merchants, their camels laden with salt cakes, desert natron, and fine leather. From the dense, emerald canopies of the east came traders bearing ivory tusks so large it took four men to carry them. They journeyed not just for survival, but for the legendary treasures that only Ife could manifest.
They came for the bronze.
In the artisans’ quarters, the air sang with the rhythmic clink-clank of hammers and the roaring breath of clay furnaces. Here, master smiths channelled Àṣẹ into molten metal, pulling faces of kings and spirits from the fire with such lifelike precision that the bronze heads seemed to breathe, their hollow eyes holding the wisdom of ancestors. To buy a single Ife bronze vessel was to buy a piece of heaven’s own craftsmanship, and the foreign merchants traded fortunes in gold dust and cowries just to touch the rims of the sacred alloys.
Beyond the smoke of the smithies, the land itself seemed blessed by the Orishas. The Osun river swelled with silver-scaled fish that practically leaped into the woven baskets of fishermen. The surrounding forests and plains surrendered harvests of legendary proportions; giant yams as thick as a man’s thigh were unearthed from the rich, dark soil, and clusters of oil palm fruits hung heavy and red like bruised suns. On the surface, it was a kingdom drowning in milk and honey.
Yet, if a traveller looked past the gleam of the bronze and the bounty of the markets, they would notice the silence.
It was a heavy, suffocating silence that hung over the residential quarters like a low-flying vulture. For all the wealth that poured into the city’s gates, the people of Ife walked with hollow cheeks and bent backs. The prosperity of the empire was a grand illusion, a beautiful mask hiding a rotting face.
Everything belonged to Okan.
From his sprawling, labyrinthine palace, the treacherous ruler stretched his invisible coils across the kingdom. His taxes were not collections; they were executions of livelihood. A farmer who harvested ten baskets of yams saw nine snatched away by Okan’s tax collectors before the dirt could be wiped from the skins. A fisherman who braved the waters returned to find a heavy levy placed on his nets. Even the bronze smiths, whose genius elevated the kingdom’s name across the continents, watched their fortunes funnelled directly into the royal treasury.
The wealth of the world was flowing into Ife, but it stopped at the palace gates, filling Okan’s private purses and funding the lavish lifestyles of his sycophants. Only those who prostrated themselves before the tyrant, those who traded their conscience to become his eyes and ears, walked the streets in fine agbada silk with fat bellies. For the rest of the subjects, life was a daily, gruelling mathematics of survival.
But it was not just poverty that kept the populace quiet; it was a deep, primal terror.
The people walked with their eyes fixed firmly on the dirt, never looking too long at the shadows, never whispering in groups of more than two. Everyone knew the rumours. They knew that the walls had ears, and that those ears belonged to the thousands of silent, slithering serpents that nested in the thatch of every roof, sliding through the mud-brick cracks to carry secrets back to their master. To speak against the Okan was to invite a midnight visitation—to look into the eyes of a king who could shed his human skin and become a nightmare of scales and venom.
Thus, the greatest kingdom on earth lived in a golden cage, wealthy beyond measure, yet starving in the shadow of a giant cobra.
Six years ago, before the shadow of the serpent fell over the kingdom, the name Okan did not exist in the memory of any elder, nor was it carved into the sacred lineage poles of Ile-Ife. He emerged from the dense, untamed wilderness surrounding the city like a sudden plague, a man with no mother to sing his praise-names, no father to claim his lineage, and no family records in a land where a person’s ancestry is their very identity.
He was a ghost who stepped into the light of the sun, wrapped in a terrifying charisma.
Okan did not ask for a place at the council fires; he demanded the throne itself. He boldly proclaimed himself to be the Òkan-bi, the first and only begotten son of Olodumare, the supreme creator deity. He claimed that the Orishas had failed, that the old ways were dead, and that he had been sent directly from the highest heavens to reshape Ife in his own image.
When the elders laughed and the royal guards drew their iron spears to strike down the blasphemer, Okan smiled. And then, he shattered the reality of Ife forever.
It began with a sickening, wet sound, the cracking and stretching of bones that defied nature. Before the horrified eyes of the market-goers, Okan’s flesh hardened into overlapping, iridescent scales of midnight black and corrosive green. His torso lengthened, his limbs withered into his body, and within moments, a monstrous, towering cobra reared its hood over the city walls.
This was no mere illusion. The giant beast struck with terrifying speed, its fangs thick as war-clubs, crushing defensive structures and crushing the bones of the royal guards. The marketplace descended into a screaming bloodbath as the creature tore through the outer defences, leaving a trail of black, smoking venom in its wake.
Just as the kingdom’s greatest sorcerers prepared a counter-strike, the monster recoiled and shifted back into the form of a man, unbothered and uninjured. Standing in the central square, Okan raised his arms and let out a low, vibrating hiss that shook the thatch on the roofs.
From the gutters, from the cracks in the mud-brick walls, from the branches of the sacred trees, and from the very earth itself, thousands of serpents poured forth. Vipers, mambas, and adders carpeted the ground in a writhing, slithering sea of scales.
Okan’s legion of serpents completely encircled the palace of the Oni (King), creating a living, venomous wall. For three agonizing days, he held the royal court ransom. Anyone who attempted to scale the walls or cast a counter-spell was instantly swarmed and bitten.
Okan offered the reigning Oni a simple, brutal choice: surrender the crown, or watch his wives, children, and entire court perish in a slow, agonizing death by venom, their souls trapped in the bodies of the snakes.
Faced with the total annihilation of his bloodline and unable to pierce Okan’s terrifying mind-reading aura, which allowed the usurper to anticipate every strategy before it was even whispered, the broken King abdicated. Under the cover of a moonless night, the rightful ruler surrendered the ancient symbols of power and fled into the eastern forests, a deposed monarch transformed into a wandering ghost.
The next morning, Okan stepped onto the royal balcony, the crown of Ife resting heavily on his brow. The sea of serpents parted for him, slithering into the shadows of the city to become his permanent, hidden army of spies. In a single week, a stranger with no past had stolen the cradle of the world, establishing a tyranny rooted in a lie so powerful, and magic so dark, that none had dared to challenge it.
The late sunrise spilled like liquid amber over the bustling marketplace of Ile-Ife. The air was already thick with the rich, comforting scent of frying cowpea paste, palm oil, and burning firewood. Women cried out the virtues of their wares, their voices clashing musically with the distant clink-clank of the blacksmiths’ quarter.
Down one of the crowded, red-dirt lanes, a little girl no older than seven navigated the sea of ankles and trailing wrappers. Her steps were small, wandering but deliberate. She carried herself with the quiet invisibility that children in Ife used to survive under the heavy atmosphere of the town.
She stopped in front of a wide clay hearth where the oil bubbled and popped over white-hot coals. Behind the massive iron pot sat Labake. A woman in her sixties, Labake’s face was a map of finely etched lines, her eyes wise and deeply observant, missing nothing that transpired in the market. She was a master of the akara vendors, her golden-brown bean cakes legendary for their crisp exterior and pillowy softness.
The little girl paused, lowering her centre of gravity as she bent her knees in a deep, silent gesture of respect. She spoke no words, knowing better than to draw unnecessary attention in a crowded space.
Labake caught the child’s gaze and gave a slow, reassuring nod. With a subtle flick of her hand, she signaled the girl to wait.
Reaching into a woven basket beside her stool, Labake pulled out a precise blend of dried and freshly cut banana leaves. Her fingers, dark and calloused from decades of facing the hearth’s heat, moved with a sudden, mesmerizing agility. She did not merely fold the leaves; she wove them. Her hands danced in an intricate, rhythmic pattern, locking the supple green fibres of the fresh leaves with the sturdy, seasoned edges of the dried ones. It was a pattern born of old tradition, tight, secure, and deliberate.
Once the woven pouch was formed, Labake used a long wooden ladle to scoop a generous portion of steaming, golden akara into the wrap. The heat of the bean cakes immediately softened the leaves, releasing a fragrant, grassy aroma that mingled with the steam.
Labake leaned forward, handing the warm bundle to the child. Her eyes held a weight that defied the casual nature of the market.
“Take this,” Labake murmured, her voice low and steady. “Give this to your grandmother immediately. Do not stop along the way.”
The little girl clutched the warm woven pouch against her chest. She gave a quick, grateful nod of her head, turned on her heel, and bolted into the crowd, her small form quickly swallowed by the rising dust and the shifting shadows of the morning market.
In an inconspicuous hut, six hundred yards from the market, Iya Deh hosts a rare pair of guests. The air inside the clay hut was heavy with the scent of burning alligator pepper and dry herbs.
Iya Deh sat perfectly still, her hands resting on her knees, watching her two guests. Across from her sat Iya Agba and Iya Nimbe, elders whose positions within the Ẹgbẹ́ Àwọn Ìyá had been earned through decades of spiritual warfare and mastered Àṣẹ. They were women who could read the shifting of the wind and hear the cries of unborn ancestors.
“You both feel it,” Iya Deh began, her voice a low, gravelly rasp that barely carried past the mud walls. “The earth is groaning. The soil beneath Ife is tired of drinking the venom of Okan’s throne.”
Iya Agba nodded slowly, her heavy coral beads clicking softly against her chest. “We feel the sickness, Deh. But Okan’s snakes are everywhere. Even the wind seems to carry his breath. If we strike now, his mind-reading will catch the thought before the incantation leaves our lips. What is the plan? We cannot keep waiting in the shadows while our daughters starve.”
Iya Deh leaned forward, the shadows of the hut lengthening across her weathered face. “We are not waiting for a plan, Agba. We are waiting for a boy. The spirits have finally answered.”
Iya Nimbe shifted on her timber stool, her eyes narrowing. “A boy? What can a child do against a man who commands legions of adders?”
“He is no ordinary child,” Iya Deh whispered, her eyes burning with a sudden, fierce light. “He is the Emun. The Son of the Spirits. The long-hidden prophecy of the ancient ones is unfolding. He has reached his ninth year on this earth.”
The two guests went rigid. The word Emun was a myth whispered only by the oldest mid-wives in the absolute dead of night, a legend from a time before the first walls of Ife were dug.
“The prophecy says his Àṣẹ will be unmatched,” Iya Deh continued, her hands tracing ancient symbols in the air. “In him rests a spiritual force so vast it could rip the sky apart. But Olodumare did not make him a monster. The spirits anchored his power with the ultimate lock, a profound, deep human empathy. He possesses the only human heart strong enough to rein in his own devastating magic and vanquish evil without becoming the very tyranny he overthrows.”
“If he is nine,” Iya Nimbe calculated quickly, her voice trembling slightly, “his power is still asleep. The traditional age of spiritual awakening is thirteen.”
“Yes,” Iya Deh affirmed. “Until his thirteenth year, he is physically unkillable, the spirits shield his flesh from blade, fire, and venom. But he is still just a child. He can be captured. He can be chained. He can be psychologically broken by Okan’s mind-control if the tyrant ever discovers his bloodline. Furthermore, his power will not simply spark on its own. He must be trained and awakened by the Orishas of the Stone, deep within the subterranean caverns of the Okuta Mountains.”
Iya Deh stood up, her small stature suddenly carrying the immense weight of the entire sisterhood’s destiny. She looked down at her fellow elders.
“This, my sisters, is the ultimate mission of the Ẹgbẹ́ Àwọn Ìyá,” Iya Deh declared, her voice vibrating with absolute certainty. “Every spell we have mastered, every secret rite we have guarded, every sacrifice we have made since the founding of this covenant has led to this exact moment. We were not brought together just to heal the sick or protect the marketplaces. We were brought together to ensure this prophecy is fulfilled.”
She leaned down, her eyes locking onto theirs. “We must find the Emun. We must protect him with our lives, and we must smuggle him past Okan’s serpents into the belly of the mountain. If we fail, Ife is lost.”
The little girl’s bare feet moved like a whisper over the red earth. She skirted the main roads, ducking instead into a labyrinthine network of narrow mud paths that snaked between the crowded clay huts. Here, away from the watchful eyes of Okan’s market spies, the walls were so close they nearly brushed her shoulders. She skipped over exposed tree roots and darted past low-hanging thatch roofs until she reached an unassuming, weather-worn hut of sun-dried clay. It looked no different from any other home in the quarter, faded, humble, and quiet.
Pushing past the heavy woven mat that served as a door, the girl stepped into the cool, dim interior.
Sitting on low, hand-carved timber stools were two guests, their faces cast in deep shadow. In the centre of the room sat Iya Deh, the girl’s grandmother. To a casual observer, Iya Deh was just an aging matriarch, but beneath her calm, wrinkled visage lay the fierce, unyielding spirit of the leader of the Iya Cult.
Without a word, the girl stepped forward and handed the warm, fragrant bundle of banana leaves to her grandmother. The moment the old woman’s hand closed around the package, the little girl turned and vanished into the back room of the hut, knowing better than to linger where the elders spoke.
Iya Deh did not look at the steaming food. Instead, her thumbs traced the tight, interlocking fibres of the basketry. With practiced, deliberate movements, she unravelled the package. The golden, crispy akara tumbled onto a wooden platter, completely ignored.
Her entire focus was locked on the wrapping itself.
She held the leaves up to the dim pillar of light filtering through the roof thatch, meticulously studying the intricate pattern of the dried and fresh banana leaves. It was not a random design. The ratio of green to brown, the specific over-and-under weave Labake had crafted at the market, was a secret, tactile cipher of the sisterhood. It was a message written in the language of the earth.
As her fingers reached the end of the weave, Iya Deh’s expression hardened. The lines on her face deepened, casting her features in a grim, solemn mask.
She slowly raised her head, her sharp, knowing eyes locking onto the two guests waiting in the shadows.
“It is time,” she muttered, her voice cutting through the damp air of the hut.
Instantly, a heavy, suffocating silence fell over the room. The air grew thick with the weight of a four-year-old prophecy finally waking up, and the dangerous, bloody journey that was about to begin.
They were known in hushed, trembling whispers as Ẹgbẹ́ Àwọn Ìyá—the Society of Mothers. They were not a cult born of malice or a thirst for dominion, but a sacred covenant forged from the very bedrock of creation. Bestowed with potent spiritual insights and devastating magical powers, these were women who had looked into the womb of the universe and returned with the authority of the soil. They were sworn by oaths sealed in blood and breast milk to use their extraordinary gifts to protect the vulnerable, to shield the women and children of the land, and to uphold the peace and safety of the kingdom of Ife from both external invaders and internal rot.
For centuries, they had been the silent guardians of the cradle. But then came Okan.
When the usurper seized the crown six years ago, he did not just take the palace; he desecrated the very soul of Ife. He dragged the ancient, sacred bronze throne, the seat of kings that had been blessed by the ancestors, out into the courtyard and melted it down. In its place, he conjured a horror that defied nature: a throne of living, writhing, intertwined snakes. The beasts hissed and coiled around one another, forming a shifting seat of scales and venom where Okan sat, smiling down at a broken populace.
From that grotesque perch, Okan proceeded to systematically defile every divine and moral law of the land. He upended the ancient customs of the market, slaughtered the royal guards, and twisted the spiritual councils into nests of sycophants and spies. The Ẹgbẹ́ Àwọn Ìyá watched in mounting fury as their beautiful kingdom was transformed into a cage of fear. From the moment the serpent throne was raised, their holy mission became absolute, singular, and unyielding: they would apply every ounce of their hidden power, every incantation, and every secret rite to tear Okan from that palace and crush his living throne into dust.
But now, the air in Iya Deh’s hut grew suffocatingly thin, because the clock was running out.
