The sun over Ẹkààrò village was not warm it scorched. It peeled paint off shanty roofs, baked the red dust into cracked skin, and cast long shadows behind tired souls. Chickens scattered across the dirt road as boys chased tires with sticks, their laughter rising like smoke into the stifling air. But one figure did not laugh.
A lean boy in his early twenties walked alone down the village road. His clothes were stained with Lagos grime torn jeans, a once-white shirt faded to grey. He stood out like a glitch in the fabric of this world. In his sharp eyes, something stirred hunger. Not for food. Not anymore. That desire had long given way to something deeper.
Gold.
In a land where hunger ran deeper than rivers, there lived a boy whose stomach never emptied. But it wasn't food he hungered for... it was gold.
His name was IYIOLA, though most just called him Iyi—the river's child. His mother once whispered that he was born with water in his lungs and stars in his palms. But dreams drowned quickly in places like this.
By night, he was something else entirely.
INT. CYBER CAFE – NIGHT
The glow of outdated monitors bathed the cramped room in sickly blue light. Fans whirred overhead, barely keeping the heat at bay. Flies buzzed. Iyi's fingers moved with desperate precision over a plastic keyboard passwords, bank account details, scam templates. His screen flickered with promises of quick riches, wire transfers, fake NGOs, and manipulated emotions.
His heart pounded with the rhythm of survival.
He'd tasted wealth once small, intoxicating. A few stolen dollars sent from a desperate widow in Belgium. It was enough to buy sneakers, data, jollof for his mother, and illusion. But the money vanished like mist. And now, debt gathered around him like hungry spirits.
Then—BANG! The door rattled violently. Police? Landlord? It didn't matter. His blood froze.
Without hesitation, he grabbed his cracked phone and bolted through the back, disappearing into the night like smoke through fingers.
EXT. SLUM STREET – LATER
The rain came down in sheets now, slicing through the dark. Streetlights flickered above puddles and rusted gutters. Iyi wandered beneath them, soaked to the bone. Every step was a question. Every breath a plea.
He stopped when he sensed eyes on him.
Across the street, beneath a crumbling veranda, stood an old man cloaked in shadows. His wide-brimmed hat dripped with rain. His face was hidden. Yet, something ancient watched through him.
"You still want it?" the voice asked.
Iyi turned. His breath caught. The man was already gone. Or had never been there.
INT. HERBALIST'S HUT – NIGHT
The hut breathed with strange life—walls lined with animal skulls, powdered roots, dried herbs strung from wooden beams. Smoke coiled upward in gentle spirals. A clay lamp flickered in the corner.
Seated in front of him was AGBA OYE.
The old man's presence filled the room. Regal. Unnerving. His skin held the color of bark and the shine of wisdom. His eyes, deep-set, glinted like river stones beneath torchlight.
"You want to be known? Rich? You want your name spoken even by strangers in silence?"
Iyi's voice caught in his throat. He nodded.
"Then you must leave this world," Agba Oye intoned, voice like thunder wrapped in honey, "and journey to where true wealth is weighed."
He handed Iyi a bar of black soap—heavy, almost... alive. Its surface pulsed faintly, like the heart of something slumbering.
"Find four traditional sponges. Boil water. Bathe when darkness has swallowed the day. Call me when no man can see you."
The fire flared as if in agreement.
EXT. VILLAGE – DUSK
Iyi stepped out of the hut, the soap clutched in trembling hands. The evening breeze danced around him. Something in the air had changed.
He smiled.
He believed the ritual was the price. He did not know... it was only the door.
INT. IYI'S ROOM – NIGHT
A bare room. One mattress, one curtain, one shelf. The soap sat beside a small kettle heating over firewood. Four local sponges—ọṣẹ dúdú, stiff and fibrous lay ready.
He poured the hot water into a basin, cut pieces from the black soap, and mixed them in. Steam curled upward like smoke from an ancient pyre.
When he bathed, the water hissed against his skin. Each drop sizzled—like it knew secrets. Like it whispered names he hadn't heard yet.
His body was clean.
But his soul?
Still stained.
INT. ROOM – MOMENTS LATER
He lay on the mat, wearing a white garment. Still damp. Still and waiting.
His eyes fluttered.
Then shut.
INT. AYEPEGBA – MARKET SQUARE – UNKNOWN TIME
He awoke on his feet. Confused. The sky above him glowed with an amber hue not dawn, not dusk, something... other.
Before him, a bustling market unfolded. Women bartered herbs for yams. Men traded firewood for palm oil. But there was no sound.
No coins.
No mouths moving.
No words.
He stepped forward, bag of gold slung over his shoulder. Gold and diamonds. Stolen, conjured, earned—he didn't care. He believed it had value.
"Hello? I need food! I'll pay!"
No one looked at him.
A woman near a spice stall locked eyes with him and mouthed the words, slowly:
"Ìwọ ò kì í ṣe ara wa."
You are not one of us.
Iyi's voice broke. He dropped a gold coin. It hit the red sand and vanished like smoke.
He turned. But the world turned with him.
He was here.
Wherever here was.