A Mouthful of Dust

The night we fled into Olumo, my mother’s hand gripped my wrist until my pulse throbbed against her fingers. Our village burned behind us. Huts collapsed into ash. Screams tore through the air. My father’s last act was to press his kòso bead into my palm, its smooth wood warm from his hand. ‘Keep it close, Adérónkẹ́,’ he said, his voice steady even as flames licked our compound. I was twelve, old enough to know what death sounded like. The Dahomey raiders had come at dusk, their drums pounding like a heartbeat across the hills. My father stood at the gate, machete in hand, buying us time. I didn’t see him fall. I heard the silence that followed.

The rock’s mouth loomed ahead, wide and jagged, pulling us in. We crawled on hands and knees, cloth tearing on stone. A woman panted, her breath ragged as if something clawed her from within. A boy sobbed through his nose, muffling the sound as if silence could save him. The air stank of sweat and hot dust. Inside, the walls closed tight, scraping our backs, bending our necks low. A man in front of me muttered prayers to Ogun, god of iron, his forehead pressed to the ground. Behind me, someone coughed and spat something thick. None of us turned around.

The dark wasn’t just the absence of light. It was heavy, like the proverb my father loved: when the mouth is quiet, the heart speaks loudest. I clutched the bead, wondering if it could still protect me.

Hundreds filled the cave, people from Ẹgba, Ẹgba Aláke, Owu, Ake, Ibara, villages I knew only from market songs about rivers and yam harvests. We came with nothing but our clothes and names, though names soon lost meaning. Inside Olumo, we were just bodies. Hungry. Bending. Breathing. Waiting. The walls dripped water that tasted of stone. The floor reeked of damp earth. We called the driest corner the kitchen, though no fire burned. A woman with cheeks as round as a calabash mashed dried yams with her gums and fed them to her daughter, who ate with closed eyes. Children sucked locust beans, passing them mouth to mouth. We chewed without tasting and swallowed without speaking. Hunger was a fist in our bellies, but we ate to live, not to savour.

Our bodies changed. Backs curved. Knees stayed bent. A boy, maybe eleven, forgot how to stand. His mother, a thin woman with eyes like burnt wood, whispered that Olumo had claimed him. He’s the rock’s son now, she said. I believed her. My thighs hardened from squatting. My neck forgot how to tilt back. I pressed my father’s bead against my chest, rolling it until it warmed, a small pulse against the cave’s cold. At night, I traced its grooves, remembering my father weaving baskets in our compound, singing oríkì praises to our ancestors. He’d taught me to sing them too, his voice loud as a drum during the Egungun festival. The memory stung more than hunger, but I held it close, like the bead.

We pissed in corners. Shat in bowls. Someone covered the mess with dry leaves and carried it to the cave’s far end, where we didn’t go. Shame was a luxury we couldn’t afford. The air was thick with other people’s breath. Skin itched with dirt. Some heard voices in the dark, whispers of ancestors or enemies. Others saw lights flicker where none existed. I saw my village gate once, shimmering in a puddle, its wooden posts carved with spirals. I reached for it, but my fingers met only stone. We didn’t speak of these things. What use was sanity when the world had gone mad?

Fear lived in our throats. Stories of Dahomey raiders spread like smoke. They said the warriors cut off women’s breasts for charms and tied them to their belts. That Owu fighters, broken by their city’s fall, roasted enemies over slow fires. True or not, we knew one thing: outside meant noise, and noise meant death. Inside, the silence was louder than our heartbeats. Only the rock spoke. It groaned, low and deep, like it was stretching. The elders said it was Olumo waking, guarding us. Bàbá Yínká, an elder with a limp, pressed his ear to the wall one night. The rock sings to Yemoja, he said. She cradles us. I wanted to believe him, but the cold stone felt more like a cage.

We slept in shifts. Not for lack of space, though space was scarce, but because dreams brought fire. Screams. Metal on bone. Some woke clutching their throats; others bled from gums they’d clenched too hard. I shared a mat with a girl whose name I never asked. A scar ran down her chest, rough like a rope had been dragged across it. One night, she whispered into my neck, ‘My mother, my brothers, all gone.’ She didn’t speak again for three days. But in the dark, her hand always found mine. I let her hold it, her fingers cold but steady.

One evening, as we crouched near the kitchen, she spoke again. ‘I was fetching water when they came,’ she said, her voice barely above a breath. My mother pushed me into the bush. I heard her scream, then nothing. I didn’t know what to say, so I pressed the kòso bead into her palm. She held it for a moment, then gave it back. Keep it, she said. It’s yours. Her eyes met mine, and I saw something flicker there, not hope, but something close.

A boy and girl kissed once, near the edge of our fireless light. Their lips moved slowly, not for desire but for memory, as if tasting what it meant to be human. Nobody stopped them. We all needed reminders. I touched the kòso bead and thought of my father’s laugh, loud as a drum. It felt like a lie.

On what might have been a morning, though the cave kept no time, an old man named Baba Olúkún decided to leave. He’d been a war chief in Ake, his voice rough as palm bark. Years ago, he’d brokered peace with Ijebu traders, his words stronger than swords. He believed the soldiers outside would respect his age. Warriors honour warriors, he said, adjusting his white agbádá like a king’s robe. He crawled toward the crack of sunlight, his back straight despite the stone’s weight. We watched his back vanish, a ghost walking to judgement.

Three days later, a boy returned with Baba Olúkún’s wrapper. It was wet and stained brown at the hem. We said nothing. We pushed deeper into the rock.

The walls weren’t just stone; they thrummed. I pressed my palm against them one night and felt a pulse, steady as a heartbeat. Bàbá Yínká said Olumo was alive, tied to Ogun, the god of iron and war. I closed my eyes and whispered a prayer my father taught me. Ogun, make my bones strong. For a moment, I believed the rock heard me. The next day, I found a new charcoal drawing on the wall. A fish, its tail curved like a sickle. Nobody claimed it, but the drawings grew each day. Eyes. Birds with no wings. A hand with fingers spread wide. I traced the fish, its lines sharp as a blade. It felt like a message, though I didn’t know what it meant. Maybe hope. Maybe madness. I looked for them every morning, a small anchor in the dark.

One night, whispers woke me. Men huddled near the kitchen, their voices low but sharp. ‘The soldiers are closer,’ one said. I heard their drums last night. Another shook his head. Olumo will protect us. We stay. A woman, her voice trembling, said, ‘We’re rotting here. I’d rather die under the sky.’ My mother, who rarely spoke, touched my arm. ‘Adérónkẹ́, trust the rock,’ she said. Her eyes were tired, but her grip was firm. The girl with the scar leaned closer. If we die, we die together, she whispered. Her words were heavy, but they steadied me. The argument faded into silence. We stayed.

A woman named Mama Adéṣọlá gave birth one night. Her screams cracked the silence like thunder. The men turned away. The women gathered around her, their bodies a shield. One held her legs. Another stuffed a cloth in her mouth. The baby came with a cry, thin and fierce, a sound that didn’t belong in the cave. A woman hissed, ‘Quiet it, they’ll hear.’ But Mama Adéṣọlá clutched the child, a boy, and whispered, Adéwálé, naming him for her father, lost in the Owu wars. The name felt like defiance. She hummed a lullaby, soft as a breeze, one my mother sang during harvest festivals. We held our breath, waiting for soldiers’ boots. They didn’t come. Not then.

But that night, a boy fetching rainwater saw smoke curling above the trees. Too close. Panic spread like a spark. Whispers turned to arguments. A man swore Olumo had spoken to him, urging us to stay. A woman shouted she’d rather die outside than rot within. My mother spoke softly. I’f we leave, we die. If we stay, we live.’  Her voice was steady, but her hand trembled around mine. The girl with the scar pressed closer, her breath warm against my neck. ‘Your mother’s right,’ she said. Nobody moved. We stayed.

Time stopped being days. It became hunger, bone, memory. A girl had her first blood, her mother wrapping her in cloth torn from her own wrapper. An old woman died in her sleep; her body carried to the cave’s end with quiet prayers to Yemoja, goddess of rivers. A baby, not Adéwálé, learned to laugh without sound.

I added to the charcoal drawings once, scratching a small circle beside a bird. It felt like claiming something, though I didn’t know what. One day, I heard my father’s voice, not real but clear, singing a market song about Ẹgba’s rivers. I followed it to a corner where water dripped. I drank, and for a moment, I tasted home, the sweet tang of palm wine my father shared during festivals. The girl with the scar saw me and smiled, her first smile. ‘You’re still here,’ she said. I nodded. Her hand found mine again, warmer now.

Another day, a boy named Táyé, no older than me, began to sing. His voice was quiet, an oríkì praising Ẹgba warriors. ‘Our fathers fought, and we endure,’ he sang. The elders shushed him, fearing the sound would carry, but he kept going, his words weaving courage into the air. A few joined, their voices barely a whisper. My mother hummed along, her eyes closed, and I saw her smile for the first time since the fire. I clutched the kòso bead and mouthed the words, feeling their rhythm in my chest.

Weeks passed, or so it seemed. The cave warped time. One night, a woman named Àbíkẹ began telling stories to the children, her voice low to avoid waking the fear. She spoke of Olumo’s birth, how the gods carved it to shield the Ẹgba from invaders. ‘This rock is our mother,’ she said, ‘and mothers do not abandon their children.’ The children listened, wide-eyed, their small hands clutching each other. I listened too, the kòso bead warm in my palm. Àbíkẹ’s stories became a ritual, a thread tying us to the world we’d lost. She spoke of the Owu wars, of warriors who stood against Dahomey, their machetes gleaming like stars. Her words painted pictures in the dark, and for a moment, we weren’t just bodies. We were Ẹgba.

Another time, a man named Kúnlé tried to teach the younger boys how to carve. He had no knife, only a sharp stone, but he scratched patterns into the cave floor: spirals, waves, and the shape of a cowrie shell. ‘This is who we are,’ he said, his voice hoarse. ‘We make, even when we have nothing.’ The boys watched, their fingers tracing his lines. I watched too, wondering if I could make something to hold onto, something to carry out of the rock. I scratched a small spiral beside my mat, next to the girl with the scar. She saw it and added a line of her own, a crooked arrow. We didn’t speak, but our marks did.

The girl with the scar began to hum one night, a tune I recognised from market days, when women sang while pounding yam. It was soft, almost swallowed by the cave’s silence, but it grew. Others joined, their voices weaving a fragile thread of sound. My mother touched my shoulder, her fingers lighter now, and hummed too. I didn’t sing, but I pressed the kòso bead to my lips, letting the tune fill me. It wasn’t joy, but it was life.

The world outside grew quiet one morning. No drums. No gunshots. No shouts. The men sent scouts, three boys with quick feet. They returned with wide eyes.

‘The soldiers are gone,’ one said. ‘North, to a new war.’

We didn’t cheer. We crawled out slowly, one by one, like ants from a broken nest. The sun hit my face, and I screamed. My knees wouldn’t straighten. My back fought to stay curved. It took days to stand tall again, to feel the ground without wincing. The world outside was too bright, too open. I clutched the kòso bead, its weight anchoring me to the earth.

Some stayed in Abeokuta, rebuilding among the ashes. Others left to find what remained of their villages. My mother traded again, selling yam flour with a smile that hid her cracks. I looked for the girl with the scar in the market crowds, but her face was gone, swallowed by the world outside. I kept my father’s bead, wearing it on a string around my neck.

Sometimes, I return to Olumo. I press my hand to its side, feeling for the pulse. On quiet days, I hear it. Breathing.

I leave small offerings: a handful of kola nuts or a whispered prayer to Ogun.

The rock doesn’t answer, but it listens.

And I remember what it taught me: to bend, to breathe, to live.

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Tomilola Adejumo is an emerging writer from Lagos, Nigeria, with published work featured in Brittle Paper, Kalahari Review, African Writer Magazine, The Shallow Tales Review, Efiko Magazine, Afritondo, Akpata Magazine, Punocracy and elsewhere. Her upcoming publications include pieces in Omenana, Culture Custodian and The Republic. Tomi shares engaging stories and essays on her Substack page, “Thoughts Archive“. She is on Twitter at ‘earth2Tomi’. 

Cover credit: Ebumnobichukwu Agu.