The Boy and the Lake by Femi Salami
When a child goes missing in a West African village, two friends dare to explore the forbidden Lake.
My name is Gabriel, and my favorite place in the whole wide world is the dusty path by the little river behind our house. That's where I go to think, and to sing. Everyone in Oyo knows the song. You hear bakers singing it as they knead dough, and farmers humming it in the fields. It goes:
No one knows what it means. There isn't a single orange tree in Oyo! But it's cheerful, and it sticks in your head like honey.
My partner in crime is Lara, from the village across the bridge. She's braver than any boy I know, with eyes that are always plotting. Our favorite game is trying to sneak past the grim-faced guards at the entrance to the Lake of Oyo. We've never made it. The Lake is old and solemn. Every year, the adults leave tributes - woven mats, the season's first fruits - by its shores. But children are forbidden. "It's not for you," my mother would say, her voice suddenly serious. "Unless you want to go to heaven right this minute."
Then, little Ben went missing.
The whole city-state turned upside down. Mothers called names into the twilight, fathers organized search parties with torches that flickered like worried fireflies. I heard my parents whispering, their voices hushed and tense.
"I told you, it's the Lake," Lara hissed to me the next day by the river, her usual mischief gone. "It's taken him."
I ran to my mother, tugging her sleeve. "Mama, what if something in the Lake has Ben?"
She barely looked up from her weaving. "Hush, Gabriel. Don't speak nonsense. The Lake is sacred."
But her fear was hidden behind her chores. Lara and I looked at each other. We knew.
That evening, with half the guards called away to search the outer fields, we saw our chance. The two remaining sentinels were deep in worried conversation. We were just shadows, two small shapes darting from rock to bush, our hearts thumping a wild, guilty rhythm in our chests. We slipped past them, onto the forbidden path.
The Lake was not what I expected. It wasn't blue, but a dark, mirror-like black, reflecting the gloomy sky. It was utterly silent. No frogs, no crickets. And there, on the pebbled shore, was Ben. He was tied up with glistening bonds that looked like solidified water, blinking back terrified tears.
Before we could even gasp, the silence broke. The Lake itself moved. Tentacles of water, cold and swift as snakes, shot out and wrapped around our ankles, our wrists. We were yanked off our feet and dragged across the stones towards the black water. I screamed, but the sound was swallowed by the suddenly humid air.
Then she rose. A woman, but not a woman. She was tall and terrible, with skin the colour of deep water and hair that flowed like the river in a storm. A crown of sharp coral sat upon her head. She was the most beautiful and most frightening thing I had ever seen; a mermaid.
"A feast," she whispered, her voice the sound of rushing water over rocks. "I have starved for so long, nibbling on the pathetic goats and chickens your people offer. But children... the taste of mischief and sunlight! And you," her glowing eyes fixed on me, "Little Boy. Grandson of Ade. He trapped me here, you know. Fed me scraps. You will be a delicious revenge."
Lara struggled, but I was frozen, caught in her gaze. This was it. We were going to be eaten by a story.
"Gabriel."
The voice wasn't in the air. It was inside my head. It was warm and dry, like sun-baked earth, and I knew it instantly from old memories. Pa Ade.
"The song, child," the voice of my grandfather murmured in my mind. "It was never just a song. It is a key. A cage of words I made for her. Sing it. Now!"
Hope, sharp and clear, cut through my fear. I opened my mouth, the familiar, cheerful tune feeling absurd on my tongue in this terrible place. "Under the orange tree -"
"Lara, sing!" I cried.
Lara, brave Lara, tried. But the Mermaid Queen flicked a wrist. A shimmer of sleep-magic washed over Lara, and her eyes fluttered shut, her body going limp in the water's grip.
The Queen laughed, a sound like cracking ice. "Silly boy. Your little friend naps. You are alone."
But I wasn't. I felt him then, a warmth at my side. I turned my head, and there he was, faint as mist but smiling - Pa Ade. He wore his old farming hat and his eyes were full of starlight.
"I am never alone," I said, and my voice didn't shake.
Together, my grandfather's spirit and I, we sang. Our voices twined together, his, a deep, steady hum, mine a trembling melody:
"Under the orange tree, that is where we play..."
The Queen's smile vanished. The words weren't just words anymore. They became visible, glowing symbols in the air, the colour of ripe oranges. They swirled around her, forming a tightening circle.
"No!" she shrieked, lashing out with water-tendrils, but they sizzled and steamed when they touched the light of the song.
Pa Ade's voice grew stronger in my mind. "She once helped our village, ended a great drought. But she demanded a price we could not pay. I saved her from her own hunger, trapped her here to protect both her and us. Now, she must go home."
I understood. I was the anchor. The song was the door. I poured every bit of my fear, my hope, and my love for my forbidden, silly path by the river into the last words: "ORANGE, ORANGE, ORANGE!"
With the final note, the glowing symbols exploded into a brilliant, warm light. Not a tree, but a great, swirling portal of sunlight and citrus scent opened on the surface of the black lake. The Mermaid Queen screamed, not in anger now, but in what sounded like longing, as she was pulled, dissolving into mist, into that golden light.
Poof.
She was gone. The water-tentacles vanished. Ben's bonds melted away. Lara spluttered awake, dropping to the ground beside me. The great black Lake gave a deep sigh, and then, right before our eyes, it drained away, seeping into the earth until only a wide, muddy basin remained.
The silence was broken by shouts. Our parents, the guards, the whole town, it seemed, came rushing down the path. There was chaos, crying, hugging. My mother crushed me to her, her tears on my neck. Lara's father swung her up in his arms.
In the confusion, I looked to where Pa Ade had stood. He was fading, like morning mist under the sun. He tipped his old hat to me, a smile on his kind, crinkled face.
"Thank you, Grandpa," I whispered.
He winked, and then he was part of the air again.
The town rejoiced that night. There was drumming and dancing, and Ben was passed around like a precious trophy. Lara found me at the edge of the celebration, by the now-dry basin.
"You sang the orange song," she said, her eyes wide.
"We did," I smiled. "Turns out, it means 'go away, evil mermaid.'"
She giggled, that familiar, mischievous sound. Then she grabbed my hands, and right there, in the midst of the cheering adults, we started dancing. We danced a silly, hopping dance under the moon, singing at the tops of our lungs:
"Under the orange tree, that is where we play! We are happy, we are cheerful!"
And this time, we knew exactly what it meant. It meant we were safe, we were friends, and some stories, no matter how old, have the best endings of all.
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| Image generated with OpenAI |
"Under the orange tree, that is where we play.
We are happy, we are cheerful. Under the orange tree.
Orange, Orange, Orange."
No one knows what it means. There isn't a single orange tree in Oyo! But it's cheerful, and it sticks in your head like honey.
My partner in crime is Lara, from the village across the bridge. She's braver than any boy I know, with eyes that are always plotting. Our favorite game is trying to sneak past the grim-faced guards at the entrance to the Lake of Oyo. We've never made it. The Lake is old and solemn. Every year, the adults leave tributes - woven mats, the season's first fruits - by its shores. But children are forbidden. "It's not for you," my mother would say, her voice suddenly serious. "Unless you want to go to heaven right this minute."
Then, little Ben went missing.
The whole city-state turned upside down. Mothers called names into the twilight, fathers organized search parties with torches that flickered like worried fireflies. I heard my parents whispering, their voices hushed and tense.
"I told you, it's the Lake," Lara hissed to me the next day by the river, her usual mischief gone. "It's taken him."
I ran to my mother, tugging her sleeve. "Mama, what if something in the Lake has Ben?"
She barely looked up from her weaving. "Hush, Gabriel. Don't speak nonsense. The Lake is sacred."
But her fear was hidden behind her chores. Lara and I looked at each other. We knew.
That evening, with half the guards called away to search the outer fields, we saw our chance. The two remaining sentinels were deep in worried conversation. We were just shadows, two small shapes darting from rock to bush, our hearts thumping a wild, guilty rhythm in our chests. We slipped past them, onto the forbidden path.
The Lake was not what I expected. It wasn't blue, but a dark, mirror-like black, reflecting the gloomy sky. It was utterly silent. No frogs, no crickets. And there, on the pebbled shore, was Ben. He was tied up with glistening bonds that looked like solidified water, blinking back terrified tears.
Before we could even gasp, the silence broke. The Lake itself moved. Tentacles of water, cold and swift as snakes, shot out and wrapped around our ankles, our wrists. We were yanked off our feet and dragged across the stones towards the black water. I screamed, but the sound was swallowed by the suddenly humid air.
Then she rose. A woman, but not a woman. She was tall and terrible, with skin the colour of deep water and hair that flowed like the river in a storm. A crown of sharp coral sat upon her head. She was the most beautiful and most frightening thing I had ever seen; a mermaid.
"A feast," she whispered, her voice the sound of rushing water over rocks. "I have starved for so long, nibbling on the pathetic goats and chickens your people offer. But children... the taste of mischief and sunlight! And you," her glowing eyes fixed on me, "Little Boy. Grandson of Ade. He trapped me here, you know. Fed me scraps. You will be a delicious revenge."
Lara struggled, but I was frozen, caught in her gaze. This was it. We were going to be eaten by a story.
"Gabriel."
The voice wasn't in the air. It was inside my head. It was warm and dry, like sun-baked earth, and I knew it instantly from old memories. Pa Ade.
"The song, child," the voice of my grandfather murmured in my mind. "It was never just a song. It is a key. A cage of words I made for her. Sing it. Now!"
Hope, sharp and clear, cut through my fear. I opened my mouth, the familiar, cheerful tune feeling absurd on my tongue in this terrible place. "Under the orange tree -"
"Lara, sing!" I cried.
Lara, brave Lara, tried. But the Mermaid Queen flicked a wrist. A shimmer of sleep-magic washed over Lara, and her eyes fluttered shut, her body going limp in the water's grip.
The Queen laughed, a sound like cracking ice. "Silly boy. Your little friend naps. You are alone."
But I wasn't. I felt him then, a warmth at my side. I turned my head, and there he was, faint as mist but smiling - Pa Ade. He wore his old farming hat and his eyes were full of starlight.
"I am never alone," I said, and my voice didn't shake.
Together, my grandfather's spirit and I, we sang. Our voices twined together, his, a deep, steady hum, mine a trembling melody:
"Under the orange tree, that is where we play..."
The Queen's smile vanished. The words weren't just words anymore. They became visible, glowing symbols in the air, the colour of ripe oranges. They swirled around her, forming a tightening circle.
"No!" she shrieked, lashing out with water-tendrils, but they sizzled and steamed when they touched the light of the song.
Pa Ade's voice grew stronger in my mind. "She once helped our village, ended a great drought. But she demanded a price we could not pay. I saved her from her own hunger, trapped her here to protect both her and us. Now, she must go home."
I understood. I was the anchor. The song was the door. I poured every bit of my fear, my hope, and my love for my forbidden, silly path by the river into the last words: "ORANGE, ORANGE, ORANGE!"
With the final note, the glowing symbols exploded into a brilliant, warm light. Not a tree, but a great, swirling portal of sunlight and citrus scent opened on the surface of the black lake. The Mermaid Queen screamed, not in anger now, but in what sounded like longing, as she was pulled, dissolving into mist, into that golden light.
Poof.
She was gone. The water-tentacles vanished. Ben's bonds melted away. Lara spluttered awake, dropping to the ground beside me. The great black Lake gave a deep sigh, and then, right before our eyes, it drained away, seeping into the earth until only a wide, muddy basin remained.
The silence was broken by shouts. Our parents, the guards, the whole town, it seemed, came rushing down the path. There was chaos, crying, hugging. My mother crushed me to her, her tears on my neck. Lara's father swung her up in his arms.
In the confusion, I looked to where Pa Ade had stood. He was fading, like morning mist under the sun. He tipped his old hat to me, a smile on his kind, crinkled face.
"Thank you, Grandpa," I whispered.
He winked, and then he was part of the air again.
The town rejoiced that night. There was drumming and dancing, and Ben was passed around like a precious trophy. Lara found me at the edge of the celebration, by the now-dry basin.
"You sang the orange song," she said, her eyes wide.
"We did," I smiled. "Turns out, it means 'go away, evil mermaid.'"
She giggled, that familiar, mischievous sound. Then she grabbed my hands, and right there, in the midst of the cheering adults, we started dancing. We danced a silly, hopping dance under the moon, singing at the tops of our lungs:
"Under the orange tree, that is where we play! We are happy, we are cheerful!"
And this time, we knew exactly what it meant. It meant we were safe, we were friends, and some stories, no matter how old, have the best endings of all.
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