PRELUDE

The Town Crier

Garuba flicked his tongue, probing the inside of his waterskin. He sucked desperately, but it was empty. The old leather was as parched as the desert around him. A strangled sound escaped his lips, something between a cry and a moan. Never had he been so thirsty in all his life, and that was saying something, coming from a kingdom where water was severely rationed. It didn’t help that the sun beat down relentlessly. He began to lick his skin. It was incredibly salty, and did nothing to quench his thirst, but he needed water and his sweat was the only liquid around.

Garuba couldn’t say exactly when he had lost his way. He had left Oyo with the other town criers, following the Oba’s Road before they were dispatched in various directions to other villages scattered across the kingdom. As a crier he had walked all over the kingdom; he knew the routes like the back of his hand, and could have found his way to any village even with his eyes closed. Which made it strange that he found himself lost in the desert, nothing but cracked, barren earth stretching as far as his eye could see. It seemed the world was just this desert, and he was the last man in it.

The sun bore down relentlessly, burning his skin, baking the earth so hard that the very air shimmered. Something appeared in the distance, silvery-white under the sunlight. A pool. Garuba blinked the sweat from his eyes. He closed his eyes, opened them. The pool still lay there, beckoning to him. But it wasn’t real. He knew better now. Oases and lakes did not exist where rain did not fall, not on this island, not in this kingdom. Garuba didn’t know if he was going mad from the heat, or from thirst, or from hunger. But he was going mad.

He stumbled and fell. His satchel flew from his shoulders, and out came his gong, two pieces of bitter kola, a fresh tunic and the embroidered kerchief that his daughter had made for him, and his empty waterskin. He lay there, cheek pressed against the cracked earth. He would not rise again. He had neither the will nor the strength.

“Rain,” he mumbled. “Rain…”

Ilorin hadn’t seen rainfall in seasons. To Garuba, rain was an alien phenomenon, as alien as the liquid fire that was said to have sputtered from mountains seasons ago. He couldn’t fathom water falling from the skies. Fresh water existed only in melo-pods, those hardy fruits that dug deep into the earth and extracted water.

But it hadn’t always been so. Countless seasons ago, as the elders said, they would pray and sacrifice to Oya, and she would conjure up strong westerly winds that blew rain clouds from the Endless Sea over the land. And it would rain, and crops would flourish, and fruits would grow. But most importantly, there would be an abundance of fresh water. Their lakes and streams and rivers would overflow. But here in Ilorin they had forgotten the gods. Well … not so much forgotten as believed them dead. And they had suffered for it.

He still remembered the sight of those boats sailing towards them. The alarm had sounded, and the small folk had clustered ashore, watching with apprehension as a small woman with kind eyes stepped off a boat and announced that they were griots, come to deliver good news. Ilorin was a small island so removed from the other kingdoms as to be isolated. They hadn’t seen an outsider in seasons, much less griots, who they believed had gone the way of the gods: a thing of an age past.

But here were real griots, insisting that the gods still lived. Garuba had heard the Song, seen firsthand the Memory of that girl covered in glyphs, of the orisha appearing next to her. But most importantly, he had seen her call the wind, and he had been caught in powerful rapture.

Oba Adeyanju had dispatched the criers immediately, to go to every corner of the kingdom ahead of the griots to deliver the news. The gods were alive. They lived in the Guardian. And Garuba had been only too happy to go, to be the bearer of good news. As his baba had been, and his baba’s baba before him.

“Oya,” Garuba whispered, licking the crust from his lips. “Orisha iya mi. I ask for rain. Please.”

I am going to die, he thought.

His mind went to Tutu, his daughter. He began to weep; dry, weak heavings. Who would provide for her in his absence? Who would—?

A shadow fell over him.

Garuba mustered the last of his strength and flipped over. A man was standing over him; Garuba could not make out his features. As the darkness claimed him, Garuba told himself that like the disappearing pools, this, too, was a hallucination.

* * *

I’m dead, thought Garuba as he came to. Everywhere was dark. But then he made out the stars, twinkling in an ink-black sky, made out a jaundiced moon, and realised that he was not dead.

He was still in the desert. He sat up, nearly blacked out from the sudden movement. That was when he saw the stone basin, brimming with water. Garuba moved without thought, scrambling off the bench and towards the basin. He dipped a hand into it. The water was cool against his skin. It was real. Real.

And then he was drinking, scooping up handful after handful as he gulped. Great undead gods! Never had water tasted so sweet! He began to weep, slobbering as he drank, blessing the name of every orisha he could think of for sparing him. Garuba cupped his hands and spooned water to his lips. And, when that was not enough, dunked his head into the basin and lapped like an animal until his belly filled to where it hurt. Only then did he collapse against the stone bench, panting and slightly delirious.

That was when he saw the man.

“Ah,” said the stranger, grinning at Garuba. “Thirsty, are we?”

***

Excerpt from AT THE FOUNT OF CREATION published by Tordotcom. Copyright © 2025 by Tobi Ogundiran

Read more and buy a copy here!