The town of Okele sat by the Atlantic, its houses clustered on the sand, its life tied to the sea. Fishermen rose before dawn, casting their nets, singing to the tides. The sea fed them, clothed them, carried their trade. But the sea also took.
Every family had lost someone to the waves—a brother, a father, a child. The elders told a truth every child knew by heart: “The sea never forgets. And the sea never gives back.”
But sometimes, it did.
⸻
Abeni was sixteen when her father drowned. A storm had caught his canoe, shattering it against the rocks. The village mourned him, but Abeni refused to believe. Every night, she stood at the shoreline, calling his name, praying he would return.
One night, the waves answered.
At first, it was only a song, faint, weaving through the crash of water. It was his voice—her father’s—singing the lullaby he once hummed when she was a child. Her chest broke with hope. She ran into the water, calling, “Papa! Papa!”
And then she saw him.
He stood waist-deep in the tide, his clothes soaked, his skin pale, his eyes glistening like fish scales. He smiled, lips stretched too wide, teeth too sharp.
“My daughter,” he whispered, though his mouth barely moved.
Abeni rushed forward, tears streaming. But as the waves broke, she saw others behind him. Dozens of them, half-hidden by foam. Men, women, children—all with pale skin, hollow eyes, and mouths stretched in eerie smiles.
They began to sing.
The song was beautiful, haunting. It wrapped around her heart, tugged at her soul. Her father held out his hand. “Come, Abeni. Join us. The sea keeps us. We are never hungry. Never tired. Never gone.”
She froze. Something inside her screamed to run.
But the song was too sweet. Too heavy. Her legs moved without her will.
⸻
She would have walked into the waves if not for her grandmother, who had followed quietly. The old woman grabbed Abeni’s arm, yanking her back. “Don’t look at him!” she cried. “That is not your father!”
Abeni sobbed. “But he—”
“Listen!” Her grandmother’s grip was iron. “The drowned sing to lure the living. Once you touch them, you never return. They are not our kin. They are the sea’s.”
The figures in the water watched silently now, their smiles fading. The song died. Slowly, they sank beneath the waves, one by one, until only ripples remained.
Her father’s face was the last to vanish.
⸻
For weeks, Abeni could not sleep. The lullaby echoed in her dreams. She swore she heard knocking at the window, water dripping on her floor. Sometimes, she woke to wet footprints trailing across the room.
The elders shook their heads gravely. “Once the drowned have sung to you, they do not forget. They will call again.”
And they did.
⸻
The second time was worse.
It was midnight when the song rose again, louder, clearer, filling every corner of the hut. Abeni’s grandmother slept heavily, unable to hear. Abeni covered her ears, weeping, but the song seeped into her bones.
She stumbled outside.
The shoreline was full of figures. Hundreds of them, standing in the shallows. All pale, all smiling, their hollow eyes fixed on her. They sang together, a choir of sorrow and sweetness. The sound pressed on her chest like waves.
Her father stepped forward again, hand outstretched. “Daughter. Don’t leave me alone. Come.”
Abeni’s feet moved. She fought them, digging her nails into her arms, but the tide pulled her closer.
Suddenly, a drumbeat thundered behind her. Then another. Then dozens. She turned to see the elders gathered, pounding sacred drums, chanting prayers older than memory.
The drowned screamed. Their song cracked, splintered. They writhed in the water, faces twisted. One by one, they vanished beneath the waves, dragged down by unseen hands.
Abeni collapsed on the sand, gasping.
⸻
The next day, the chief gathered the village. His face was stern. “The drowned grow stronger. They rise not once a year, but many times. They want our young, our strong. We must not go to the sea after dark. We must not answer their song.”
The people murmured agreement. But fear lingered in their eyes.
For nights afterward, the drowned returned, standing silently in the surf, watching. The drumming kept them at bay. But everyone knew the truth—the sea was patient. The drowned were patient.
And one day, when the drumming faltered, the singing would begin again.
⸻
Now, mothers still warn their children in Okele:
“If you hear your father’s voice in the waves, do not answer. If you see your mother smiling from the sea, do not follow. The drowned who sing are not your kin. They are the sea’s children now.”
And sometimes, when the wind is still and the tide low, you can hear them—soft, sweet voices weaving through the surf, calling, calling, calling.
