At dawn, Ayo crawls from the burned kola grove, the only man breathing.
The militia’s boots still echo in his skull.
He tastes ash, counts names like beads, feels them snap.
In the river, he washes blood from his father’s ring and hides it in his mouth.
Survival costs him speech; words would betray the living and the dead.
When the sun lifts, soldiers return, searching for witnesses.
Ayo stands, silent, eyes empty. They pass him.
Later, he plants cassava in the graves.
Roots remember.
Men forget.
He remains.
The land keeps him alive by silence.
