The Talking River at Volta

The Journey to Anum

The journey to Anum was long, the kind that left dust in your throat and made you question why you ever left the comfort of the city. Kwame sat by the window, watching the landscape change as the bus rattled along. The further they traveled, the more Accra’s towering buildings gave way to vast stretches of greenery, the scent of wet earth mixing with the distant aroma of roasted plantains from roadside vendors.

Every so often, the driver would stop to let people on and off—women balancing baskets of fruit on their heads, children clinging to their mothers, and men carrying sacks of goods. Kwame noted the way they spoke in hushed tones whenever someone mentioned the river. Even in passing, it held a certain weight in their conversations.

By the time they arrived in Anum, the sun was beginning to dip below the horizon. The village was small but alive with the sound of distant drums, a celebration taking place somewhere nearby. Kwame stepped off the bus and adjusted his camera strap. He had been told to find an old fisherman named Nana Kofi, a man who, according to the letter, knew more about the Talking River than anyone else.

He found Nana Kofi sitting on the edge of the wooden pier, his fishing net sprawled across his lap. His skin was the color of aged mahogany, his eyes sharp despite his years. When he spoke, his voice was deep and steady, like the river itself.

“You’ve come for the story,” Nana Kofi said, without turning to look at him.

Kwame hesitated before answering. “I’ve come for the truth.”

The old man chuckled, shaking his head. “The river does not give up its truth so easily. But if you wish to listen, follow me.”

Whispers in the Water

That night, Nana Kofi led Kwame to the banks of the Volta River. The moon hung low, casting a silver path across the water’s surface. The village behind them had grown quiet, save for the occasional crackle of a distant fire.

“This is where it happens,” Nana Kofi said, his gaze fixed on the water.

Kwame set up his recording equipment, his skepticism still lingering. “And what exactly am I supposed to hear?”

Nana Kofi didn’t answer. Instead, he dipped his hand into the water, murmuring something under his breath in a language Kwame didn’t recognize. The river lapped against the shore in response.

At first, there was nothing. Just the sound of the wind through the trees, the distant hoot of an owl.

Then, the whisper came.

Soft at first, barely more than a breath. A sound that seemed to come from everywhere and nowhere at once. Kwame held his breath, straining to make out the words.

“…Leave this place…”

His stomach tightened. He turned to Nana Kofi, expecting an explanation, but the old man only nodded.

“You hear it now,” he said.

Kwame swallowed hard. His rational mind told him there had to be an explanation—wind through the reeds, the echo of distant voices. And yet, deep in his gut, he knew. This was something else.

Something ancient.

The River Remembers

Determined to find answers, Kwame spent the next few days speaking with the villagers. Some refused to talk about it, shaking their heads and muttering prayers under their breath. Others shared fragments of an old story—the legend of a chief who had been betrayed and drowned in the river centuries ago. It was said that his spirit never left, warning those who came too close.

“The river remembers,” Maame Esi, an elderly woman, told him one afternoon. She sat outside her mud-brick home, peeling cassava with slow, deliberate movements. “It does not forget those who have wronged it.”

“But what does it want?” Kwame pressed.

Maame Esi looked up, her eyes cloudy with age but sharp with knowing. “Perhaps it wants justice. Or perhaps it simply wants to be heard.”

That night, Kwame returned to the river, this time alone. He sat on the shore, listening. The whispers came again, stronger now. But this time, there was something else beneath them.

A presence.

He could feel it, heavy in the air, pressing against his skin like the weight of water.

And then, for the briefest moment, he saw something move beneath the surface.

Not a fish. Not a ripple.

Something much, much bigger.

The Depths Hold Secrets

Kwame knew he had to go deeper—literally. With the help of some local divers, he prepared to explore the riverbed. He had expected murky waters and forgotten relics, but he hadn’t expected what he found.

At the bottom of the river, covered in centuries of sediment and moss, was what looked like the ruins of an ancient palace. Carvings lined the stone walls, barely visible in the dim light. Symbols that spoke of a forgotten kingdom, of a ruler lost to the depths.

And then, in the darkness, shadows moved.

Figures that looked human but were not.

One of the divers panicked, gesturing frantically for them to ascend. As they reached the surface, the whispers filled the air again—louder, angrier.

“You should not have come…”

Kwame gasped for breath, his heart hammering. He had come looking for a legend.

Instead, he had found a truth far older than he could have imagined.

The River’s Final Warning

The next morning, Kwame packed his bags. He had gathered his evidence, taken his photos, recorded the whispers. He had everything he needed to publish his story.

But as he stood at the edge of the river one last time, Nana Kofi appeared beside him.

“The river does not like to be disturbed,” the old man said quietly.

Kwame hesitated. “Do you think it will ever stop?”

Nana Kofi shook his head. “No. The river remembers. And some memories do not fade.”

As Kwame boarded the bus back to Accra, the whispers of the Volta River followed him. Not in his recordings.

But in his mind.

Because once you hear the river speak, you never forget.

And neither does it.

The End.