Disclaimer

The Oracle of Black Moon is a work of speculative fiction inspired by African diasporic, Bakongo, and other global mythologies, histories, and spiritual traditions. It does not claim to represent any one culture, lineage, or religion with documentary accuracy, and should not be used as a substitute for lived community knowledge, historical research, or spiritual guidance. All characters, visions, and cosmologies in this project are creative interpretations. 

Episode 1

Scene 1: Nyla Arrives

Location: Kinshasa, DRC - Luloki S. Nsimba S.T.E.A.M. Center

It was supposed to be a normal day, just another S.T.E.A.M. center opening. Rain hammered the building’s roof, rattled the windowpanes, and slid down stone and glass like the sky was trying to wash the city clean. Inside, the back resting room had become a makeshift birthing room, a warm, small world of candlelight and breath—Rochelle’s breath, ragged and determined, and Marquis’s, steady as he whispered promises against her damp hair. The midwife slipped in with more towels.

Near the window, between wall and glass, a quick altar had been built. A bowl of river water shivered with every thunderclap. Yemọja and Ogun were listening, and so were the ancestors.

Rochelle looked up toward the glass ceiling. Right before the lightning struck, she saw the most beautiful sight and heard drums. In the clouds she could see an image of her child—older, standing, already alive in some future she hadn’t reached yet. She heard whispers in a language older than time, and then the next wave of pain shot through her.

Marquis grabbed her hand, whispering prayer in between encouragement.

“You got this, honey. I’m right here,” he said. “You’re doing amazing. Come on, one more breath.” His fingers were locked with Rochelle’s, knuckles pale under rich dark brown skin. “Just one more, and she’ll be here. You’re almost there.”

She wanted to curse him. She wanted to curse every man who had ever put a crown on a girl’s head and called it protection. But when the next wave of pain broke through her, she used the breath and the squeeze of Marquis’s hand for pushing instead.

The whispers turned into hums that vibrated through her whole body. Marquis felt a warm energy wrap around him, like someone else had put their hands over his.

They heard the cry a heartbeat later. High, sharp, furious—loud enough to crack a few windows.

The midwife laughed, shaky with relief, and laid a damp, squirming weight on Rochelle’s chest. The child’s eyes opened too soon—dark, wide, too knowing, as if they had arrived remembering something the body wasn’t old enough to carry yet.

Tears blurred Rochelle’s vision. “Nyla,” she whispered. The name had lived in her mouth for months, but saying it now felt like finishing a spell. “My Nyla.”

Rochelle felt warmth settle on her shoulder, the weight of a hand she knew. Ki,  she thought. You’re here.

Marquis pressed his forehead to Rochelle’s, his shoulders shaking with a quiet sob.

“You did it,” he breathed. “You and every woman who ever brought a child into a world that didn’t deserve them.”

They both heard the drums playing low now, like the sky was singing beneath the thunder, as they stared down at their new miracle.

Scene 2: Adonis enters.

A soft knock sounded against the heavy door.

The midwife glanced at Rochelle. Then at Marquis.

Marquis looked at his wife. Just for a breath, he hesitated.

Then he nodded. “Let him in.”

The door opened.

Hallway light spilled in, thin and gold, framing a slim silhouette in the doorway. A boy, maybe ten, maybe eleven. Straight posture. Empty hands. Careful eyes.

Rochelle could feel him before she could fully see him.

“Adonis,” Marquis said, his voice gentler than it had been all night. “Come closer. Meet your sister.”

Adonis stepped inside, but only just.

He stayed near the threshold, like the whole kingdom was balanced between the doorframe and the bed. Candlelight brushed his face, catching the curve of his cheek and the tight line of his mouth. He looked like he was holding something deep in his chest, something too big to say out loud.

Then he looked at Nyla.

Everything else fell away.

The storm. The altar. Rochelle’s pain. Marquis’s silence. All of it blurred at the edges.

Adonis’s breath caught.

“She’s beautiful,” he said, his voice shaking as he looked down at his sister’s soul.

The words came out soft and broken, full of awe.

Nyla’s tiny fingers flexed in the air.

Adonis’s hand moved before he could think. Their skin touched.

He closed his eyes for a second, like he had just been holding his breath for years and finally let it go.

Nyla stared up at him.

Then her face changed.

Her eyes lit with recognition, and a smile broke across her face like sunrise. Her little arms reached toward her brother.

A tear slipped down Adonis’s cheek.

He looked up fast, blinking through it, from Rochelle to Marquis and back again, like he needed both of them to understand what this meant.

“Could I hold her?” he asked.

Rochelle and Marquis answered at the same time. “Of course, sweetie.”

Rochelle handed the baby over without hesitation.

Adonis cradled Nyla carefully, one arm under her body, the other hand resting gently over her tiny fingers. He held her like something sacred.

“I’m here,” he whispered. “I’m going to protect you. I’ll tell you silly stories. I’ll make you laugh when the world gets too loud.”

His voice cracked.

“I always wanted a sibling.”

The tears came then.

Adonis didn’t even seem to notice until Marquis reached out and wiped one from his cheek.

“She’ll know you,” Marquis said.

He squeezed Adonis’s shoulder, steady and certain.

Adonis looked down at Nyla, then back at his father. At Rochelle. At the room that had just changed his life.

“Thank you,” he said.

Outside, the storm began to ease.

The clouds softened. The drums in Rochelle’s mind stayed low and warm, like the ancestors were humming approval into the room.

And Rochelle knew, even before anyone said it, that this child—this hidden boy with the brave heart—would love Nyla with everything he had.

Scene 3: timeskip: Nyla runs into Adonis 

Years folded into each other like river waves.

Kinshasa’s streets stayed loud and bright, the palace stayed full of arguments and laughter, and Nyla learned to walk, then run, then climb where she wasn’t supposed to.

On a late afternoon, she tore down the corridor with a carved wooden bird in hand—Oshun’s newest “agent animal” recruit—feet slapping tile, breath easy, heart wide open. She had snuck out of the palace and ditched the guard moments ago.

She turned a corner too fast and crashed into someone solid.

Strong hands caught Nyla under the arms before she hit the floor.

“Easy,” a familiar voice said.

Nyla blinked up, and this time, there was no shadow to hide in. Adonis had grown taller, his face sharper, a faint scar at his jaw from some training he hadn’t been supposed to do. His eyes were still soft when they looked at Nyla, but under the softness was something sharp and awake, like he was always holding a map of danger in his head.

“You’re fast,” he said, setting her gently back on her feet. “Some governments would call that a threat.”

Nyla frowned, then grinned. “Oshun says I’m a storm,” she declared. “Mama says I’m sweet. Papa says I’m a riot. What do you say?”

Adonis huffed a quiet laugh. “I say you’re mine to protect,” he answered.

He didn’t say it like a claim. He said it like a vow.

Nyla felt something there, like an unspoken connection or link between them.

Footsteps echoed in the corridor.

Oshun’s voice followed a moment later. “Ny, we have to go!”

Oshun appeared, tugging Nyla’s arm. Adonis smirked, half‑playful, half ready to scold.

“Oh yeah, you two better get going before they notice the princess and her friend are loose,” he said. “I’ll see you later.”

Nyla gave him a goofy, puzzled look, but nodded and let Oshun pull her away.

As Nyla darted off, chasing Oshun’s voice down the narrow alleyway outside the palace walls, Adonis turned toward the city. Beyond the gates, Kinshasa hummed and breathed, but he knew that across the water and overseas, men in crisp suits were trying to write laws around children like Nyla—around whole countries, rivers, and histories they did not understand.

Adonis knew, even at his age, that what they were doing was wrong.

He was already making plans to prove it.

But for tonight, protecting Nyla’s laughter was step one. He would do damn near anything to protect that.

His love for his sister was the love of a jaguar guarding a cub.

They didn’t yet know how many lives they had already chosen each other in, how many times they’d found their way back to this same familiar love.

Outside the kingdom of Kongo, in the Western world and Amerikkka, Adonis did not exist in any public record.

But here, in the shadows and light of this life, he was Nyla’s brother. 

Creator’s Note:

Thank you for starting The Oracle of Black Moon with me. This story is rooted in African diasporic, Bakongo, and other global myth traditions, mixed with my own speculative “what ifs” about family, revolution, and spirit. It’s inspired by real histories and practices, but it isn’t a textbook or a “how‑to” guide—just one person’s way of imagining what it looks like when ancestors, gods, and children all insist on surviving together.

Nyla and Adonis sit at the heart of this story: a child the world will try to weaponize, and a brother the world pretends doesn’t exist. Their parents, their spirits, and their ancestors are all trying to build something safer in systems that keep saying “no.” This is a Black, queer, spiritually rooted story about the kind of love that refuses to disappear, even when governments and empires are invested in erasing it.

If you see yourself or your people in any part of this, I’m honored you’re here. Thank you for reading Episode 1—there’s a lot more storm and sweetness ahead.