Things started to shift in the morning of Izu’s 18th birthday, when he found the letter at the foot of his bed, folded so precisely that he thought, for a moment, that it could not possibly be meant for him. The room was still dark, the curtains drawn, but the faint white glow of the letter made it impossible to ignore. He stared at it, fingers twitching at his sides, and the stillness of the house made him wonder if the others had already found theirs too. The hallway outside his door was silent, thick with the kind of quiet that came after a storm, the kind that sat heavy on the chest, pressing down, refusing to let go. He reached for the letter slowly, his hands stiff, the morning air suddenly colder than it had been the night before. His name was printed neatly at the top, followed by the date and the words he had known he would receive one day but had never truly imagined seeing in front of him.

Report to the Bureau of Transitions by midday. The Forgetting begins immediately.

Izu sat up, the mattress sinking beneath his weight, and he remained motionless for quite some time. The words on the paper blurred as he read them over and over, his mind attempting to comprehend them in a way that made them seem less final, less real. He had witnessed this before—his older brother, Ahanna, had gone through it three years before, as did his cousin Ifediora, his mother, father, neighbours, and teachers. At the age of eighteen, every citizen forgot. It was not a choice. It was not something to question. The Bureau ensured a smooth transition, removing the burdens of the bloom, wiping away the fragile, superfluous weight of memories, so that the eclipse could be entered with clarity, direction, and purpose. There was no grief for the past, no lingering in what was. That was the way things had always been.  

He could still remember the day Ahanna returned from the Bureau, looking almost the same and yet completely different. His face was smooth, his eyes clear, but there was something missing, something that had made him Ahanna before, something Izu could not quite name. Their mother had smiled, pressing a firm hand to Ahanna’s back as if reassuring herself that he was still solid, still real, but the house had felt colder that night, the air thinner. They had sat at the dinner table as usual, eating in near silence, and when Izu asked if Ahanna still remembered the tree they used to climb in the neighbor’s yard, the way they had once fallen into the muddy ditch behind the house and laughed until their stomachs hurt, his brother had only blinked, a slow, patient blink, before saying, in the calm, steady voice of someone who has truly outgrown the bloom, “That must have been nice.” He had smiled, but it was not the same. It had been a polite, distant kind of smile, the kind reserved for strangers.

Izu brushed his fingers against the letter's edge, crumpling it slightly before smoothing it again. He hadn't gotten out of bed, opened the curtains, or stepped out into the hallway to see if his parents were awake, if they were waiting, and if they had already started preparing him for what was to come. He remembered his mother's hands, the way she had grasped Ahanna's shoulders when he returned, the way she had searched his face, as if looking for something missing. He remembered his father's silence, and how he had simply nodded once before turning back to his bulletin, his expression unreadable. They'd all gone through it, accepted it, and so would he. That was the only way.

As he stood up, the floor was cold beneath his feet, and the rigidity in his body made him feel older than he was. He walked to the door, paused, and then pulled it open. The hallway stretched out in front of him, calm and dim in the early morning light, the air carrying the faintest touch of something unusual, which he could not name. He passed Ahanna's old room, which was now vacant and stripped of anything that might have hinted at a memory he no longer remembered, and made his way to the dining table.

At the dining table, his parents sat at their usual positions, his father reading the day's bulletin and his mother placing a steaming plate of yam and eggs in front of him. Before she sat down, she set a small cake in the center of the table, a single candle flickering weakly atop the pale icing. She smiled, but it was small, strained, with the corners of her mouth trembling as though she wanted to say something else, something important, but the words couldn't get past her throat. His father did not look up. "You have a long day ahead," his mother said softly, her voice too light, too even. She had prepared his favourite meal, but the food tasted like dust in his mouth, and his throat felt too tight to swallow. They did not speak of what would happen that afternoon. They never did. The Forgetting was a transition, a need that had to be borne without question. He forced himself to eat, chewing slowly, feeling his mother's gaze linger on him longer than usual, and just when he thought she would finally look away, she exhaled and said, almost as an afterthought, “Blow the candle, make a wish”

************************************

The Bureau was only a short walk from the house, its sleek white walls rising high above the streets, its entrance marked by a single silver door that did not open until you were close enough for it to detect your presence. Izu's feet felt heavier the closer he got, his breath thinning and his fingers clenching into fists. He thought of all the stories that must have lived inside him, all the things he had never written down, all the minor nuances that would be forgotten in a matter of hours. He thought of the way his mother had looked at Ahanna, the sadness in her eyes even as she smiled. And then, unbidden, he heard her voice again- soft, cautious, as if scared of breaking something fragile. “Blow the candle, make a wish”. He hadn't said anything then- it was after all  a wish. How grateful he was for that unspoken pattern, that quiet permission to keep his wishes locked inside himself where they couldn't be taken. And in that moment before the flame went out, he wished, that somehow, in some forgotten corner of himself,  a piece of him would remain. 

Inside, the waiting room was filled with people like him, letters neatly folded on their laps, eyes forward, and expressions carefully blank. No one spoke. No one fidgeted. They had all accepted it. That was the way it worked. To resist was foolish. To question was dangerous. The officials clad in white apparels moved around with an air of quietness, calling out names one by one, leading the chosen through a set of thick doors that never opened again until the forgetting was complete. And when they called his name, Izu rose on unsteady legs, moving toward the door that would lead him into the forgetting.

When he entered the room, he was overwhelmed by a sense of agoraphobia as the stark white walls seemed to stretch endlessly around him. At the center of the space sat a single iron chair, its rigid frame looking as though it would be painful to sit on.

Surprisingly, the chair was softer than he had anticipated. A layer of soft mesh covered the iron frame, offering an unexpected comfort as he settled in. For the first time, he allowed himself a small smile, thinking, “Never judge a book by its cover”. The straps, though secure, did not bite into his skin—they were firm but not unkind. The technician- calm, expressionless- adjusted a monitor, glancing at him only once before pressing a chilly hand to his forehead. And though her hand felt chilly, sweat still beaded on his forehead, as the weight of the inevitable pressed down on him. Then she said, “Relax, this will be quick”. 

Izu closed his eyes.

And then—

There was nothing.

The Forgetting was complete.

Please stay tuned for the part 2!