“Just do better,” Tzain sighs. “Please. Baba won’t survive if he loses you.… I won’t, either.”
I try to ignore the tightness in my chest. “I’m sorry,” I whisper. “I’ll do better. I promise.”
“Good.” Tzain pastes a smile on his face and ruffles my hair. “Enough of this. Go sell the hell out of that fish.”
I laugh and readjust the straps on my pack. “How much do you think I can get?”
“Two hundred.”
“That’s it?” I cock my head. “You really think that lowly of me?”
“That’s crazy coin, Zél!”
“I bet you I can get more.”
Tzain’s smile widens, gleaming with the shine of a good bet. “Get above two hundred and I’ll stay home with Baba next week.”
“Oh, you’re on.” I grin, already picturing my rematch with Yemi. Let’s see how she does against my new staff.
I rush forward, ready to make the trade, but when I reach the checkpoint, my stomach churns at the sight of the royal guards. It’s all I can do to keep my body still as I slide my collapsible staff into the waistband of my draped pants.
“Name?” a tall guard barks, keeping his eyes on his ledger. His dark curls fuzz in the heat, collecting the sweat dripping down his cheeks.
“Zélie Adebola,” I answer with as much respect as I can muster. No screwups. I swallow hard. At least, no more today.
The guard barely spares me a glance before writing the information down. “Origin?”
“Ilorin.”
“Ilorin?”
Short and stout, another guard wobbles as he approaches, using the giant wall to keep himself upright. The pungent smell of alcohol wafts into the air with his unwelcome presence.
“Wha’sa maggot like you doin’ s’far from ’ome?”
His words slur just before incomprehension, dripping from his mouth like the spittle on his chin. My chest clenches as he nears; the drunken glaze in his eyes turns dangerous.
“Purpose of visit?” the tall, thankfully sober guard asks.
“Trading.”
At this, a disgusting smile crawls onto the drunk guard’s face. He reaches for my wrist, but I back away and raise the wrapped package.
“Trading fish,” I clarify, but despite my words, he lunges forward. I grunt as he wraps his pudgy hands around my neck and presses me against the wooden wall. He leans in so close I can count the black and yellow stains on his teeth.
“I can see why you’re sellin’ the fish.” He laughs. “What’s the goin’ rate for a maggot these days, Kayin? Two bronze pieces?”
My skin crawls and my fingers itch for my hidden staff. It’s against the law for maji and kosidán to so much as kiss after the Raid, but it doesn’t keep the guards from pawing at us like animals.
My anger twists into a black rage, a darkness I sensed in Mama whenever the guards dared to get in her way. With its rush, I want to shove him back and snap each of the soldier’s fat fingers. But with my rage comes Tzain’s concern. Baba’s heartache. Mama Agba’s scolding.
Think, Zélie. Think of Baba. Think of Tzain. I promised not to mess this up. I can’t let them down now.
I repeat this again and again until the brute unhands me. He laughs to himself before taking another swig from his bottle, proud. At ease.
I turn toward the other guard, unable to hide the hatred in my eyes. I don’t know who I despise more—the drunk for touching me or this bastard for letting it occur.
“Any other questions?” I ask through my teeth.
The guard shakes his head.
I move through the gate with the speed of a cheetanaire before either can change his mind. But it only takes a few steps away from the gates before the frenzy of Lagos makes me want to run back outside.
“My gods,” I breathe, overwhelmed by the sheer number of people. Villagers, merchants, guards, and nobles fill the wide dirt roads, each moving with precision and purpose.
In the distance, the royal palace looms—its pristine white walls and gilded arches gleam in the sun. Its presence is a stark contrast to the slums lining the city’s fringe.
I marvel at the rustic dwellings, breath catching at the towering shacks. Like a vertical labyrinth, the shanties sit atop one another, each starting where another stops. Though many are brown and fading, others shine with bright paints and colorful art. The vibrant protest defies the title of slum, an ember of beauty where the monarchy sees none.
With tentative steps, I begin walking toward the city center. As I pass the slums, I notice the vast majority of the div?ners roaming its streets aren’t much older than me. In Lagos, it’s almost impossible for any div?ner children who lived through the Raid to reach adulthood without being thrown in prison or getting forced into the stocks.
“Please. I didn’t mean to—agh!” A sharp cry rings out.
I jump as a stocker’s cane strikes down in front of me. It cuts through the flesh of a young div?ner, leaving bloodstains on the last clean clothes the boy will ever wear. The child falls into a pile of broken ceramics, shattered tiles his thin arms probably couldn’t hold. The stocker raises his cane again, and this time I catch the gleam of its black majacite shaft.
Gods. The acrid smell of burning flesh hits me as the stocker presses the cane into the boy’s back. Smoke rises from his skin as he struggles to crawl to his knees. The vicious sight makes my fingers numb, reminding me of my own potential fate in the stocks.
Come on. I force myself forward though my heart sinks. Move or that’ll be you.
I rush toward the center of Lagos, doing my best to ignore the smell of sewage leaking from the slum streets. When I enter the pastel-colored buildings of the merchant quarter, the odor shifts to sweet bread and cinnamon, making my stomach growl. I brace myself for the barter as the central exchange hums with the sounds of endless trading. But when the bazaar comes into view, I’m forced to stop in my tracks.
No matter how often I trade big catch here with Baba, the madness of the central market never ceases to amaze me. More tumultuous than the streets of Lagos, the bazaar is alive with every Or?shan good imaginable. In one row alone, grains from the vast fields of Minna sit alongside coveted ironworks from the factories of Gombe. I walk through the crowded booths, enjoying the sweet smell of fried plantain.
With ears perked, I try to catch the pattern of the barter, the speed of every trade. Everyone fights, using words as knives. It’s more cutthroat than the market of Ilorin. Here there’s no compromise; only business.
I pass wooden stalls of cheetanaire cubs, smiling at each tiny horn that protrudes from their foreheads. I have to wade past carts of patterned textiles before finally reaching the fish exchange.
“Forty bronze pieces—”
“For a tigerfish?”
“I won’t pay a piece above thirty!”
The shouts of hagglers at work ring so loud I can barely hear myself think. This isn’t the floating market of Ilorin. A regular barter won’t work. I bite the inside of my cheek, surveying the crowd. I need a mark. A fool, some—