Mama Agba reaches into her kaftan and pulls out a sleek black rod. She gives it a sharp flick. I jump back as the rod expands into a gleaming metal staff.
“Oh my gods,” I breathe out, fighting the urge to clutch the masterpiece. Ancient symbols coat every meter of the black metal, each carving reminiscent of a lesson Mama Agba once taught. Like a bee to honey, my eyes find the akofena first, the crossed blades, the swords of war. Strength cannot always roar, she said that day. Valor does not always shine. My eyes drift to the akoma beside the swords next, the heart of patience and tolerance. On that day … I’m almost positive I got a beating that day.
Each symbol takes me back to another lesson, another story, another wisdom. I look at Mama, waiting. Is this a gift or what she’ll use to beat me?
“Here.” She places the smooth metal in my hand. Immediately, I sense its power. Iron-lined … weighted to crack skulls.
“Is this really happening?”
Mama nods. “You fought like a warrior today. You deserve to graduate.”
I rise to twirl the staff and marvel at its strength. The metal cuts through the air like a knife, more lethal than any oak staff I’ve ever carved.
“Do you remember what I told you when we first started training?”
I nod and mimic Mama Agba’s tired voice. “‘If you’re going to pick fights with the guards, you better learn how to win.’”
Though she slaps me over the head, her hearty laughter echoes against the reed walls. I hand her the staff and she rams it into the ground; the weapon collapses back into a metal rod.
“You know how to win,” she says. “Just make sure you know when to fight.”
Pride and honor and pain swirl in my chest when Mama Agba places the staff back into my palm. Not trusting myself to speak, I wrap my hands around her waist and inhale the familiar smell of freshly washed fabric and sweet tea.
Though Mama Agba stiffens at first, she holds me tight, squeezing away the pain. She pulls back to say more, but stops as the sheets of the ahéré open again.
I grab the metal rod, prepared to flick until I recognize my older brother, Tzain, standing in the entrance. The reed hut instantly shrinks in his massive presence, all muscle and strain. Tendons bulge against his dark skin. Sweat rains from his black hair down his forehead. His eyes catch mine and a sharp pressure clamps my heart.
“It’s Baba.”
CHAPTER TWO
ZéLIE
THE LAST WORDS I ever wanted to hear.
It’s Baba means it’s over.
It’s Baba means he’s hurt, or worse—
No. I stop my thoughts as we sprint across the wooden planks of the merchant quarter. He’s okay, I promise myself. Whatever it is, he’s going to live.
Ilorin rises with the sun, bringing our ocean village to life. Waves crash against the wooden pillars that keep our settlement afloat, coating our feet with mist. Like a spider caught in the web of the sea, our village sits on eight legs of lumber all connected in the center. It’s that center we run to now. That center that brings us closer to Baba.
“Watch it,” a kosidán woman yells as I sprint past, almost knocking a basket of plantain off her black hair. Maybe if she realized my world is falling apart, she’d find the heart to forgive.
“What happened?” I pant.
“I don’t know,” Tzain rushes out. “Ndulu came to agb?n practice. Said Baba was in trouble. I was headed home, but Yemi told me you had a problem with the guards?”
Oh gods, what if it’s the one from Mama Agba’s hut? Fear creeps into my consciousness as we zip through the tradeswomen and craftsmen crowding the wooden walkway. The guard who attacked me could’ve gone after Baba. And soon he’ll go after—
“Zélie!” Tzain shouts with an edge that indicates this isn’t his first attempt to grab my attention. “Why’d you leave him? It was your turn to stay!”
“Today was the graduation match! If I missed it—”
“Dammit, Zél!” Tzain’s roar makes the other villagers turn. “Are you serious? You left Baba for your stupid stick?”
“It’s not a stick, it’s a weapon,” I shoot back. “And I didn’t abandon him. Baba overslept. He needed to rest. And I’ve stayed every day this week—”
“Because I stayed every day last week!” Tzain leaps over a crawling child, muscles rippling when he lands. A kosidán girl smiles as he runs past, hoping a flirtatious wave will break his stride. Even now, villagers gravitate to Tzain like magnets finding their way home. I have no need to push others out of my way—one look at my white hair, and people avoid me like I’m an infectious plague.
“The Or?shan Games are only two moons away,” Tzain continues. “You know what winning that kind of coin could do for us? When I practice, you have to stay with Baba. What part of that’s so hard to understand? Dammit.”
Tzain skids to a stop before the floating market in the center of Ilorin. Surrounded by a rectangular walkway, the stretch of open sea swells with villagers haggling inside their round coconut boats. Before the daily trades begin, we can run across the night bridge to our home in the fishermen’s sector. But the market’s opened early and the bridge is nowhere to be seen. We’ll have to go the long way.
Ever the athlete, Tzain takes off, sprinting down the walkway surrounding the market to make it back to Baba. I begin to follow him but pause when I see the coconut boats.
Merchants and fishermen barter, trading fresh fruit for the best of that day’s catch. When times are good, the trades are kind—everyone accepts a little less to give others a little more. But today everyone bickers, demanding bronze and silver over promises and fish.
The taxes …
The wretched face of the guard fills my mind as the ghost of his grip burns my thigh. The memory of his glare propels me. I leap into the first boat.
“Zélie, watch out!” Kana cries, cradling her precious fruit. Our village gardener adjusts her headwrap and scowls as I hop onto a wooden barge teeming with blue moonfish.
“Sorry!”
I yell apology after apology, leaping from boat to boat like a red-nosed frogger. As soon as I land on the deck of the fishermen’s sector, I’m off, relishing the sensation of my feet pounding against the wooden planks. Though Tzain trails behind me, I keep going. I need to reach Baba first. If it’s bad, Tzain’ll need a warning.
If Baba’s dead …
The thought turns my legs to lead. He can’t be dead. It’s half past dawn; we need to load our boat and sail out to sea. By the time we lay out our nets, the prime catch will have passed. Who’ll scold me for that if Baba’s gone?
I picture the way he was before I left, passed out in the emptiness of our ahéré. Even asleep, he looked worn, like the longest slumber couldn’t grant him rest. I had hoped he wouldn’t wake until I returned, but I should’ve known better. In stillness, he has to deal with his pain, his regrets.
And me …
Me and my stupid mistakes.