I twisted on the raffia mat, my breaths sharp and uneven. The room was quiet, save for the distant chirp of night crickets and the occasional whistle of the wind slipping through the cracks in the clay walls. Sweat was glued to the linen to my skin though the night was cool.
My legs twitched violently, and my feet brushed something that felt like… stone. Cold and jagged. My eyes fluttered open—but no, this wasn't my room.
The ground beneath me was gray rock, cracked and dry like a land abandoned by rain for centuries. Confused, I sat up slowly, my hands brushing dust from my wrapper. My very heartbeat echoed in the vast emptiness surrounding me—an endless plain scattered with black stones glistening under a bruised sky.
"This isn't Uzazzu," I murmured to myself.
"We… we don't have rocks like this."
My eyes scanned the horizon—desolate, silent, untill a strange force tugged at my chest, compelling me forward. So I rose, my bare feet scraping the jagged surface, and walked. Each step seemed to echo louder than the last.
Suddenly, I heard it.
Clang!
A sharp, metallic note slicing through the silence. Then another. And another. Until it became a clatter of iron clashing against iron. Shouts. War cries. Roars of men tearing into each other like beasts.
I broke into a run, I felt like the ground was vibrating beneath my feet. The sound grew deafening, like the heart of a storm and then, I saw a cliff.
I stumbled to the edge, clutching a boulder for balance, and my breath was caught in my throat.
The world below was ablaze with chaos.
War.
An ocean of men writhed and crashed against itself, shields splintering, blades carving, bodies falling. The smell of blood surged upward in thick waves, it came choking my lungs, but I could not look away. The field was red and black, and the screams of the dying stabbed my ears.
And then—I saw them.
The Kano warriors, countless as grains of sand, surging forward in a tide of steel and rage. They were about Twenty thousand, maybe more. Their black banners split the air, and their spears glittered under the sullen light like the fangs of demons. My stomach knotted in terror.
They will crush us
My nails dug into the rock as my chest tightened.
Until movement caught my eye.
From the smoke and gore, a figure broke through—the Madawaki.
He charged like a tempest, his blade a streak of silver death. Behind him thundered the Masu Jirkin Karfe, his iron-clad warriors who moved like the wrath of gods. Heads rolled, blood spurted, and still he advanced, a lion among jackals. It looked like the battle field was his play ground and For a moment, something like hope bloomed in my chest.
I scanned the field frantically, searching for the King of Kano. My eyes darted through the frenzy until I found him—or so I thought. A tall figure in flowing royal cloth stood in the distance. I leaned forward, narrowing my eyes… then hissed.
A fake.
"They think us fools." I spat. This only confirms that the king is dead.
So my gaze swept on, searching—not for the enemy now, but for my blood, my father.
And there he was.
Riding a black stallion like a god of war, his spear flashing like lightning, cutting men down with merciless precision. Idris stormed behind him, his blade cleaving through flesh as he trampled bodies underfoot. The ground drank blood and still they fought, their roars rising like thunder.
My breath hitched. I have never seen father like this—eyes blazing, muscles coiled like serpents, his arm rising and falling with the cold certainty of death. Then he wrenched a soldier from his horse, drove a dagger deep into his throat, and let his body drop lifeless beneath the pounding hooves.
My body couldn't help but quiver. This was not the man who told me stories by the fireside. This was a storm given flesh.
Slowly, against all Odds, the Uzazzu warriors began to push the Kano tide back. Inch by inch, death for death. Victory was close enough to taste.
Until—
I saw him.
A tall, lean figure moving like shadow, his skin black as midnight, a spear in his hand that gleamed like polished brass. His steps were soundless as he rose above the chaos. Then—he threw.
The spear screamed through the air.
"Baba!" I shrieked, my voice tearing from my very soul. But he could not hear me.
The spear flew, slicing the wind—until a blur of motion collided with it.
Idris.
He soared from his horse like a bird, arms flung wide, and the spear pierced him clean through the chest. His cry ripped through the battlefield as he crashed to the ground, blood gushing like a river.
"No…"
No! Idris!" I wailed.
I clawed at the rock, desperate to climb down, to run to him but my legs would not move. The cliff chained me like an iron collar.
I watched my father wheel around, unaware of what had happened. Unaware that Idris lay broken at his feet.
Then—
A voice.
Low. Cold. Close as breath.
"Do you want to fight?"
I froze. My head whipped around in a spit second.
No one.
The voice came again, curling like smoke around my ear:
"Do you want to save your people?"
My throat felt dry. "Yes," I whispered, though fear laced my words.
"Then let me consume you."
I stumbled back, who or what is this spirit after?
Shaking my head violently, I answered "No!"
Laughter. Soft, and sharp as broken glass filled the air. Then heat rose first from my feet, crawling upward like fire-fed ants. Hands—too many hands—slid along my skin. Hot as molten rock. They gripped my waist, my hips, my ribs, branding my flesh with agony.
I screamed, tried to wrench away, but my legs sank into the stone like roots.
The hands kept on climbing, Burning hot as it inched closer to my face, then I felt breath—hot, foul—spill against my ear.
"You have made a huge mistake and soon, you will pay the consequences but still- I will take what I want," the voice growled in my ear, velvet and venom. "With or without your permission."
My vision burned white. I thrashed, clawed, writhed, but the fire was everywhere, in my blood, in my bones.
So I mustered the strength I had left in me and prepared to call on the one person I knew that could save me.
"Baba!" I cried one last time—
—and I woke.
My body jerked upright, I was drenched in sweat and my lungs kept heaving as though I'd run through the nine gates of hell. My wrapper clung to me, soaked.
The night was still. But there was no way I could stay in this room any longer.
My feet hit the floor and before I knew it, I ran out of my hut, across the compound, heart pounding like war drums—until I reached my grandmother's cottage.
I burst inside, without manners and pleasantries, shaking, tears came streaking down my face.
The old woman looked up from her mat, eyes wide with shock. "Amira—what—?"
I collapsed into her arms, clutching her like a child. My voice masked in terror as I whispered, again and again:
"Don't let him take me, Nana. Don't let him take me."