The world, for Nawi, began each morning not with light, but with sound. It was a low, resonant thrum that started deep in the earth, a vibration that travelled up through the packed-mud floor of her family's hut, through the woven raffia mat she slept on, and into the very marrow of her bones. It was the sound of her mother, Ama, pounding yam for the morning meal. Thump… thump… thump… a steady, rhythmic heartbeat for their small, sun-baked corner of the world, the village of Keti.
Nawi lay still for a long moment, her eyes closed, letting the sound wash over her. She could smell the dust motes dancing in the slivers of dawn light that pierced the hut's walls, a fine, dry scent that was as familiar as her own skin. Beneath that was the richer, earthier aroma of the yam itself, and the smoky ghost of last night's cooking fire. She stretched, her muscles protesting the previous day's labour, the pleasant ache of a body used to honest work. Her toes brushed against the smooth, cool clay of the water pot beside her mat.
"Nawi." Her mother's voice, rough with sleep and woodsmoke, cut through the rhythmic pounding. "The sun is stretching its fingers. The water pot is not going to fill itself."
Nawi opened her eyes. The hut was a cocoon of soft shadows and golden light. Through the open doorway, she could see a slice of the compound yard, painted in the fierce, liquid orange of the rising sun. "I am coming, Mama," she called back, her voice still thick with dreams.
She rose, her simple cotton shift clinging to her in the already oppressive humidity. The air was thick and sweet, heavy with the scent of blooming frangipani from the bush by the compound wall and the pungent, familiar odour of the goats stirring in their pen. She could hear the irritable bleating of the nanny goat, Ewe, and the skittering of her two kids. Her little sister, Binta, was still a small, curled mound on her own mat, her breathing a soft, steady whisper.
Nawi picked up the large, rounded water pot, balancing its familiar, gritty weight on her hip. She stepped out of the hut and into the full force of the morning.
The village of Keti was a palette of ochre, umber, and vibrant green, slowly igniting under the Harvest Sun—the name her people gave to this particular time of year when the sun seemed to hang heavier, richer, in the sky, ripening the millet and sorghum in the fields. The compound walls, made of reddish-brown mud, glowed as if lit from within. Thatched roofs, like old, shaggy fur, steamed slightly as the sun drank the night's dew. From the central cooking area, the scent of Ama's fire now grew sharper, tinged with the peppery aroma of ground melon seeds for the soup.
"Do not dawdle at the stream, looking for foolishness," Ama said without turning, her powerful arms never breaking rhythm with the long wooden pestle. Thump. "Your father and the others will be back from the trapping lines soon, and they will be hungry." Thump.
"I do not dawdle," Nawi retorted, a familiar edge of defiance in her tone. "I observe."
Ama finally paused, turning to look at her eldest daughter. Her face, handsome and lined from sun and worry, was sceptical. "You observe the way the dragonflies court. You observe the patterns the water spiders make. This is not putting water in the pot."
"The world is more than a pot to be filled, Mama," Nawi said, the words out of her mouth before she could stop them. It was an old argument, a worn path between them.
Ama's eyes, the colour of dark, rich soil, narrowed. "The world is a pot, a field, a meal, a roof. It is these things that keep your sister's belly full and the rain off her head. Your head is too often in the clouds, Nawi. The clouds do not yield cassava."
Nawi bit her tongue, the sharp reply dying there. Arguing was like trying to pound water; it only made a mess. She loved her mother's strength, the unyielding certainty with which she met the world, but she feared its limits. Ama's world was the compound, the fields, the market. Nawi felt the pull of things beyond—the whisper of the wind from the north, the stories carried by traders from the coast, the vast, unknowable mystery of the forest that hugged their village like a dark green cloak.
Without another word, she turned and walked through the compound's low gateway, the rough-hewn wood of the gate scraping against her shoulder.
The path to the stream was a dusty ribbon worn smooth by generations of bare feet. It wound between other family compounds, each a hive of similar morning activity. The air was a symphony of village life. She heard the cluck and scratch of chickens, the laughter of children already chasing a wooden hoop, the rhythmic scrape-scrape-scrape of Mrs. Adjo next door grinding cassava with a stone, and the distant, melodic call of a wood-carver singing an old tune to his work. The smells layered upon each other—woodsmoke, frying plantain, the sharp tang of fermenting palm wine, the dusky scent of red earth.
As she walked, her observant eyes, the ones her mother chided, took in everything. She saw the way the light caught the intricate web of a golden orb-weaver, strung with dewdrops like a necklace of pearls. She noted the frantic, determined march of a line of ants carrying a crumb twice the size of any one of them. She saw the faint, almost invisible track of a small rodent leading into the tall grass. This was her true language, this reading of the world's subtle text.
"Nawi! Wait!"
She turned to see her friend, Sefu, jogging to catch up, his own water pot balanced precariously on his head. He was a year older, with a lanky frame that was just beginning to fill out with muscle, and a smile that was too quick and too bright for the early hour.
"I thought I would find you," he said, falling into step beside her. "My mother said if I did not return with water before the sun burned the sleep from the sky, she would use my hide to mend the fishing nets."
Nawi smiled despite herself. "Then you should run ahead. You know I do not hurry for the stream. It is the only quiet place."
"Quiet?" Sefu laughed. "With the frogs and the birds and old man Kofi complaining about his aches? It is quieter in the market square at noon."
"It is a different kind of quiet," she insisted, though she knew he wouldn't understand. Sefu's mind was on practical things: the best way to set a fish trap, the strength of a new bowstring, the fleetness of his legs. He was solid and real, like the earth beneath her feet, and sometimes she envied him that simple certainty.
They reached the stream, a clear, chattering ribbon of water that cut through a grove of thick, ancient iroko trees. The air was instantly cooler here, smelling of wet stone, damp clay, and the deep, fungal scent of decaying leaves. Sunlight dappled through the thick canopy, painting shifting coins of gold on the dark, pebbled streambed. Dragonflies, like shards of polished sapphire and emerald, darted and hovered over the water's surface.
Nawi knelt on the smooth, flat stone that was her usual spot, the coolness of the rock a relief against her knees. She dipped her pot into the water, watching the current swirl and eddy around it, feeling the pull of the stream against her arms. This was her sanctuary. Here, the thumping of yam and her mother's admonishments faded, replaced by the gurgle of the water and the whisper of the leaves.
Sefu, having filled his pot with efficient speed, sat on a nearby root, trailing his fingers in the water. "My father returned from the coast last night," he said, his voice dropping to a more conspiratorial tone.
Nawi looked up, her interest piqued. Sefu's father was a trader. His journeys took him to places she could only imagine—the great port city of Whydah, with its tall ships and men from across the sea, the court of the Oba in his palace.
"What did he say?" she asked, her voice barely above the stream's murmur.
"He said the talk is all of war. The Kingdom of Dahomey grows hungrier. Their raids push further south." Sefu's usual brightness was gone, replaced by a sombre shadow. "He spoke of the King's warriors. The ones they call the 'Agojie'."
The word hung in the cool, damp air between them, laden with a power Nawi did not fully understand. Agojie. It was a name spoken in hushed tones, a rumour given shape. She had heard it before, in the fearful mutterings of the elders, in the warnings mothers gave to disobedient children.
"The women who are more than women," Nawi whispered, the skin on her arms prickling. "The ones who fight like men."
Sefu nodded, his eyes wide. "My father said they are not like other people. They are forged in fire and fed on lion's heart. They move through the forest without sound, and their machetes are so sharp they can slice a man in two before he can draw breath to scream. He said their leader, the one they call the 'Lioness of Dahomey', can smell fear on the wind."
A shiver, cold and entirely separate from the stream's chill, traced its way down Nawi's spine. She tried to picture them—these warrior women. In her mind, they were towering figures, their skin painted with terrifying symbols, their eyes burning with a feral light. They were creatures of myth, not flesh and blood.
"Why would they come here?" she asked, a defensive stubbornness rising in her. "Keti is small. We have nothing they would want. Our yams are for our bellies, our goats for our milk."
"It is not about what we have," a new, gravelly voice interjected. "It is about who we are."
They both started, turning to see old man Kofi emerging from the path. He was the village elder, his back bent like a weathered bow, his face a roadmap of deep wrinkles. He leaned on a gnarled stick, his water pot looking impossibly heavy in his thin, bony hand. His eyes, however, were as sharp and knowing as a hawk's.
"The Kingdom of Dahomey does not just take things, children," he said, his voice like the rustle of dry leaves. "It takes people. To build its army, to work its fields, to offer to its gods. Their power is fed by the strength of others. The Agojie are their hunters. The sharpest teeth of the leopard."
He knelt stiffly by the water, groaning as his joints protested. "Your father is right to be cautious, Sefu. The wind carries strange scents these days. It is good for the young to be watchful."
Nawi watched the old man, her earlier fear hardening into a knot of rebellion in her stomach. "But we are not weak. My father and the other men are strong hunters. We have our own machetes, our own bows."
Old Kofi looked at her, a strange, almost pitying expression in his ancient eyes. "Child, the hunter who only knows the rabbit does not understand the leopard. The Agojie are not just strong. They are discipline. They are a single mind in many bodies. They have forgotten how to fear." He filled his pot slowly, the water gurgling as it filled. "Pray the Harvest Sun only ripens our grain, and does not draw them here, looking for a different kind of harvest."
His words settled over the stream like a sudden frost, silencing even the cheerful Sefu. The dappled light now seemed sinister, the chatter of the stream a nervous babble. The idyllic morning had been fractured, a hairline crack appearing in the perfect pottery of their world.
Nawi lifted her full pot, the water sloshing heavily. It was no longer just water; it was a weight of new and frightening knowledge. She balanced it on her head, the cool dampness seeping into her scalp, and began the walk back to the village, Sefu and old Kofi following in a sombre procession.
The village, when they returned, was now fully awake and bathed in the growing heat of the day. The vibrant, bustling life that had seemed so comforting before now felt fragile, like a soap bubble, beautiful and doomed to pop. She saw the men returning from the forest traps, her father, Kwame, among them, his powerful shoulders streaked with sweat and dirt. He carried a small, grey antelope slung over his shoulders, its glassy eyes staring at nothing. It was a good catch, a cause for celebration, but Nawi could only see the blood matting its fur.
"Nawi! Look!" Binta came running, her small feet kicking up puffs of dust. Her eyes were wide with excitement, all the grim talk of the stream utterly forgotten in her small, perfect world. "Papa brought a duiker! We will have meat for a week!"
Nawi forced a smile, reaching out to touch her sister's cheek. Binta's skin was soft and warm, her joy a palpable, radiant thing. The fierce, protective love that Nawi felt for her was a physical ache in her chest, a sudden, terrifying vulnerability. The thought of anything—or anyone—threatening this small, bright spirit made a hot, hard anger coil in her stomach.
"Yes, little one," she said, her voice softer than she intended. "We will have a feast."
She helped her mother prepare the meal, the routine actions a small comfort. She ground peppers and tomatoes with a stone mortar and pestle, the sharp, acidic smell making her eyes water. She stirred the large iron pot that hung over the fire, the thick, red stew bubbling and spitting. The sounds of the village were the same—the laughter, the chatter, the clatter of pots—but she heard them differently now. They were the sounds of a people blissfully, or perhaps wilfully, unaware of the storm that might be gathering on the horizon.
As the family sat together in the shade of the compound's central hut to eat, the stew served with balls of smooth, pounded yam, Nawi studied her father. Kwame was a quiet man, his strength in his hands and his silence. He ate with a focused intensity, his brow furrowed.
"Papa," Nawi began, her voice tentative. "Old man Kofi spoke of the Agojie at the stream."
Kwame's chewing slowed. He did not look up from his bowl. Ama shot Nawi a warning look, but she pressed on, the stubborn need to know overriding caution.
"He said they might be near. That the wind carries their scent."
Her father finally set his bowl down. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, his gaze distant, looking past the compound walls, towards the dense, green wall of the forest. "Old Kofi has lived through many harvests. He knows the signs. The forest has been… quiet. The game is nervous. The birds do not sing as they used to." He looked at Nawi, his dark eyes holding hers. "It does not mean they are coming for us. But a wise antelope does not wait to see the leopard's eyes to know it is in danger. It listens to the silence."
"What would we do?" Nawi asked, the question a mere breath.
Her father's jaw tightened. "We would do what our ancestors have always done. We would protect our own. We would fight for our home, for our children." His eyes shifted to Binta, who was happily trying to get a stray piece of yam into her mouth, utterly oblivious. "But fighting is the last resort. The first is to be unseen. To be like the grass that bends in the wind and does not break."
The meal finished in a contemplative silence. The stew, once rich and flavourful, now sat heavily in Nawi's stomach. The Harvest Sun beat down, a benevolent, golden tyrant, ripening the grains in the fields, but its light now felt exposing, as if their small village was pinned under a magnifying glass, watched by unseen, merciless eyes.
Later, as the sun began its slow, spectacular descent, painting the sky in shades of fire and blood, Nawi found herself drawn to the edge of the village, to the small, raised platform used as a watch post. It offered a view of the path that led north, into the vast, unknown interior, the direction from which danger was said to come.
The air was cooling, carrying the evening scents of blooming moonflowers and the smoky aroma of a hundred evening fires. The rhythmic chirping of crickets began to swell, a nightly chorus that usually sang her to sleep. Tonight, it sounded like a thousand tiny warnings.
She stood there for a long time, her arms wrapped around herself, watching the path. It was just a path, a dusty gash in the endless green. But in her mind, it was a conduit. It was the path her father took to hunt, the path traders used to bring news and salt, the path that could, one day, bring the silent, terrifying tread of the Agojie.
A hand on her shoulder made her jump. It was her mother.
Ama did not speak at first. She simply stood beside her daughter, her gaze also fixed on the northern path. The fierce, practical woman was gone, replaced by a figure of profound, silent worry. The setting sun painted her face in deep oranges and purples, highlighting the weary slope of her shoulders.
"You cannot stare down the night, Nawi," Ama said softly, her voice barely disturbing the twilight hush. "Fear is a fire that burns from the inside. If you feed it, it will consume you."
"How do you not feed it, Mama?" Nawi asked, her own voice small. "When you have so much to lose?"
Ama was silent for a long moment. The sounds of the village settling in for the night drifted towards them—the lowing of the goats being secured, a mother calling her children home, the faint, melodic strum of a kora from a nearby compound.
"You take the fear," Ama said finally, "and you fold it into your work. You knead it into the yam. You stir it into the stew. You pour it into the water pot. You use its energy to keep your hands moving, your eyes open, your family safe." She turned to Nawi, and in the dying light, her eyes were pools of deep, resilient love. "Your stubbornness, your observing eyes… these are not just for chasing dragonflies, my daughter. They are tools. Use them. See what others miss. Be too stubborn to be broken."
It was the closest thing to approval and understanding her mother had ever given her regarding her nature. The words settled in Nawi's heart, a small, warm ember in the growing cool of the evening.
She looked back at the path one last time. The darkness was gathering now, swallowing the vibrant colours of the sunset, turning the world to shades of indigo and deep grey. The path was now just a vague, darker line in the gloom, leading into an abyss of shadows and whispers.
But as she turned to follow her mother back to the warmth and light of their hut, back to the sound of Binta's laughter and the solid presence of her father, Nawi made a silent vow. She would observe. She would be stubborn. She would see the leopard before it saw them.
The Harvest Sun was gone, leaving a blanket of stars in its wake. And somewhere, far to the north, under that same star-strewn sky, a different fire was being stoked. A fire of ambition, discipline, and conquest. The two worlds, the idyllic and the horrific, were still separate, divided by miles of dark, silent forest. But the wind was shifting. And on that wind, carried like a seed on the breeze, was the faint, metallic scent of change, and of blood. The silence, her father had said, was the first sign. And as Nawi lay down to sleep, the deep, profound silence of the night felt, for the first time in her life, like a held breath, waiting for the scream to come.