by Tomi Adeyemi
Almost half a kilometer out at sea, a man flails, his dark hands thrashing in desperation. Powerful waves ram against the poor soul’s head, drowning him with each impact. The man cries out for help, voice choked and weak. But it’s a voice I’d know anywhere.
The voice of my father.
Two fishermen row toward him, frantic as they paddle in their coconut boats. But the force of the waves pushes them back. They’ll never reach him in time.
“No,” I cry in horror as a current pulls Baba below the water. Though I wait for him to surface, nothing breaks through the vengeful waves. We’re too late.
Baba’s gone.
It hits me like a staff to the chest. To the head. To the heart.
In an instant the air vanishes from my world and I forget how to breathe.
But while I struggle to stand, Tzain launches into action. I scream as he dives into the water, cutting through the waves with the power of a dual-finned shark.
Tzain swims with a frenzy I’ve never seen. Within moments he overtakes the boats. Seconds later he reaches the area where Baba went under and dives down.
Come on. My chest tightens so much I swear I feel my ribs crack. But when Tzain reemerges, his hands are empty. No body.
No Baba.
Panting, Tzain dives again, kicking harder this time. The seconds without him stretch into an eternity. Oh my gods …
I could lose them both.
“Come on,” I whisper again as I stare at the waves where Tzain and Baba have disappeared. “Come back.”
I’ve whispered these words before.
As a kid, I once watched Baba haul Tzain from the depths of a lake, ripping him from the seaweed that had trapped him underwater. He pumped on his fragile chest, but when Baba failed to make him breathe, it was Mama and her magic who saved him. She risked everything, violating maji law to call on the forbidden powers in her blood. She wove her incantations into Tzain like a thread, pulling him back to life with the magic of the dead.
I wish Mama was alive every day, but never more than this moment. I wish the magic that coursed through her body ran through mine.
I wish I could keep Tzain and Baba alive.
“Please.” Despite everything I believe, I close my eyes and pray, just like I did that day. If even one god is still up there, I need her to hear me now.
“Please!” Tears leak through my lashes. Hope shrivels inside my chest. “Bring them back. Please, Oya, don’t take them, too—”
“Ugh!”
My eyes snap open as Tzain bursts out of the ocean, one arm around Baba’s chest. A liter of water seems to escape Baba’s throat as he coughs, but he’s here.
He’s alive.
I fall to my knees, nearly collapsing on the wooden walkway.
My gods …
It’s not even midday, and I’ve already risked two lives.
* * *
SIX MINUTES.
That’s how long Baba thrashed out at sea.
How long he fought against the current, how long his lungs ached for air.
As we sit in the silence of our empty ahéré, I can’t get that number out of my head. The way Baba shivers, I’m convinced those six minutes took ten years off his life.
This shouldn’t have happened. It’s too early to have ruined the entire day. I should be outside cleaning the morning’s haul with Baba. Tzain should be returning from agbön practice to help.
Instead Tzain watches Baba, arms crossed, too enraged to throw a glance my way. Right now my only friend is Nailah, the faithful lionaire I’ve raised since she was a wounded cub. No longer a baby, my ryder towers over me, reaching Tzain’s neck on all fours. Two jagged horns protrude behind her ears, dangerously close to puncturing our reed walls. I reach up and Nailah instinctively brings her giant head down, careful to maneuver the fangs curved over her jaw. She purrs as I scratch her snout. At least someone’s not angry with me.
“What happened, Baba?”
Tzain’s gruff voice cuts through the silence. We wait for an answer, but Baba’s expression stays blank. He gazes at the floor with an emptiness that makes my heart ache.
“Baba?” Tzain bends down to meet his eyes. “Do you remember what happened?”
Baba pulls his blanket tighter. “I had to fish.”
“But you’re not supposed to go alone!” I exclaim.
Baba winces and Tzain glares at me, forcing me to soften my tone. “Your blackouts are only getting worse,” I try again. “Why couldn’t you just wait for me to come home?”
“I didn’t have time.” Baba shakes his head. “The guards came. Said I had to pay.”
“What?” Tzain’s brows knit together. “Why? I paid them last week.”
“It’s a divîner tax.” I grip the draped fabric of my pants, still haunted by the guard’s touch. “They came for Mama Agba, too. Probably hitting every divîner home in Ilorin.”
Tzain presses his fists to his forehead as if he could smash through his own skull. He wants to believe that playing by the monarchy’s rules will keep us safe, but nothing can protect us when those rules are rooted in hate.
The same guilt from earlier resurfaces, squeezing until it sinks into my chest. If I wasn’t a divîner, they wouldn’t suffer. If Mama hadn’t been a maji, she’d still be alive today.
I dig my fingers through my hair, accidentally ripping a few strands from my scalp. Part of me considers cutting all of it off, but even without my white hair, my maji heritage would damn our family all the same. We are the people who fill the king’s prisons, the people our kingdom turns into laborers. The people Orïshans try to chase out of their features, outlawing our lineage as if white hair and dead magic were a societal stain.
Mama used to say that in the beginning, white hair was a sign of the powers of heaven and earth. It held beauty and virtue and love, it meant we were blessed by the gods above. But when everything changed, magic became a thing to loathe. Our heritage transformed into a thing to hate.
It’s a cruelty I’ve had to accept, but whenever I see that pain inflicted on Tzain or Baba, it cuts to new depths. Baba’s still coughing up salt water, and already we’re forced to think about making ends meet.
“What about the sailfish?” Tzain asks. “We can pay them with that.”
I walk to the back of the hut and open our small iron icebox. In a bath of chilled seawater lies the red-tailed sailfish we wrangled yesterday, its glistening scales promising a delicious taste. A rare find in the Warri Sea, it’s much too valuable for us to eat. But if the guards would take it—
“They refused to be paid in fish,” Baba grumbles. “I needed bronze. Silver.” He massages his temple like he could make the whole world disappear. “They told me to get the coin or they’d force Zélie into the stocks.”
My blood runs cold. I whip around, unable to hide my fear. Run by the king’s army, the stocks act as our kingdom’s labor force, spreading throughout all of Orïsha. Whenever someone can’t afford the taxes, he’s required to work off the debt for our king. Those stuck in the stocks toil endlessly, erecting palaces, building roads, mining coal, and everything in between.
It’s a system that served Orïsha well once, but since the Raid it’s no more than a state-sanctioned death sentence. An excuse to round up my people, as if the monarchy ever needed one. With all the divîners left orphaned from the Raid, we are the ones who can’t afford the monarchy’s high taxes. We are the true targets of every tax raise.
Dammit. I fight to keep my terror inside. If I’m forced into the stocks, I’ll never get out. No one who enters escapes. The labor is only supposed to last until the original debt is worked off, but when the taxes keep rising, so does the debt. Starved, beaten, and worse, the divîners are transported like cattle. Forced to work until our bodies break.
I push my hands into the chilled seawater to calm my nerves. I can’t let Baba and Tzain know how frightened I truly am. It’ll only make it worse for all of us. But as my fingers start to shake, I don’t kno
w if it’s from the cold or my terror. How is this happening? When did things get this bad?
“No,” I whisper to myself.
Wrong question.
I shouldn’t be asking when things got this bad. I should ask why I ever thought things had gotten better.
I look to the single black calla lily woven into the netted window of our hut, the only living connection to Mama I have left. When we lived in Ibadan, she would place calla lilies in the window of our old home to honor her mother, a tribute maji pay to their dead.
Usually when I look at the flower, I remember the wide smile that came to Mama’s lips when she would inhale its cinnamon scent. Today all I see in its wilted leaves is the black majacite chain that took the place of the gold amulet she always wore around her neck.
Though the memory is eleven years old, it’s clearer to me now than my own vision.
That was the night things got bad. The night King Saran hung my people for the world to see, declaring war against the maji of today and tomorrow. The night magic died.
The night we lost everything.
Baba shudders and I run to his side, placing a hand on his back to keep him upright. His eyes hold no anger, only defeat. As he clings to the worn blanket, I wish I could see the warrior I knew when I was a child. Before the Raid, he could fight off three armed men with nothing but a skinning knife in hand. But after the beating he got that night, it took him five moons before he could even talk.
They broke him that night, battered his heart and shattered his soul. Maybe he would’ve recovered if he hadn’t woken to find Mama’s corpse bound in black chains. But he did.
He’s never been the same since.
“Alright.” Tzain sighs, always searching for an ember in the ashes. “Let’s get out on the boat. If we leave now—”
“Won’t work,” I interrupt. “You saw the market. Everyone’s scrambling to meet the tax. Even if we could bring in fish, whatever spare coin people have is gone.”
“And we don’t have a boat,” Baba mutters. “I lost it this morning.”
“What?” I didn’t realize that the boat wasn’t outside. I turn to Tzain, ready to hear his new plan, but he slumps to the reed floor.
I’m done.… I press into the wall and close my eyes.
No boat, no coin.
No way to avoid the stocks.
A heavy silence descends in the ahéré, cementing my sentence. Maybe I’ll be assigned to the palace. Waiting on spoiled nobles would be preferable to coughing up coal dust in the mines of Calabrar or the other nefarious channels stockers can force divîners into. From what I’ve heard, the underground brothels aren’t even close to the worst of what the stockers might make me do.
Tzain shifts in the corner. I know him. He’s going to offer to take my place. But as I prepare to protest, the thought of the royal palace sparks an idea.
“What about Lagos?” I ask.
“Running away won’t work.”
“Not to run.” I shake my head. “That market’s filled with nobles. I can trade the sailfish there.”
Before either can comment on my genius, I grab parchment paper and run over to the sailfish. “I’ll come back with three moons’ worth of taxes. And coin for a new boat.” And Tzain can focus on his agbön matches. Baba can finally get some rest. I can help. I smile to myself. I can finally do something right.
“You can’t go.” Baba’s weary voice cuts into my thoughts. “It’s too dangerous for a divîner.”
“More dangerous than the stocks?” I ask. “Because if I don’t do this, that’s where I’m headed.”
“I’ll go to Lagos,” Tzain argues.
“No, you won’t.” I tuck the wrapped sailfish into my pack. “You can barely barter. You’ll blow the entire trade.”
“I may get less coin, but I can protect myself.”
“So can I.” I wave Mama Agba’s staff before tossing it into my pack.
“Baba, please.” Tzain shoos me away. “If Zél goes, she’ll do something stupid.”
“If I go, I’ll come back with more coin than we’ve ever seen.”
Baba’s brow creases as he deliberates. “Zélie should make the trade—”
“Thank you.”
“—but Tzain, keep her in line.”
“No.” Tzain crosses his arms. “You need one of us here in case the guards come back.”
“Take me to Mama Agba’s,” Baba says. “I’ll hide there until you return.”
“But Baba—”
“If you don’t leave now, you won’t be back by nightfall.”
Tzain closes his eyes, stifling his frustration. He starts loading Nailah’s saddle onto her massive back as I help Baba to his feet.
“I’m trusting you,” Baba mutters, too quiet for Tzain to hear.
“I know.” I tie the worn blanket around his thin frame. “I won’t mess up again.”
CHAPTER THREE
AMARI
“AMARI, SIT UP STRAIGHT!”
“For skies’ sake—”
“That’s more than enough dessert for you.”
I lower my forkful of coconut pie and push my shoulders back, almost impressed by the number of critiques Mother can hiss under her breath in one minute. She sits at the top of the brass table with a golden gele wrapped snug around her head. It seems to catch all the light in the room as it shimmers against her soft copper complexion.
I adjust the navy gele on my own head and try to appear regal, wishing the servant hadn’t wrapped it so tight. As I squirm, Mother’s amber eyes scan the oloyes dressed in their finest, searching for the hyenaires hiding in the flock. Our female nobility paste on smiles, though I know they whisper about us behind our backs.
“I heard she’s been pushed to western quarters—”
“She’s far too dark to be the king’s—”
“My servants swear the commander’s carrying Saran’s child—”
They wear their secrets like glittering diamonds, embroidery woven through their lavish buba tops and wrapped iro skirts. Their lies and lily-scented perfumes taint the honeyed aroma of sweet cakes I am no longer allowed to eat.
“And what is your opinion, Princess Amari?”
I snap my head up from the heavenly slice of pie to find Oloye Ronke studying me expectantly. Her emerald iro sparkles bright along her mahogany skin, chosen precisely for the way it shines against the white stucco of the tearoom walls.
“I beg your pardon?”
“On a visit to Zaria.” She leans forward until the fat ruby hanging from her throat grazes the table. The garish jewel serves as a constant reminder that Oloye Ronke wasn’t born with a seat at our table. She bought her way in.
“We would be honored to have you stay at our manor.” She fingers the large red gem, lips curving as she catches me staring. “I’m sure we could even find a jewel like this for you as well.”
“How kind of you,” I stall, tracing the path from Lagos to Zaria in my mind. Far past the Olasimbo Range, Zaria sits on the northern end of Orïsha, kissing the Adetunji Sea. My pulse quickens as I imagine visiting the world beyond the palace walls.
“Thank you,” I finally speak. “I would be honored—”
“But unfortunately Amari cannot,” Mother cuts in, frowning without the slightest hint of sadness. “She is in the thick of her studies and she’s already fallen behind in arithmetic. It would be far too disruptive to stop now.”
The excitement growing in my chest deflates. I poke at the uneaten pie on my plate. Mother rarely allows me to leave the palace. I should have known better than to hope.
“Perhaps in the future,” I say quietly, praying this small indulgence will not incite Mother’s wrath. “You must love living there—having the sea at your feet and the mountains at your back.”
“It’s just rocks and water.” Samara, Oloye Ronke’s eldest daughter, wrinkles her wide-set nose. “Nothing compared to this magnificent palace.” She flashes a smile at Mother, but her sweetness disappears when
she turns back to me. “Besides, Zaria’s overrun with divîners. At least the maggots in Lagos know to stick to their slums.”
I tense at the cruelty of Samara’s words; they seem to hang above us in the air. I glance over my shoulder to see if Binta heard as well, but my oldest friend does not appear to be here. As the only divîner working in the upper palace, my chambermaid has always stood out, a living shadow forever by my side. Even with the bonnet Binta secures over her white hair, she’s still isolated from the rest of the serving staff.
“May I assist you, Princess?”
I turn over my other shoulder to see a servant I don’t recognize: a girl with chestnut skin and large, round eyes. She takes my half-empty cup and replaces it with another. I glance at the amber tea; if Binta were here, she would’ve snuck a spoonful of sugar into my cup when Mother wasn’t looking.
“Have you seen Binta?”
The girl draws back suddenly; her lips press together.
“What is it?”
The girl opens her mouth, but her eyes dart around the women at the table. “Binta was summoned to the throne room, Your Highness. A few moments before the luncheon began.”
I frown and tilt my head. What could Father possibly want with Binta? Of all the servants in the palace, he never summons her. He rarely summons servants at all.
“Did she say why?” I ask.
The girl shakes her head and lowers her voice, choosing each word with care. “No. But guards escorted her there.”
A sour taste crawls onto my tongue, bitter and dark as it travels down my throat. The guards in this palace do not escort. They take.
They demand.
The girl looks desperate to say more, but Mother shoots her a glare. Mother’s cold grip pinches my knee under the table.
“Stop talking to the help.”
I snap around and look down, hiding from Mother’s gaze. She narrows her eyes like a red-breasted firehawk on the hunt, just waiting for me to embarrass her again. But despite her frustration, I cannot get the thought of Binta out of my head. Father knows of our closeness—if he required something from her, why wouldn’t he go through me instead?