Akan proverb for one who refuses to listen.
“Ba wou li! The child is dead!”
Kwaku woke with a gasp.
Sunlight pierced through the leaves of the great silk-cotton tree above him. The festival drums echoed across the village, bright and alive — too alive.
His chest heaved. His cheeks were wet.
He didn’t feel sad.
He felt hunted.
A sharp heat pulsed in his right palm.
He looked down.
The birthmark shaped like a claw seemed brillant than usual.
“Kwaku!”
He flinched.
Koffi sprinted toward him, grinning. “You’re still sleeping? The Odira has started! They’re bringing out the relics!”
The world snapped back into color.
Music. Laughter. Smoke from roasting yams. The village of Mampong alive and proud.
For a moment, the dream loosened its grip.
The market square was transformed.
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Clan banners swayed in the wind. Drums thundered. Warriors spun ceremonial blades that caught the sunlight in violent flashes.
Children darted between adults, trying to touch polished hilts and sacred stools.
Today was Odira — the cleansing of the ancestors.
Everything looked perfect.
Too perfect.
Kwaku didn’t know when the unease began. He only knew it crawled under his skin like ants.
Near the central well, a man in a white robe had set up a narrow wooden table.
A mask of polished wood covered the lower half of his face.
A Palace Scribe.
“Decennial census,” he called calmly. “Each household will declare its gains and its losses.”
The drums continued.
A woman stepped forward, a baby tied to her back, another child clutching her hand.
“Name?”
“Ama Serwaa. Of the .” She said
“Children?”
“Two living,” she said softly. Then she hesitated. “And one lost… during the Great Famine. Fifteen years ago.”
The Scribe stopped writing.
“There was no famine fifteen years ago,” he said evenly. “The Regent’s granaries have always been full.”
The woman blinked.
Confusion crossed her face.
“But… my husband starved. He gave me his portion. We all remember—”
The Scribe sighed.
He picked up a small black stone seal carved with a spiral.
“Grief distorts memory,” he said gently. “Allow the Regent to carry that burden for you.”
He pressed the seal onto the parchment.
A low vibration rippled through the square.
Not loud.
But wrong.
Kwaku felt it in his teeth.
The woman blinked again.
Her shoulders relaxed.
“Oh,” she smiled faintly. “I have two beautiful children.”
“Yes,” the Scribe replied. “You do.”
She stepped away, light-footed.
The merchants resumed speaking.
The drums never stopped.
No one protested.
No one questioned.
It was as if the conversation had never happened.
Kwaku stood frozen.
His stomach twisted.
They forgot.
All of them.
The famine. The husband. The loss.
Gone.
Like breath on glass.
He turned in a slow circle.
Faces smiling.
Eyes bright.
Empty.
Something inside him recoiled.
This is wrong.
His palm burned.
Not warm.
Burned.
He looked down. The mark on his hand pulsed deep red beneath his skin.
The Scribe’s head lifted.
His eyes found Kwaku immediately.
Locked.
“You,” the Scribe called calmly. “Come here.”
The drums continued.
Kwaku couldn’t hear them anymore.
He took one step forward.
His heart hammered.
Another step.
The seal rested in the Scribe’s hand.
The air felt thick.
Heavy.
The Scribe tilted his head slightly.
“Interesting,” he murmured.
The seal began to descend.
And at that exact moment—
Something invisible cracked between them.
A tremor in the air.
The Scribe’s hand faltered.
Just for a second.
Kwaku felt it.
A resistance.
The burning in his palm surged like fire fed with oil.
The Scribe’s eyes sharpened.
The smile disappeared.
Kwaku’s breath shattered in his throat.
He turned—
—and RAN.
He didn’t think.
He didn’t understand.
He just ran.
Through dancers. Through smoke. Past startled children.
The drums kept playing.
No one screamed.
No one chased.
But he felt it.
Eyes on him.
Above him.
Watching.
On the roof of a distant house, a black kite unfolded its wings.
And it did not blink.
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