1.
I was six years old when my grandmother took me to a conclave of ìrókò trees.
Màámi had passed away the night before, after suffering from a sickness that left her gasping and weak for days. When I learned of my mother’s passing, I ran to her room, but my grandmother stopped me from reaching her. From a distance, I watched as they wrapped her in black cloth. The chants and incense of Ifá priests and the rattling of their hollow square bells filled the air. A guild of royal mourners sang the Untimely Night, the dirge performed for rulers who die young. At such a young age, I learned that Death was neither a servant of order, nor restricted by it. The Woman With The Fruit Basket doesn’t choose her company to the heavens based on any merit other than expired time.
As the àrẹ̀mọ to the Aresa throne, I could not witness my mother’s burial. I could hear the processional songs from the palace grounds and follow the sounds to the royal sepulchre. I could wear the black wrapper and scarf and sit on the ground. I could cry. But I couldn’t be there. When my head began to hurt from crying so hard, Ìyáàgbà walked gently to my side and knelt, letting me rest her head on her shoulder. Then she lifted me, cradling me to her chest, and began to chant my eulogy, bidding me to be strong. Orí adé, the Jewelled Head, she called me. Ọmọ ọkọ, the Rightful Child, she called me. I sniffled as she patted my back and carried me away.
I couldn’t see where we were going, but I heard a door open. Soon, we were in a forest. In front of us were trees so tall, they seemed to go on forever. Trees so big a dozen people could fit inside them. She went deeper into the forest until just a few rays of light guided her steps. Until we got to a clearing with a half-circle of trees. Then, Ìyáàgbà put me down and wiped my tears off with her palm. Tear lines marked her dark face, and I reached out to clean them too. She smiled as more tears replaced them.
“I am sorry, my child,” my grandmother said. “I thought Adebimpe would get better. That she would bring you here herself, at the right time. Gods know that this is not a burden that should be placed on a child, but Odumare’s tug on the threads of destiny cannot be questioned.”
My grandmother stood up and walked over to a stone platform by her side. On it, there was a small chest. A gentle breeze blew around me when Ìyáàgbà left my side.
“Only the descendants of the throne of Aresa can find this place, child,” she said, as she pulled out a gangan—a talking drum and its drumstick—from the chest. The instrument looked like any other gangan in Aresa. “Only we can play this tune.”
Ìyáàgbà turned to the trees, to the sixteen white-barked trees in front of her, with the drum in her left armpit, and the drumstick in her right hand. The gentle breeze seized. The place grew quiet, as if the forest leaned in, eager to hear her play.
“This is the gift of the throne of Aresa to all that sit on it.”
Thump, thump, thump. My grandmother began to play a tune. The drumbeats permeated the conclave. The tune was deep and bouncy, and it inspired an unfamiliar fear in me. As Ìyáàgbà played, the trees echoed. My heart thumped a faster beat in my chest. My eyes darted in every direction, longing for, but dreading, what was about to be revealed.
A strange wind fell upon the conclave. Then, I watched them seep out of the trees, screaming. Several of them. Floating. Snickering.
“Oh, Adebola,” they jibed my grandmother. “That measly daughter of yours finally died, didn’t she?” They cackled.
“You have never really been lucky with children, have you?”
“Oh, no, she hasn’t been! Remember the twins that died in her womb?”
“Or the little boy that ran off a cliff, crying for his mother.”
“Odumare must really hate you. All he has given you are troubling, àbíkú children!”
I staggered backwards, too shocked to do anything but breathe. Ìyáàgbà had said she was going to give me a gift. What gift is this? Their jests filled the air as they swarmed around my grandmother.
Ìyáàgbà turned to me, tears running down her face. Her eyes locked with mine, and I felt her pain. The pain of a mother who has lost everything.
“You will have to come here one day, Aderounbi,” she said to me, with strength in her voice, and fierce determination in her eyes. “And you will get them to do what they must.”
2.
Forty years have passed since that dreadful evening. The waves of time have swept it into the dark depths of my mind. Now, I turn in my bed, twitching, trying to shake off what I see in my sleep. I hear footsteps, and I spring up in my bed. My heart patters, and the forced breath I take as I wake causes me to cough. It is morning already. The dull light of dawn seeps through my curtains. Olape, my chief attendant, stands at the foot of my bed. Her eyes are on my sweat-soaked sheets and night garment. She isn’t surprised—my nightmares have been more frequent recently. Like the other nightmares, I cannot remember a thing about it.
“Good morning, olorì.” Olape kneels as she greets me, her head bowed. I don’t give her a reply immediately.
My reflection in the metal mirror on the sidewall is that of a deranged woman. My hair all over the place. I bridle the mess with a scarf and try to gather my wits before I say anything. I should not have to pretend in my chambers, especially since Olape has attended to me for thirty-five years. Yet, I offer a half-smile, and I try to still the tremor in my voice.
“Good morning, Olape.” I fail to still it, and I clear my throat.
“I would ask if your sleep was restful, olorì, but …” She scans my bed again. Her eyes land on my sides, where I am gripping the sheets hard enough that my knuckles hurt. As I become aware of what I am doing, I release the sheets and take deep breaths. Olape looks back at me, worried. She does not ask questions because she knows I will not tell her the truth.
“When you are ready, the Royal Council would like to meet with you concerning an urgent matter, olorì,” she says. “The ìyálóde and òsì are waiting on the palace grounds. The other chiefs will be here soon.”
I nod twice. Olape waits in silence, hoping for a word, perhaps. When I remain mute, she frowns before bowing.
“I’ll have the maids prepare your bath, olorì. They will notify you when it is ready.” She straightens up. “They will also take the clothes to the washroom.”
I do not thank her. I do not speak as she bows again and exits my chambers. When the doors close, I curl up in my bed. Dread washes over me in waves. Something is not right, I think. My heart still beats fast. I don’t feel comfortable in my sheets. The thought of running away, just running into oblivion, crosses my mind, and it fills me with peace. Suddenly, I hear that cursed tune, the thumps of the drum in the conclave, playing softly in my head. At first, I do not recognize it, but when I do, my heart drops. I sink deeper into my bed. As the sun rises, filling my room with beautiful light, I shiver.
Something is not right.
3.
I sit on a dark wood throne. Seven steps lead down from it, all covered in hide. My throne room sits on a small hill at the end of my extensive palace in Derin, the capital of Aresa. Its circular interior is covered in marble, with a stained-glass dome forming its roof. Raffia mats cover the walls in beautifully dark shades of red, green, and blue. The wall behind me has a sculpture of the Aresa emblem: a beaded crown with three machetes around it, and half a sun above it. Two guards stand behind me, and my staff bearer and scribe sit beside them. My chiefs sit in smaller dark wood seats down the steps in front of me. A map of the Ikuwa Continent is carved into the marble floor between us.
The seat of the àrẹ̀mọ, Adelani, my son, is empty beside me. He is away on a yearly visit to his father’s family in Alagbe.
Gbenga kneels before me, disturbed. He never looks this troubled. It worries me slightly less than the panic I woke up with this morning. I still hear that drum in my head, faintly, but I sit straight, regardless. I am Olorì Aderounbi of Aresa, and I will not be found jittering on the Venerable Throne, no matter how bad the news is.
“And you are sure of this, Gbenga?” I ask my spy.
“Yes, Olorì Aderounbi. Men with skin like milk. They have rods that shoot fire and thunder and smoke. They invaded Olugbon and took it in a day, carting people and loot into huge water vessels.”
Ìyálóde Bisi, the women-head, exclaims. “Olugbon? The city with stone walls three arm lengths thick? It has held its ground against the combined force of five armies in the past!”
“I was shocked too, ìyálóde.” Gbenga turns to her, wide-eyed. “Their force was only about two hundred men strong. Yet, they subdued the heart-city of one of the strongest nations on the continent. I saw people fall like hacked corn stems.”
Òsì Deji, my left hand, frowns. “I received word from my scouts in the Outerlands too, olorì,” he says. “They reported a disruption in the east. Olugbon is as far east as it gets.”
“Ha!” Ìyálọ́jà Shola, the market-head, exclaims in realisation, adjusting her wrapper. “Some market women raised a complaint. Something about a delay in fabric delivery on the last market day.” The ìyálọ́jà turns to me. “We get àdìre fabric from Olugbon, olorì.”
The last market day was three days ago. The same day Gbenga says the invasion happened.
The chiefs begin to mumble. On my right, Balógun Dapo, my army chief, ponders. He quietly taps the sheathed blackstone machete by his side. More than anyone in the Royal Council, the balógun understands the gravity of war. In his prime, he served as balógun to my mother, Olorì Adebimpe, winning twelve battles. He is an even finer teacher. Under his tutelage, I mastered Sìjì, the Bombardment machete style—the hardest and deadliest blade style on the continent. He also taught me just as much about ruling as he did the blade.
“What do you think, balógun?” I ask.
The room goes silent when I speak. The short, muscular old man turns to me and stands. He then prostrates. “May your crown sit long on your brows, Olorì Aderounbi,” he says as he rises. “And may your feet rest long in their shoes.”
My staff bearer stands and hits the staff of authority on the ground thrice to seal the prayer. I nod once, and Balógun Dapo turns to face the rest of the Royal Council. All their ears are primed on him, a man of few interests and fewer words.
He pauses briefly. “Unfortunately, olorì, my fellow chiefs, there isn’t much we can do at the moment.”
“Ah!” the chiefs exclaim quietly. Ọ̀tún Bode, my right hand, removes his cap and lets out a loud sigh. Òsì Deji frowns. I frown too, but I know the balógun is not done.
“The matter at hand is tricky,” he continues. “My father used to say, ‘In an encounter between an egg and a rock, it would be foolish not to know which you are: the egg or the rock.’ These people are aliens. We simply do not know them enough to guarantee any success in the days to come.”
He is right. A breath later, I rise from my throne. My chiefs rise too, assuming courteous stances. I step down to the carved map, which is an accurate replica of the kingdoms on the Ikuwa Continent. A guard walks towards me and Balógun Dapo, bearing two thick canes. I stand at Aresa, represented by a crowned tower, and take one cane. The balógun takes the other, and walks up to one end of the map, where a hawk figurine represents Alagbon, the kingdom that has Olugbon as its heart-city.
“Olugbon is—was—a fort,” the balógun starts. He knocks off the hawk figurine. “The position of Alagbon at the eastern edge of the continent, bordering the Ọ̀sà Sea, was critical. It served as a gate, the first defence against unforeseen threats.” He looks up at me. “If Olugbon, and consequently the rest of Alagbon, has fallen, then—”
“They have a clear path into the continent,” I complete his thought. My blood chills.
“From Alagbon,” the balógun continues, walking through the map in a line towards me, “they will take Idaba, then Mofin, then Ilugun—”
“And then, Aresa.”
Murmurs rise in the council. Aresa has not faced a threat in four decades.
The balógun continues. “From our kingdom, they can diverge into the innermost parts of the continent.” He goes back to where he started from. “Idaba and Mofin are lesser states. The invaders will have no problem seizing them. Ilugun is stronger than both, but she is not as strong as Alagbon was. This means the next significant resistance to their conquest will be Aresa. Assuming they maintain the speed of their conquest, and assuming they have more soldiers on their vessels, this also means—”
“We only have a little time.” My voice seizes with the last word. Silence fills the room. The drum thumps louder in my head now. Trepidation flows from my head downwards.
Balógun Dapo sighs and nods. “Two weeks at most, olorì.”
4.
The Royal Council controls the Iborun, a network of spies and informants who report to each chief on matters regarding his or her post. This network contributes immensely to the success of Aresa, bringing information from all over the continent. Insurgencies, successions, the latest fashion, the dirtiest scandals, market rumours. Everything.
Now, as the enemy draws nearer, all members and affiliates of the Iborun scurry into action. By the end of the first day, information floods the palace. We get more details about the invasion of Olugbon—how much was plundered. How many women and children they’ve captured. The might of their fleet. Interestingly, we find out that their spy network rivals ours in size—we kill the spies after drawing as much information as we can from them. We plant double agents among them, misleading them.
The day Idaba falls, I learn more. The invaders are from an empire called Farsea, somewhere many miles across the Ọ̀sà Sea. Their leader is a hard man called Admiral Luthar. Their army is simple, but specialized. Their weapons are strange, but effective. Their mission is to subdue the continent, and to destroy anyone or anything that stands against them. My heart flutters with each news. I also haven’t heard from Adelani in days. I say a quick prayer to Odumare, Spinner of Destiny, to guide my son’s steps back to me.
When they besiege Mofin, we ready ourselves. The chiefs now live in the palace, spending most of the quickly passing days in the war room, as soldiers, messengers, attendants, and scouts pour in and out. A spy steals one of their thunder weapons. He says it is called a musket. The wise minds in my army try to understand it, but they fail. We try to learn how to use it, but soon it stops responding. Blackstone blademakers break through our obsidian deposits, forming machetes that can slice through most things. Weavers make armour. The army prepares. The hunters and warriors offer sacrifices to Ogun, god of weaponry and war.
Mofin falls. We send word and some help to Ilugun, our neighbor. They refused our proposal for an alliance a week ago—it is too late to accept it now. We intercept a message from Farsean spies, written in our language to avoid suspicion. They plan to take Derin by the next new moon. Nine days more. I start attending sparring sessions with my balógun. We make plans for the safety of our people, carving out routes to neighbouring regions through our forests.
I stand vigil at the royal sepulchre for three nights, praying to the ọba and olorì that have gone before me for help.
Help me, màámi.
Gird me with strength, Ìyáàgbà.
5.
Even in the distress of the looming war, I sense a different distress. One that has followed me since that day in the throne room. It feels like I’m drowning in invisible water. Sometimes, my breaths cease. The drum thumps louder in my head. I cannot describe it. No one can know. No one will understand.
One night, Olape finds me crying in bed, and kneels beside me. “The gods have blessed us with the privacy of thoughts,” she whispers. “But sometimes, olorì, it can be a curse.”
I finally budge, and the next night, I visit Adigun.
The Ifá priest sits on a stool by the side of his hut in the hills, chewing kola-nut and humming a chant. When he sights me, he prostrates, and we exchange pleasantries. I explain my ordeal to him, to the best of my ability. Silently, he walks into his hut, leaving me seated on another stool. My guards are in the distance, holding torches and watching for intruders.
Adigun returns a few minutes later with a calabash. He hands it to me, and I drink the bitter liquid in it. It warms me, and soon, my head hurts less. The tune still plays, but now it is a distant echo at the back of my mind. Adigun quickly sets a divining cloth and a string of cowry shells on the ground, and begins to chant incantations, adjusting the string of shells on the cloth, grunting, seeing what I cannot. He rattles a square bell that reminds me of màámi’s burial.
Adigun suddenly turns to me. I hold my breath and lock eyes with him in the dim moonlight. We stare in silence, and I begin to tremble.
Then he begins to hum the tune that haunts me. I gasp—I had cautiously left it out of our discussion. No one was supposed to know about it except me, and one day, Adelani. Now, I cannot rein myself in. I grab his hands.
“What does it mean, Adigun?” I ask in a shaky voice. “I hear it all the time.”
He looks back to the board and shakes his head. “I don’t know, olorì. But Ifá tells me you will know in time.”
I drop his hands. “That is all the Oracle says?” I should be angry, but I am so exhausted that I settle for disappointment. The drink makes me drowsy.
“The Oracle says I cannot know more. That when the time is right, you will know what to do. You will know where to go.”
I sigh and look away into the distance. I don’t have time for this. The invaders draw near daily. Certainty has never been more important.
Then I notice something on Adigun’s face. He watches the board with new curiosity.
“What is the matter, Adigun? What do you see?”
He grunts, adjusts the cowries, and grunts again. “I see your name, olorì.”
I frown and tilt my head and searching the board myself, but I see nothing. “My name?”
“Yes, olorì,” Adigun says as he bows. “The elders say a child’s name empowers him. Gives him purpose. Soon, you will find the purpose of your name, olorì.”
My name? Adé r’óun bí—meaning The Crown Birthed a Worthy One. I scoff and shake my head. Worthy of what? Pain and confusion? Attacks of my own mind? The destruction of my kingdom? The death of my people?
I stand and thank Adigun for his help. I tell my guards to come over as Adigun steps back into his hut. The priest returns with more of the herbal concoction, instructing me to take some each night after a cold bath.
“It will help with the headaches and sleep problems,” he says. I thank him once again and head back to my palace.
His revelation takes weight in my mind all the way to my chambers. But soon fatigue embraces me, and for the first time in weeks, I sleep soundly.
6.
News of Ilugun’s weakening resistance against the Farseans reaches me the same day as news of Adelani’s journey. I sigh and smile—my son will arrive from Alagbe tomorrow. The news is a beam of light piercing through the darkness that encompasses me. A warmth to the shivers travelling down my spine.
Adé la ní. The tones in his name are a melody in my mouth and heart. Adelani looks like his father. Laughs like him. I have always believed that he is Odumare’s consolation to me for the tragic death of my love, Babatunde.
But the invaders are close. I fear, at first. What if they harm him? I shake off the thought. Alagbe is on the outskirts of Aresa, in the west. The invaders are coming from the east. There should be no problem. Besides, I do not want to worry him.
More than the fears that dissuade me is the urgency of the matter on ground. I need him. Adelani is strong like his father, and smart like me. His input in the coming war, as well as his entourage of warriors, could help us win. Like a child, I am giddy with excitement. While we continue to prepare for war, I instruct Olape to prepare for his return.
7.
A scream fills my sleep, and I shoot up. The scream doesn’t end even now. I quickly tie a scarf over my head, jump off my bed and run out of my chambers. I should have been up for a while now. Dawn has passed. Attendants are running around in front of me, so quickly I cannot point to anyone. I run towards a guard stand and grab a machete, just in case. I see Olape crying, with blood on her wrapper. When she sees me, her eyes go wide and she tries to run. I grab her before she can, and turn her to me.
“Olape, what is going on? Are the Farseans here already? Are the chiefs setting everything in motion?”
Olape cannot look me in the eyes. She looks delirious. “Olorì …”
I shake her, but she just continues to cry. When I let go of her, she crumples, pulling off her scarf, revealing dishevelled hair almost as grey as mine. I run towards the war room, holding on to my wrapper. Two guards stand at the entrance, and on seeing me, they move to stop me. “Olorì, you cannot—” I raise my machete, ready and more than willing to cut them down. They get out of my way. I search the chaos for my chiefs. I notice a circle in the room.
Then I see him.
The machete clatters on the ground. Every sound dulls as I see him. Only my heart is loud. My chiefs are distraught. I just watch him. His chest rises and falls as he wheezes. My eyes are on his, and his are on mine.
“What happened?” my ọ̀tún asks someone in the circle.
What is this knot threatening to squeeze the life out of me? I place my hand over my womb. A wave of dizziness hits me, and I fall to my knees beside my son’s body. The healers have cleaned the many wounds in his torso. Still, they leak blood. Musket wounds. The circle moves backwards, giving us space. No one comes near us or speaks to us.
“I said what happened!”
Ishola’s eyes are red. He is Adelani’s chief attendant, and leader of his entourage. He places a hand over his forehead, struggling to calm himself enough to talk. The big man shivers, unable to contain himself.
“W-we were on our way here from Alagbe. Àrẹ̀mọ Adelani noticed some … activity in a cave close to Derin. S-strange men were putting our people in shackles, d-d-dragging them through the cave. The àrẹ̀mọ and his men got down from their horses to confront them. Thirty among us … killed as those monsters pointed loud, smoky rods at us.” Ishola trembles, his eyes white and fixed on the ground. “Only five of us survived. We only managed to escape by Odumare’s mercy.”
His mercy? I curse the god in my mind. Is this what his mercy looks like? A tear rolls down my son’s cheek, and I quickly wipe it off. He grabs my hand and gasps. He has lived longer than his father did, but not by much. I curse Odumare again.
Balógun Dapo watches, puzzled. I look up at him, and he looks down with sad eyes.
“How did we miss this?” Ọ̀tún Bode asks. He signals, and a guard hands him a map. He and the balógun study it for some time, tracing the point where the invaders attacked my son. They turn to each other and curse.
Tears roll down my face as the balógun speaks in shock. “The bastards tricked us. A large part of their army must have shored many miles further down the sea. Out of the reach of our network. A small river drains in the Ọ̀sà Sea from a series of caves. If they took it upstream, they would reach the outskirts of Aresa. They had to have been on the continent for at least a month before they attacked Olugbon for them to pull this off.”
They outsmarted us. Exclamations of woe filled the room.
They made sure we were so busy worrying about the nations they were conquering. So focused on their speed. But their main army was in the west. So close to us. We were fooled. From where they attacked Adelani, their army will reach Derin before evening. A cloud of fear falls on the war room, and I fold beside my son. Adelani. I should have sent a message warning him of these monsters. I presumed, and now my son lies wounded. For the first time in a long time, I scream and scream and wail. I pull off my scarf and fling it away. Olape runs forward and covers me up with a large cloth. I struggle to get her off me, but she holds on tightly and cries with me.
I remain like this for what seems like not enough time. I take a deep breath and look up. The Royal Council stands silently. They wait for me, expecting me to say something. To give a directive. Even in my pain, I remained their olorì, and I must act like one. I feel my son’s hand grow cold. I close my eyes and take another breath. Think, Aderounbi. Think.
Then I know what to do. I finally understand what Adigun said that night. The tune in my head begins to play so intensely that I see red. I know where to go.
“Balógun, prepare the army.” He nods and runs out with some soldiers.
“The rest of you, gather our people. You know the provisions we’ve made for their safety. By noon, only our soldiers should remain in the city.” They understand the urgency and get to work. Soon, the room is almost empty. The sound of horns fills the air.
I turn back to my gasping son. Any time wasted at the infirmary will just prolong his death. I need to get Adelani healed. Fast.
“Adelani, can you stand up? Can you lean against me?”
“Let me help you, olorì.” A guard jogs over. I stop him before he gets close. He cannot help us. It is a place only we can find.
Adelani groans, but he nods. Though he is taller and bigger than I am, I help him up and we walk slowly, but surely, to the throne room. To the wall behind the Venerable Throne, where the door to the conclave is.
8.
I am before those ìrókò trees, feeling insignificant in comparison, like I did decades ago. Only now, my son bleeds out on the floor.
I rush to the chest and pick up the gangan and stick. I begin to hit it. I don’t stop until I see the spirits seep out of the trees. They look like smoky yards of white cloth, but they are also look like old women. They are too slow. I play harder.
Then their cackles fill the air, so loud that I have to drop the drumstick and cover my ears. They swarm around me, and I spin in an attempt to keep them within view.
“Well, is this not a marvel?” one asks. “Adebimpe’s daughter at our conclave?”
“Something bad must have happened,” another scorns, acting as if it cannot see my dying son. They all burst into laughter.
“Of course,” another says. “It is always one thing or the other with these Aresa rulers.”
“Last time we saw her, she was but a tiny girl, hanging on to her grandmother’s garb as if we bite.”
“She did look tasty.”
Their laughs fill the air again as they mock me.
I drop the drum and kneel before them. I haven’t begged anyone for anything since I became olorì, but I don’t care. “Please, I need your help.” My composure is shattered. “He’s dying. Adelani is dying.”
One elbows the other, disgusted. One shrugs. “You all die, some earlier than others. I don’t see why you intend to keep him past his time.”
“He’s my son!”
“So?” they say together.
I am stunned and cannot speak for a moment. My head hurts. So? Something starts to rise inside me. I recognise it. Madness. The madness of a lioness that has lost her cubs. That of a person with fire in her undergarments. So?
I begin to giggle like a lunatic. I cannot stop myself. But my voice is firm when I speak.
“It is sad, really. You imbeciles laugh like drunkards, thinking yourself hilarious. Even in this hour of my trial, your folly amazes me, up to the point that I feel sorry for your existence.”
They gasp. And then they roar. A terrible wind falls upon the conclave. The sky goes dark, the air cold.
“You will not address us in that tone, girl! We’ve lived in these trees long before your little kingdom took root. We’ve watched ọba and olorì quiver before us, their desires as ridiculous as their long throats and fat bellies. You will respect us!”
“The gods damn you! Damn you to the twenty hells! I will not extend a respect that is not reciprocated!” I am past reason now. Their united voice goes stronger and louder.
“And who are you to demand our respect? Who are you to desecrate our abode, child of dust!”
“I am Aderounbi, Olorì of Aresa!” I shout. “I rule the land your trees are planted on. My ancestors bled for hundreds of years to secure this nation.” I point to their trees. “Your conclave remains because I deem it so. I could raze it if I wanted, and there is nothing in the heavens and the Earth you can do about it.”
There is turmoil in their midst. “You would not dare!”
I scream like a mad dog, shooting up from my kneeling position. My blood boils with inhumane rage. I hit my chest four times.
“I would not dare? Life seeps out of my boy with each breath. The enemy closes in on my gates. If you will not prove useful, I will torch each and every one of your trees to cinders. And I will dance as I watch you all shriek in everlasting pain!”
They see my red eyes. They see how I shake. Then they go silent.
Adelani groans behind me. I gasp and run back to him. I rest his head on my lap and hush him, as if he is a little child crying in his cot. Tears fill my eyes as I watch him. My boy is dying.
I concede. “Please help me.” I am broken as I say the words. “My ìyáàgbà told me that the ruler of Aresa can make one request. I ask that you save my—”
“Mother, wait,” Adelani says in a raspy voice. “Don’t waste your request on me.”
His words disgust me. What does he mean?
“Save Aresa, màámi. Save our people.”
I shake my head. “Quiet, Adelani. We’ll do that together.”
He shakes his head vigorously, and I grab him with everything in me. “Please don’t do this to me.” I embrace him as I wail. “You are all I have. Don’t leave me too.”
“I know my place in your heart, màámi,” Adelani coughs out. “But I know you care much for the people of Aresa. Don’t gamble the lives of thousands for the life of one.”
“Ha!” I feel the weight of his words, and I tremble. What a burden it is to rule, to know that you cannot choose your child above other children. I don’t speak. I just cry.
Adelani holds my hand. “Great Mother, you’ve shown me what duty is. But you must show me what sacrifice is, too, màámi. Let me do this for my people. Please let me go, màámi.”
I still cannot speak. I close my eyes and nod. He squeezes my hands, and I feel life leave him.
Then, Adelani is no more. My world shatters, and I scream.
9.
As my son’s body grows cold, the tune comes back to me. And with it comes clarity. I kiss Adelani’s head, pray that the Woman With The Fruit Basket leads him safely to eternal rest, and rise. I stand before the spirits, a husk of a woman, but one primed to burn the world.
“As ruler of Aresa, I make my request.”
“And what is your request, Aderounbi?” There is still a harsh tone in their voice. I don’t care. They will answer me.
I think of my pain. The fear that has kept us sleeping with one eye open for a fortnight. I imagine the faces of my enemies, their smug faces. Their bloodthirsty throats.
“My enemies think they are powerful. They make strong men cower. They render scholars foolish. They think they are untouchable. Superior. Deserving of all we have and all we are. Make me the death of my enemies.”
They cackle, and the conclave trembles. “Play the tune, then, Olorì Aderounbi! Put beat to your words. Seal their fate!”
I look down at my boy. He has peace—the peace of death. I will make sure my enemies never get this peace.
I pick up the gangan and stick and place the drum deftly under my left arm. I strike the hide of the drum. The sound reverberates through the conclave. The ìrókò trees hum in response. They want more. Tears roll down my cheeks as I give them more. I adjust the pitch with the arm over the drum, pressing against its taut hide strings when I need to. I play and play, and the trees hum and hum, until my drumbeats create ripples in the air.
I play as the first spirit shoots into me. I shiver at its presence. The next one enters me soon after, making my knees buckle. One by one, they invade me. I let them. I want them all, because my vengeance must be thorough. I must ruin Luthar and his army. He must realise, as I drain the life from his frame, that he has made the final mistake of his life. So, I increase the intensity of my beats. The spirits and the trees react accordingly, and soon, I cannot hear myself play over their noise. I end the song of my death, of my people’s salvation, with three hard thumps.
Thump, thump, thump.
I drop the stick. The last spirit enters into me, and I fall to the ground.
As I lose consciousness, the words of the tune come to me, so clear it seems I have known them all my life:
Others pledge goats, the fattest of the flock;
Others promise sheep of the choicest stock;
The Axe of Aresa, the Worthy One,
Will give her child, fair as red-oil;
And her keens will be the doom of her enemies.
For the first time in a long time, the tune ceases, and my mind is quiet.
10.
When I wake, I am standing at the door of the conclave. Dusk approaches. I can hear loud sounds. Shots. I can hear my generals screaming orders. The enemy is here. I move from behind my darkwood throne, stepping down the stairs. I feel full, heavy with the spirits.
Then the enemy pours into my throne room, bearing instruments of death.
Ruin your enemies, Aderounbi! The spirits roar within me. The building shakes.
I stretch out my hands at the soldiers. In a way impossible to man, I feel every fibre of their being, and then I rip them up. They crumble to the ground, screeching in pain—a spirit snickers inside me. Then I tear open the ceiling and stretch my hands to the sky. I gather a storm. Darkness descends, a dense cloud over the throne room. I hear gasps around me. I unleash my wrath. Lightning and thunder descend so powerfully that I lose my sight and hearing momentarily. The walls of my throne room cannot hold my anger. With a mighty wind and quake, I level them. I hear screams. I begin to ascend, but a shot connects, and I crash hard on the floor. Pain lances through my abdomen. I curl up, watching blood seep out of me. The enemy surrounds me.
Rise, Aderounbi! they shout inside me. For you cannot die till this is complete.
Groaning, I rise to my knees. My enemies speak in their language. I can see their shock. I am something they cannot explain. With another scream, I unleash flames. The enemy is rendered to ash in a blink. I ascend again, and though I catch shots, I continue. I sink them into the ground. I render some to dust. I break others in half.
Now, as I ascend higher and higher, I can see beyond my palace. I see my soldiers, brave men and women. They watch me in awe. Their olorì has come to their aid. Then, with a battle cry, they fight on. Lightning flows freely through Derin. Wind carries shards of obsidian, stripping flesh from my enemies’ bones.
Then I sight Admiral Luthar. I am certain it is him, even though I have never seen him. He is tall and lean, with a proud scowl on his face. I fly to him, down the hills my palace sits on. When I land, his men turn black and die.
“You!” I shout as I limp towards him. My garb barely hangs on my shoulders, soiled by many red blotches. I groan. “You!” The quake that rattles the earth beneath me reflects my anger. The ground swallows his feet, keeping him in place. But when I get close to him, my knees buckle, and I fall, weeping. I know he cannot understand my words, but I speak still.
“You have ruined me. I did nothing to deserve it, but you came, and you took everything from me.” I place my hand on my womb. It still hurts. “Now I have pain—so much more than I can ever return to you.”
I bow my head and wail. The spirits comfort me, as if, now inside me, they finally understand.
Then I hear a click.
I look up, and I stare at the muzzle of a musket. Admiral Luthar wields it. He looks at me with disgust. He mutters something that sounds like a curse. I open my mouth, but I cannot speak.
End this, Aderounbi! Their anger courses through me. The rage of rulers before me. Of the conquered nations of the continent. We are one in wrath and intent. With a scream, I let them out. Pain lances through me as they shoot out of me, delivering swift justice to our foes. They tear at my soul. In this moment, I realise that who I was—olorì, mother—died at the conclave with Adelani. Now, I burn as bright as the midday sun, hot and fast. The Axe of Aresa, delivering the last swing. The admiral fires his weapon rapidly at me.
“Fall back!” Balógun Dapo shouts in the distance. I give my soldiers time to flee, hoping it is enough. The admiral’s skin melts off. His shriek offers me solace for the second it lasts. My fire continues to consume, grabbing the fleeing enemy. Devouring the surrounding structures. Buildings wail as they collapse. The fire cannot be contained, and I make peace with that. Most of my people are on their way to safety. My death will be their light.
I burn until I am more smoke than flesh. Then I look up at the sky. With my last breath, I pray to Odumare, Spinner of Destiny. That my people find home elsewhere. That they remember who we are. That they never look back.
I smile as I whither. Look behind you, Adelani, I think. Look for me, son. Your mother will begin her journey to the heavens soon.
My last breath is a sigh. Then night falls, and I fall with it.
