Say Walah

44: For Rimi

The river of Abankiti sang its endless song, weaving through the village like a silver serpent. Unlike Obiako's proud hills and mountains that reached for the sky, Abankiti humbled itself before its river, letting the waters shape the land as they had for generations. The fish here were said to be blessed by Oshimili herself – scales that gleamed like precious metals, flesh sweet as honey.

But Nne Ogwu's compound existed in the spaces between – neither Abankiti nor Obiako could truly claim it. It dwelled in the shadows between villages, in that liminal space where boundaries blurred and old magic still held sway. Even the best trackers could lose their way here, unless they knew how to read signs that had nothing to do with broken twigs or disturbed earth. The ashangi shadows were among the few who could find it reliably, having learned to navigate by landmarks that existed in both this world and others.

Three days had passed since that moonlit gathering. Three days since we became the seeds of change – or perhaps destruction – that destiny had chosen to plant in these troubled soils. Each morning, I woke with the weight of that choice pressing against my chest, heavy as burial stones.

The news from Irum Ala grew worse with each passing day. My uncle's grip on the throne was weakening, his rule as fragile as spider silk in a storm. I had watched him burn my family alive, had seen him make a grand performance of my father's execution – a spectacle of power that had ultimately revealed his weakness. A strong king doesn't need to prove his strength so brutally.

Now his failing rule sent ripples through all of Nri kingdom, emboldening serpents like the Onowu. I could taste his ambition in the air, thick as smoke from a signal fire. The northern villages were just the beginning – he was reaching for all of Nri, testing his grip on power like a child learning to climb. And like many overconfident climbers, he was reaching too far, too fast.

Part of me had wanted to let my uncle fall. To watch as fate finally collected its due, to see him topple from the height of his own making. The memories of that day still visited me in dreams – my mother's voice raised in a final curse, my siblings' screams cutting off too suddenly, my father meeting my eyes one last time before I was dragged away to safety. I had promised myself that one day, I would return to Irum Ala with vengeance in my hands.

That life—I had put on hold when I met Mairo and Rimi—felt within reach, a chance to heal, to start fresh. They offered me a glimpse of a future where I didn't have to hate my uncle, where forgiveness might mean living quietly as a farmer. But when our home was razed, Rimi taken, and Mairo driven to vengeance, I saw it clearly: perhaps this was the ancestors' way of showing me they had other plans for my fate.

The Onowu had forced my hand. His hunger threatened not just my uncle's throne, but the very foundations of Nri. And he had reached too close to my heart.

I stood at the edge of Nne ogwu's compound, watching the sun sink behind Obiako's distant hills. The Onowu's ambitions cast long shadows across our lands, but he had overreached. In trying to devour the whole of Nri kingdom, he had given me no choice but to temporarily preserve the very uncle I had sworn to destroy.

The irony tasted bitter on my tongue. My uncle would fall – but he would fall by my hand, in my time, for my reasons. Not as a stepping stone in the Onowu's climb to power.

First, we would deal with the Onowu. Then, when the northern villages were secure and this crisis had passed... then I would return to Irum Ala, carrying all my years of pain like spears.

One serpent at a time.

The sun disappeared completely, leaving the world painted in shades of dusk. Somewhere in the gathering darkness, seven other chosen warriors were preparing for what was to come. Eight seeds, planted in destiny's garden.

Tomorrow night, the harvest would be blood.

"Were you there?" Amadi's voice came soft in the gathering darkness. "When they came?"

I didn't turn, keeping my eyes on the distant hills where the last light was fading. The question I had been dreading since I saw him at the gathering. The weight of those morning's events pressed against my chest like a stone.

"No," I said finally. "I was seeking the antidote." My fingers brushed the empty pouch at my waist – a habit I couldn't break. "Nkili's poison was rare. Slow. The kind that kills seven days after the first drop of blood."

Amadi's sharp intake of breath was the only sound in the twilight. "Nkili? But she—"

"She wanted you." The words came out harder than I intended. "When you chose Rimi instead... well, some people would rather destroy what they cannot have."

I heard him sink to the ground beside me, his warrior's composure cracking. "I never thought... she seemed to accept it. To be happy for us."

"Vipers smile before they strike." I finally turned to look at him. The proud smug warrior looked broken in the dim light, like a sacred mask that had been dropped. "Rimi knew, at the end. The poison was meant to be slow enough that no one would suspect."

"The Onowu had his vengeance, after all." His voice was hollow.

"I was almost home when I saw the smoke." The memory rose like bile in my throat. "I ran back... but by then..." My hands clenched into fists. "An arrow through her heart. Our compound burning."

We sat in silence as true night fell, the stars emerging one by one above us.

"Rimi loved you, you know," I said finally. "Not just the smug vigilante who made jokes, but the man who would spend hours helping her gather the best raffia to weave. Who learned the names of all her favorite leaves and fronds."

His breath caught. After a long moment, he spoke, his voice rough with unshed tears. "And I loved her. Everything about her. The way she hummed while weaving, whether clothes or raffia. How she could light a gathering with just her smile. The light in her eyes when she talked about Mairo."

"Then honor that love," I said softly. "Not with blind rage, but with justice. The kind she would have wanted – precise, purposeful, healing the greater wound in our lands."

"Like water, not fire," he quoted Nne ogwu's words, something shifting in his voice.

"Yes." I stood, offering him my hand. "We'll drown them so gently they won't even know they're dying until it's too late."

He took my hand, rising to his feet. In the starlight, I saw the warrior returning to his eyes, tempered now with something deeper than mere vengeance.

"For Rimi," he said softly.

"For Rimi," I echoed. "And for all that she loved."

Behind us, a night bird called – three notes that sounded almost like weeping.

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