Downriver, a tight huddle of men stand half illumed in the Ndefu’s reflection. Some of them are young, around Izachar’s and my age; others look old enough to be my grandfather. I know why they’re here. Secrets in Kugawanya hold like water in a cracked pot; word of the prizefight has gotten around and clearly attracted bettors. As we approach the men, I pick out the two I’m looking for.
Jumo the Bull, my soon-to-be opponent, is already smirking at me. He’s shorter than I am, but several years older, and holds himself with the confidence of a natural-born fighter. Beside him stands Yakow, a wizened old man with chestnut skin and thinning gray hair.
“Akande.” I smell the chewing tobacco on the bookmaker’s breath as Izachar and I stop before him. He spits. “Now that you’ve joined us, we can go over the rules before we begin.” He rattles them off, even though I already know them. No one will be allowed to intervene once the fight has started, and it will last until someone yields, or dies. A familiar fear grazes me at that reminder, but just as quickly I sneak a glance at the satchel of winnings slung on Yakow’s shoulder. I imagine everything I could buy with the earnings from this fight if I win it. A renewed hunger rises in me, smothering my fear.
I need that money.
“As a final reminder”—Yakow gives me a cautioning look—“the use of splendor in this fight is prohibited.”
“Daraja freak,” Jumo mutters.
I lunge, but Izachar has the sense to drag me back. Around us, the men begin to jostle one another, excited. This is what they’re here for: a fight, a showdown between the boy and the Bull. From a distant place in my memory, I hear my babu’s voice again. This time, he doesn’t sound disappointed, but stern. That’s the version of my grandfather I remember best.
Focus and control, he reminds me. Keep focused, and stay in control. That is how you win.
“Do you both agree to abide by the established rules?” Yakow asks, glancing between us.
“I do,” says Jumo.
“Akande?”
“I do.”
The bookmaker purses his lips. “I’d like you to shake hands.”
Jumo steps forward and squeezes my hand hard, trying to crush my fingers. I squeeze back, refusing to wince even as my hand throbs in pain. When we both let go, Yakow nods.
“If we’re ready—”
“Wait!”
I turn to see Izachar
brandishing a small coin purse.
“I want to place a bet on Akande,” he says, tossing it. “I’m betting he lasts at least two rounds.”
Yakow snatches the purse from midair, then gives Izachar a considering look as he weighs it. “How much?”
Izachar doesn’t miss a beat. “All of it.”
The others mutter as Yakow denotes the bet on a small square of parchment before stowing the coin purse in his satchel. Izachar starts to turn away, but I catch his arm.
“Iz, where’d you get that kind of coin?”
“I saved up,” he says mildly, “from my apprenticeship.”
I shake my head. “You can’t afford to lose that money.”
A shadow of a smile touches my friend’s lips. “Then I guess you’d better last at least two rounds.”
“It’s time!” Yakow’s voice cuts through the air before I can respond. “Fighters, approach. Everyone else, out of the way.”
Izachar claps me on the back before he and the other bettors hike farther up the riverbank. Now only Jumo, Yakow, and I remain at the water’s edge.
“I want a clean fight,” Yakow warns. “Round one will begin on the count of three, when you hear my bell.” He produces a tiny silver one from his pocket. “One, two—”
Jumo and I both move before the word three ever leaves the bookmaker’s lips. He backs away quickly as Jumo lowers his head and charges me like the bull he’s been named for. Instinct kicks in, and I duck just in time to hear the whoosh of air as his fist sails inches above my head. A rush of adrenaline courses through me, and I try to stay calm as I dance out of his reach. Jumo may be stronger than me, but I’ve got faster reflexes. Babu would tell me to take advantage of that, so I do. The next time Jumo swings, I pivot, then shove him in the small of his back. The move throws him off-balance, and he falls flat on his face, earning laughter from the spectators. Jumo springs to his feet, pawing mud from his mouth and snarling.
Good, says Babu’s imaginary voice. If he’s angry, he’s not in control. And if he’s not in control, you have the upper hand. Use that.
I’m ready when Jumo rushes me again. He’s more aggressive this time, using his bulk and a series of punches to drive me toward the river. I’m careful to stay just out of his reach.
“Is this how you fight?” Jumo jeers. “You won’t even try to hit me?”
The third time he advances,
I flinch, pretending to be afraid, but I don’t move back. He’s so intent on landing a punch now that he lowers his guard, and that’s the opening I need. With everything I have, I swing my fist upward. There’s a satisfying click when my knuckles meet Jumo’s jaw, followed by a splintering pain in my right hand. Jumo reels back, and there are cries of surprise from several of the bettors. When I glance at the banks, I see Izachar whooping, and hope swells within me.
Then my world explodes in a shower of stars.
My body flies backward, slamming down hard in the mud. Distantly, I understand what’s happened; I shouldn’t have looked away from Jumo, even for a second. The river laps at me, soaking through my clothes as I lie there, but that barely registers over the ringing in my ears. It takes a moment for the sharp ache between my eyes to find me. Something warm gushes over my lips and dribbles down my chin. When I look down, I see huge blots of red staining the front of my tunic.
My nose is broken.
Yield. The new voice in my head sounds suspiciously like Izachar’s as I rise, unsteady. Yield before you get killed.
I can’t, I argue back, I need the money.
The ringing in my head has faded enough for me to hear the bettors’ cheers and boos. I blink hard, willing Jumo’s blurred outline to sharpen as he leers.
“You want some more, kid?” He cracks his knuckles, and I fight a wave of nausea as I spit blood. “Yield, if you know what’s good for you.”
“No.” My words come out thick, but audible. “I’m not done.”
Jumo’s brows rise in momentary surprise, but then he starts toward me, his hands curled into fists. There’s a new look of resolve on his face, and I understand that the next time he hits me I won’t be getting up. He means to kill me. I try to muster the strength to raise my guard, to move, but everything hurts now. I don’t have anything left.
Time slows to a crawl in those last few seconds. In the space between them, I let myself think about Danya one last time. I think of her smile, and the beads she wears in her hair sometimes. My throat tightens when I think about her smile.
I failed you, Danya. It’s an apology she’ll never hear. I’m sorry.
Jumo is nearly upon me, and I brace myself for death. I anticipate pain, and the quiet that’ll come in the after. What I don’t anticipate is the tiny rock that hurtles through the air and hits him on the shoulder.
“HEY, DUNGHEAD!”
My head snaps right at the same time Jumo looks up, confused. In the darkness, it takes a beat, but then I see: Someone else is making their way down the river’s sloping bank. I have a sudden, sinking feeling. Seconds later, my worst fears are confirmed.
“Namina?”
The tufts of kinky black hair poking out of my sister’s night bonnet would normally be funny, but any humor to be found in this situation is canceled out immediately by the force of Namina’s glare as she tucks a small slingshot back into her dress’s belt loop. Jumo looks between us, scowling.
“Who are you?” he asks. She soundly ignores him and keeps staring at me.
“Namina.” I gape at her. “What are you doing here?”
“I could ask you the same,” my sister says coolly. “Trying to get yourself killed in an illegal prizefight, really? Have you lost your mind?”
She’s scolding me the way our mother would. Involuntarily, my face grows warm. “Stay out of it, Nam.”
I expect another glare, but instead my sister’s shoulders slump. “We’ve already buried Babu,” she murmurs. “And you would have us bury you too.”
Guilt slams into me like a sack of stones.
“Hey!” One of the bettors steps forward. “I placed a wager. Is there going to be a fight or not?”
Namina throws the man a withering look before marching down the rest of the slope. She comes to a stop in the small space between Jumo and me, then crosses her arms.
“What’s this?” Yakow suddenly steps forward, looking bewildered. “What are you doing, girl?”
My sister scowls at the bookmaker. “Last time I checked, prizefights were illegal in Kugawanya,” she says, “especially fights involving minors like my brother. I’d bet that there are quite a few people in this city who’d be very interested in finding out who’s organizing them.” She gives Yakow a meaningful look, and the old man’s brows knit. Their silent standoff lasts less than a minute.
“Everyone, clear out!” the bookmaker says tersely. “This fight’s canceled. You’ll all be refunded in full, minus my convenience fee.”
“What convenience fee?” asks one of the men.
“The convenience of holding all your coins, fool!” snaps Yakow. “This bag’s heavy, and I have sciatica!”
Jumo makes a disgusted sound, then stalks away. There are groans of disappointment among the bettors, but no one seems eager to test my sister’s threat. While Yakow issues refunds, I face her.
“Do they know?” I ask. “Mother and Father?”
“Nope,” says Namina. “I snuck out about ten minutes after you.” She frowns. “Is your nose broken?”
“Probably.”
“Then you’re a dunghead too.”
I chuckle, wince at the very real pain in my nose, then note the sky overhead. Already, the first hints of pale morning light are bleeding into the dark, and the stars are winking out one by one. “We should get home.”
Namina nods. We’re only two years apart, but in that moment, she looks so much older than her fifteen years. I watch as she goes ahead of me, hiking up the bank and stopping halfway to let Izachar offer her a hand. I sigh as I catch the unmistakable look that passes between them. The idea of my best friend courting my sister isn’t exactly exciting, but I suppose I could learn to be okay with it, eventually. Izachar and I would definitely need to have a talk, but—
“You got lucky, kid.”
I didn’t hear Jumo return. Now he’s standing right behind me with mud on his face.
“You know if your sister hadn’t saved you, I’d have won,” he says.
I smile despite my broken nose. Jumo wants a reaction, and I know it’ll only frustrate him more if I don’t give him one. I also don’t want to dwell on the fact that he’s probably right. Somewhere in the back of my mind, I know I’ll have to deal with the other consequence of this fight being canceled—I didn’t get the money I needed—but that’s a problem for later. I start up the riverbank, but Jumo’s voice carries.
“Your sister’s pretty,” he calls after me. “Not as nice as the one you wanted the prize money for, though. I’ve heard they call her the Rose of Kugawanya. What’s her real name, again? Danya?”
The words snag on something in me, but I keep walking. Up ahead, Izachar and Namina have slowed. They’re waiting for me, and still holding hands.
“She likes when her pups do tricks for her,” Jumo continues. “You must be her third prizefighter this month.”
I stop short and turn. “What?”
Jumo grins. “Ah, you didn’t know.” He actually sounds sorry. “Let me guess: She told you that her father would only allow her to marry you if you could come up with the money for a bride price.” His eyes glitter with malice. “She told you that she loved you, maybe even let you kiss her a few times so you’d really believe it.”
“You don’t know what you’re talking about,” I snap, but my voice trembles.
Jumo shakes his head. “You got fleeced, kid. You’re all the same to girls like her, just a bunch of foolish, lovesick—”
I lunge.
Someone shouts my name, but it’s too late. Jumo and I collide, and the world upends as the two of us roll back down the riverbank in a mess of limbs and dirt. Fresh, nauseating pain lances through my broken nose, but I blink it away and pick myself up at the same time Jumo gets to his feet. I hear people running toward us, and there’s more shouting, but I don’t care anymore. Jumo’s words run on a sickening loop in my head.
She likes when her pups do tricks for her.
I don’t remember making the decision to summon the splendor, I only notice when the hairs on the backs of my arms and neck stand on end as I do it. The energy courses through me, hot and frantic. I’m supposed to let it move through me; instead, I allow the energy to build up inside me until a shape forms in my right hand: a glittering dagger. Jumo draws in a sharp breath at the sight of it, and I savor his fear as I advance.
He called you a daraja freak, says a savage voice in my head. He lied about Danya. Now we make him pay.
“Akande!”
Someone tugs at my right arm, trying to pull me back. A rush of the splendor swells within me and my hand cuts through the air, shaking them off. There’s a distant thud, but my gaze is on Jumo. He looks from me to something over my shoulder, then his jaw drops.
That’s when I hear the scream.
“NO!”
The sound tears through me, snapping me out of a daze I didn’t even realize I was in. The dagger vanishes from my hand as the splendor dissipates, and slowly I turn toward that wretched sound. It takes a moment for me to understand what I’m looking at—who I’m looking at.
There’s a body on the ground behind me. I recognize the curly black hair, the oak-brown skin that’s just like mine. What I don’t understand is why Izachar’s not moving, why my friend’s hands are limp at his neck. I don’t understand why there’s so much blood gushing between his fingers. A dull buzzing fills my ears as Namina falls to her knees beside him and begins to wail.
“What?” My own voice sounds distorted in my head. “What’s wrong with him?”
“He’s dead.” Jumo’s still standing a few feet from me. He looks nauseated. “You killed him, with that . . . thing.”
I shake my head as my mouth gets sticky. In my periphery, I see people—the bettors—gathering at the top of the slope and staring down at us. There’s a second scream, followed by a third. Someone calls for help. My legs go numb.
“I didn’t . . .” I stumble away from Jumo, from Namina, from Izachar's
lifeless body. “I didn’t mean to— I didn’t . . .”
No one’s listening to me anymore. Namina screams again, and my lungs constrict. It’s impossible to breathe, and I can’t stop staring at Izachar’s slashed throat. I can’t stop thinking about the fact that there was a dagger in my hand, and now there’s not.
He’s dead. You killed him, with that . . . thing.
No one’s looking at me anymore. No one notices when I turn and run.
CHAPTER 1DIVINE WORKKOFFI
What Koffi remembered most vividly about her dreams was the boy.
She’d never met him in real life—of that, she was certain—and yet in her sleep their paths seemed determined to keep tangling. He was umber-skinned and tall, with curly black hair and dark eyes that hinted at mischief. They stood, facing each other, until she spoke.
“What do you want?” she asked.
No answer, but this wasn’t new. The boy in her dreams never actually spoke to her, or answered the questions she posed to him. He just watched her with that same knowing half smile. Eventually, he turned from her. Then, without warning, he broke into a run.
“Hey!” Koffi ran after him. “Stop!”
The boy’s steps quickened. He was leading her through a land she’d seen only in these dreams, an expanse of flat golden savanna offset by a cloudless blue sky.
“Wait!” she called after the boy. He was heading toward a lone baobab tree. One impish look over his shoulder was all he offered before disappearing behind it. Koffi slowed.
“Who are you?” she asked as she approached the tree. “I keep seeing you, and I—”
There was no boy on the other side of the tree. Instead, she found an entirely different person: a grown man. He had clay-red eyes, smooth mahogany skin, and an all-too-familiar smile as he leaned against the tree’s trunk and took her in.
“Hello, Little Knife,” said the god of death.
Koffi backed away, but Fedu mirrored the motion, pushing off from the tree and moving closer. She noticed he was limping.
“Don’t bother to run,” he said lightly, “there’s no escaping, at least not here.”
“How are you in my dreams?” Koffi tried to steady her voice, but it trembled.
Fedu smiled. “You and I are connected, Koffi.” He stared out at the grasslands around them. “We are connected by your power, and by a shared vision for this world.”
“We don’t have the same vision for this world,” said Koffi coldly.
“No?” Fedu arched a brow. “You don’t wish for a world where darajas like you could live freely?”
“Not when it’s made from genocide, mass destruction, and the deaths of all non-darajas,” said Koffi.
The god shrugged. “I believe we’ve already spoken about the costs of progress.” He took another step forward, then winced, and Koffi didn’t miss the way he touched his stomach, his thigh. The question escaped her before she could stop it.
“What’s wrong with you?”
Fedu massaged his closed eyelids and took a deep breath. “I am still recovering from the blows you dealt me when we battled outside the Mistwood.”
It wasn’t the answer Koffi had expected. “You’re a god,” she said. “I shouldn’t have been able to hurt you at all.”
Fedu’s eyes opened slowly. “No,” he agreed, “you shouldn’t have. And yet . . .” He gestured at his own body. “You have further proven what I'd
begun to suspect from the moment you took the splendor from Adiah’s body with such ease. I always knew that you were powerful, Koffi. But what you did to me? That was divine work, exquisitely destructive. We are alike, even more so than I could have imagined.”
“I’m not anything like you,” Koffi bit back. She wanted to run, but fear rooted her to the ground. “I would never hurt people the way you have.”
Fedu’s smile was now pitying. “So said the lioness to the hunter,” he mused. “You do remember that lesson, I take it?”
Koffi stiffened. She didn’t want to remember the story the god had once told her. But in her mind’s eye, she saw the lioness and the hunter from that tale clearly, both fighting to the death, and both believing until the end that the other was the true villain. She swallowed, then deflected the question. “We’ll stop you,” she said in a fiercer voice. “And we’ll make sure your plan never comes to fruition.”
“We?” Fedu looked amused now. “Do you mean your so-called friends?” He moved to stand before her with inhuman speed despite his limp. “Tell me,” he whispered in her ear, “are you so sure those friends would stand by you if they knew how dangerous you really are?”
I’m not dangerous. Koffi tried to speak, but the words wouldn’t come. Fedu put a hand on her shoulder, ice-cold to the touch.
“Make no mistake, Little Knife,” he said, “you may be out of my physical grasp, but I still hold you. You will do my bidding in the end because I know your weaknesses. Know that I will exploit every single one.”
“No.” Koffi tried to pull away, but Fedu’s grip on her tightened. In the grasslands around them, gray bodies began rising from the dirt.
“No!” Koffi was thrashing now, but it was to no avail. Fedu held her anchored as the Untethered drew closer. “No, no, no—”
“Koffi!”
Koffi opened her eyes. A new voice had pulled her from the nightmare. For a moment, she thought of her mother, but the woman now staring down at her was unfamiliar. She wore her hair in tight silver Bantu knots, and faint lines wrinkled her coppery skin. Her expression was full of concern.
“It’s all right,” she said gently. “Drink this.”
Koffi made herself breathe, but her body didn’t relax. She sat up and drank when the woman offered her a large gourd of water. Only once she’d lowered it did she look around.
She wasn’t in the grasslands from her dream anymore, but she didn’t know this place either. It looked to be some sort of tent. Its air held a stiff chill, and
instinctively she drew the thin blanket covering her body up to her chin. The unfamiliar woman sat back, as if waiting.
“Where am I?” Koffi croaked. A more urgent question came to her. “What have you done to my friends?”
“Everyone’s fine,” said the woman patiently. “You can join them after you’ve—”
Koffi jumped to her feet and instantly regretted it. She wasn’t wearing much besides her tunic, a fact that became pronounced when a frigid gust of air blew into the tent without warning. Goose bumps rose on her arms, and her stomach growled.
“As I was saying.” The woman—Koffi still had no idea who she was—got to her feet more slowly and crossed her arms. “You can join them after you’ve had something to eat.”
Koffi stared at her. “I don’t know you. You could have—”
“My dear, if I had any intention of harming you, I’ve had ample time to do so,” said the woman wryly. “Which means, either I am the world’s worst assassin, or . . . I don’t mean you any harm.”
Koffi had no immediate response to this.
“Now,” the woman went on, “I have dried and salted meats and dried apricot here.” She raised a brow. “You won’t be leaving this tent to see the others until you eat, young lady. And don’t get any cute ideas—I may be short, but I’m as sturdy and stubborn as an old hippo when I want to be.”
Koffi eyed the tent’s exit, and as if reading her mind, the woman shifted to place herself in front of it. She certainly looked like she meant business. Koffi recognized a battle lost.
“Fine,” she grumbled.
Mollified, the woman gestured for Koffi to sit back down and shut the tent’s door flap more firmly before dropping a sack of wrapped food into her lap. Koffi had planned to eat the minimum amount required, but as soon as she pulled out the first strip of salted beef, her mouth watered in earnest. She ate until she was full, then took another long swig of water before addressing the woman again.
“Who are you?”
“My name’s Abeke,” said the woman. “I work for a group called the Enterprise.”
That answer inspired a whole host of new questions, but Koffi focused on the most pressing.
“You said if you had any intention of harming me, you’ve had ample time to do so.” She paused. “How long have I been out?”
“A few days,” Abeke murmured.
Days. Koffi’s breath caught. Her last recollection was from the edge of the Mistwood;
now she had no idea where she was or how she’d gotten here. It left her feeling unmoored. Her pulse quickened.
“There’s not much in the way of extra clothes.” Abeke interrupted Koffi’s thoughts. “But I’ll see if I can find you something. In the meantime . . .” She tossed over a cloak, then set about riffling through the other sacks. Koffi panned the rest of the tent, trying to combat her disorientation by gathering clues about where she was. She saw that only a small corner of the tent had been allotted for her tiny bed pallet; the rest was filled with stacks of wrapped food, stoppered water gourds, and—strangely enough—entire crates full of tiny pouches. She leaned forward to examine them more closely and realized she recognized them. ...
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