The handle of the Ida felt solid in his grip, worn smooth by years of use. It was an ordinary blade but with special meaning. His father had once helped him forge it in the small workshop behind their hut, hammering metal over fire until the sparks danced in the dark. It was an Ida—or looked more like an Ida than a cutlass—broad and heavy, its black blade carrying a faint red stain that had never faded since the day it was made. His father had laughed then, saying that the stain was proof the blade had spirit.
His father had gone to war not long after. The warriors of the king had taken him, saying his strength was needed. That was many seasons ago. He never came back. People said he was dead. His mother did not like to speak about it. But the Ida remained, and every time he held it, he felt as if his father's hand was still guiding his own.
He was no longer a child. At sixteen, a boy was already a man, and he had learned to work the farm with his own hands.
That morning, he woke before dawn. The stars were still faint in the sky, and the moon hung pale over the sleeping huts of the village. The cocks crowed, calling one another from compound to compound. He splashed water on his face from the clay pot his mother kept near the doorway, then sat with her for a quick meal of roasted yam and oil.
She teased him, as she always did, about his appetite.
"You eat as if you are two men," she said, smiling. "If I don't watch you, you will eat the farm before you even reach it."
He laughed, shaking his head. "Better I eat it than let the goats get to it."
She tapped his arm with mock annoyance, but her eyes softened.
His mother had never remarried after his father was taken. Some men had asked, but she always refused. "I have all I need," she would say. She carried herself with quiet strength, but her eyes sometimes lingered too long on the horizon, as though waiting for someone who would never return. Still, she worked hard, traded shrewdly, and raised him with both discipline and warmth.
He slung the hoe over one shoulder, gripped the Ida in the other, and set out.
The path out of the village was already alive. Farmers with hoes balanced on their shoulders greeted him with a wave or a nod. "Ah, you are late today!" one called, grinning, though the sky was still streaked with the first light of dawn.
"Better late than lazy," he replied, and the men laughed.
Hunters padded past, lean and alert, bows across their backs and quivers rattling. They moved with the quiet steps of men used to the bush. One of them, a man with a gray beard, clapped him on the shoulder as he passed. "Your arm is strong. Soon we will take you with us into the forest."
He grinned but said nothing. Farming was enough work for now.
A little farther along, he met palm-wine tappers with ropes slung across their chests. Their gourds clinked as they walked. One of them, old Kande, always had a joke.
"Careful with that Ida of yours," Kande said. "If you swing it carelessly, the palm trees will fall in fear, and then what will I tap?"
They laughed together, the sound easy and bright.
Then came the women, balancing baskets on their heads as they hurried to the market in the next town. They were already chattering among themselves, bargaining in advance, gossiping about who had quarreled with who, who had given birth, who had been seen sneaking into another's compound. They greeted him warmly as they passed, and he bowed his head respectfully.
One of them, an older woman with sharp eyes, muttered as she walked past, "The roads are not safe. Too many whispers of raiders these days."
Another replied, "And the king's wars spread like fire. They take men, they take food. If we are not careful, they will take everything."
Their voices faded as they hurried on, but their words lingered in his mind.
The truth was, everyone had heard the same stories—villages raided at night, people carried away in chains by slavers, bandits growing bold, soldiers conscripting men by force. War was moving through the land like a sickness. But here, in his village, life still felt steady, like the soil under his feet. He held on to that comfort.
The farms lay just beyond the village, past the tall grass and scattered palm trees. He worked as he always did—cutting weeds, loosening earth, tying yam stalks. Sweat poured down his face and soaked his tunic, but it was honest sweat, and he welcomed it.
Sometimes, when he paused to catch his breath, he thought of his father's voice—teaching him how to swing a hammer, how to bend iron, how to strike and not flinch at the sparks. He could almost hear the clang of the anvil, the rush of the bellows, the steady rhythm of fire and steel.
By the time the sun began to sink, his back ached and his hands were blistered, but his heart was calm. He wiped his brow, sheathed the Ida at his side, and started back home. His stomach growled at the thought of his mother's food—she would have a pot ready, perhaps using the meat his trap caught yesterday, maybe even with some foreign seasoning if she had traded well at the market.
The path home was lined with palm trees, their fronds swaying gently in the evening breeze. Birds chirped as they returned to their nests. Everything felt normal. Peaceful. He even whistled a little as he walked, tapping the Ida against his leg in rhythm.
But as he drew closer to the village, something felt wrong.
At first, he noticed only the silence. Usually, by this time, the air was filled with voices—children laughing, women calling, goats bleating, drums beating faintly from one corner or another, and other farmers coming back from their fields. But now there was nothing.
Then the smell reached him.
Smoke. Not the soft, woody smell of cooking fires, but something harsher. He slowed his steps, sniffing the air. The smell grew stronger as he neared the first cluster of huts.
He froze when he saw the smoke rising.
Not from hearths, but from roofs. Thick, black smoke curling into the sky, carrying with it the stench of burning thatch and charred flesh. His chest tightened. He dropped the hoe and ran.
The first body he saw was old Kande, the palm-wine tapper. His throat was cut, and his gourd lay spilled beside him. The ground was stained dark with blood. Flies swarmed over his face.
His heart raced as he stumbled past, his eyes darting wildly. More bodies appeared—men, women, children. Some had fallen where they ran. Others had been cut down in their huts. The huts themselves were burning, collapsing into ash.
The sound of flies filled the air, loud as drums.
He staggered forward, whispering names, calling out, his voice breaking. "Mother… Mother!"
There was no answer. Only the hiss of burning straw, the crackle of wood collapsing into embers.
At the center of the village, the earth was scarred with deep, heavy prints. Hooves. Many of them. The marks of horses, circling like vultures. Warriors had come, armed men on horseback, raiders who struck like storms and left nothing behind.
His legs felt weak beneath him. His hands trembled as he clutched the Ida. His mind reeled, trying to understand, but the truth pressed on him like a weight too heavy to bear.
He fell to his knees. His breath came fast, ragged, choking. He wanted to scream, to deny what he saw, but the silence of the village swallowed every word.
Memories of his mother rose before him—her laughter, her voice calling his name, her hands brushing his hair back when he was younger. She had been his world. She was gone now, swallowed by fire and blade.
His chest tightened until it felt as though it would burst. His eyes blurred with tears he could not stop.
Something broke inside him.
The scream that tore from his throat was raw and endless. It ripped through the dead air of the village, shaking his body until his voice cracked. He swung the Ida wildly, striking the ground, striking the ash, striking nothing at all. Each blow sent sparks leaping into the night, the black blade glowing faintly as if it fed on his rage.
He slashed at the sky, at the earth, at the ruins, his arms moving faster, harder, until his muscles burned and his palms bled. His voice rose into a roar that was no longer human, but something deeper, older, pulled from the core of his soul.
The Ida seemed to hum in his grip, a steady vibration that matched the pounding of his heart. For a moment, he felt as though the blade were alive, answering his fury with a hunger of its own. Its edge, once clean, now gleamed with a wet, red sheen, as though blood itself had seeped into the metal.
His vision swam. The world blurred. Fire and ash twisted into shapes he could not understand. His body shook, his knees buckled, and the blade slipped in his hands though he clung to it desperately.
The roar in his ears grew louder, louder still, until it was not just his voice but something greater, rising from the ground, from the smoke, from the very air around him.
And then
Everything went dark.