Father stands in his night robes, scanning a faded map. No sign of hatred. Not even a hint of disgust.
For him, carving MAGGOT into a girl’s back is just another day’s work.“How will me coming back to Lagos solve any of that?” I ask. “As we speak, your father calls for my head!”
“My father’s scared.” Inan shakes his head. “He’s misguided, but his fear is justified. All the monarchy’s ever seen is the destruction maji can bring. They’ve never experienced anything like this.” He gestures to the camp, face alight with so much hope his smile practically glows in the darkness. “Zulaikha created this in one moon, and there are already more diviners in Lagos than anywhere else in Orïsha. Just imagine what we could accomplish with the resources of the monarchy behind us.”We zip through the crowd while celebrants thrust and shimmy by our sides. Though part of me wants to cry, I crane my neck to take in the crowd, craving their joy, their life.
The children of Orïsha dance like there’s no tomorrow, each step praising the gods. Their mouths glorify the rapture of liberation, their hearts sing the Yoruba songs of freedom. My ears dance at the words of my language, words I once thought I’d never hear outside my head. They seem to light up the air with their delight.“Your people, your guards. They’re nothing more than killers, rapists and thieves. The only difference between them and criminals is the uniforms they wear.”
This sadly reminds me of how some countries are, that their police systems are just as bad a everyday criminals and that they break their own laws everyday. It also reminds me of the police brutality going on everywhere and all the protects and movements that are happening .Now it takes everything to gain control. No matter how hard I fight, the risk of feeling Zélie’s pain lingers. A constant and growing threat.
A message I take from this is that Inan is so afraid of zelie seeing that he knows his kingdom is corrupt and that what they are doing is wrong, that his father is a bad guy.
I pause for a moment, aghast at the number of them filling the narrow path. Before today, I caught only glimpses of the laborers brought in to staff the palace—always pleasant, clean, groomed to Mother’s satisfaction. Like Binta, I thought they lived simple lives, safe within the palace walls. I never considered where they came from, where else they might have ended up,
“Skies…” It’s almost too hard to bear the sight. Mostly diviners, the laborers outnumber the villagers by hordes, dressed in nothing but tattered rags. Their dark skin blisters under the scorching sun, marred by the dirt and sand seemingly burned into their beings. Each is hardly more than a walking skeleton.
