The Ancestor’s Bets

A novel excerpt by MOHAMED MAMDUOH HEBESHY

The Black Feather Tornado

It was an ordinary day, like any of those she had stopped counting— days when he decided to discipline her for one thing or another. She always seemed to do something deserving of punishment, or so he repeated. Today, he saw her laughing with the son of the Belgian woman who owned the workshop where she worked. Yesterday, it was because part of her body had been exposed. But today was different: she did not stand still to receive the slaps and kicks. Instead, she screamed in his face and fled, running as fast as her thin legs would carry her.

From a distance, Fatima spotted her friend Amina fleeing from her brother Moussa. Fatima knew the kind of abuse her friend endured at Moussa’s hands, especially after their father’s death and their older brother Ahmed’s escape to join Boko Haram. Amina didn’t need to tell her; the bruises and scrapes said it all.

Under the sweltering heat, Amina looked like a ghost, her figure wavering like a mirage on the horizon. Moussa chased her with a flexible bamboo stick in hand. Every time he got close, he struck her back, yet she refused to stop. Her clothes tore, revealing two long welts running down her back. Fatima raced toward her, hoping she could save her friend or at least share her punishment. As she drew closer, she saw that the welts were deep wounds carved by Moussa’s merciless stick. Blood oozed from the gashes.

Suddenly, black feathers brushed against Moussa’s face and entered his eyes. He blamed the wind, but when he looked around, he saw no sign of it. Fatima thought she imagined it, but it seemed the feathers were sprouting from Amina’s wounds. Each drop of blood that left her friend’s body dried almost instantly, transforming into a feather.

Fatima tried to shield her friend, but Moussa knocked her down with a fierce punch, bloodying her nose and mouth. She collapsed to the ground as the black feathers multiplied, filling the air with their density. They began spinning rapidly, forming a tornado with Amina at its center. The whirlwind emitted a sound [that could only be] from the depths of hell. Moussa froze in place, dropping the sweat-slick stick from his hand. But it wasn’t the terrifying tornado that immobilized him; it was what happened next. When he finally got close enough to grab Amina, his hand found nothing but feathers, the very essence of the storm.

His eyes widened in terror. He could no longer deny what he had seen: the feathers emerged from Amina’s wounds. Then, as his bladder betrayed him, immense black wings erupted from her back. They unfolded to the cracking sound of bones, a noise unlike any he had heard in his life.

The wings first appeared encased in a translucent membrane, like the sacs that envelop newborn creatures. When the wings stretched for the first time, the membrane tore. As the wings moved, they sprayed blood everywhere, drenching Moussa and painting the scene crimson.

Amina’s wings flapped, creating a sound louder than the dreadful tornado. Dust rose in waves, and slowly, the wings lifted her off the ground. Her feet no longer touched the earth. She spread her wings wide, like the sails of a colossal ship. She floated toward her friend, who lay motionless on the ground, her bloodied face twisted in pain. Amina hovered above Fatima, her vast wings casting a protective shadow that blocked out the sun.

Time seemed to stretch endlessly. Amina felt pain searing through her body, unbearable and relentless. Darkness swallowed her vision, and she fell beside her friend, unconscious.

Amina never woke from her fainting spell but instead sank into a long coma. As for Moussa, he lost the ability to speak, unable to recount what he had witnessed. Fatima, for her part, couldn’t decide whether to believe her own eyes or dismiss what she had seen. One thing she knew for certain was that Amina wasn’t like other children. There was something mysterious about her.

The tales Amina shared daily about ancient battles, old kingdoms, warring knights, and lovers who met in secret behind their feuding tribes— she described them with the detail and passion of someone who had lived them, not merely heard about them. The two girls had met at a charity association established by a Belgian woman in the village. From the moment Fatima saw Amina, she knew they would become close friends, though she couldn’t explain why. It was a feeling that seeped into her like a mysterious fragrance carried by winds from distant forests. She embraced the feeling, and soon it became reality.

Fatima vividly remembered the day Amina embroidered a scene onto a piece of cloth— a depiction of Queen Amina as a young girl. Before starting her work, Amina narrated the story to Fatima, speaking with her entire being. Her enthusiasm shone through her eyes, which seemed to glow with an otherworldly light. Fatima thought she saw Amina’s eye color change, or perhaps it was just an illusion.

Amina described how the young queen-to-be played beside a shallow river, just minutes away from her city of Zazzau, separated from the rest of the vast Hausa lands. At the time, Amina was not yet a queen, nor did she dream of becoming one. She loved spending time alone, away from the other girls, with whom she found little in common, and from the boys, whom her mother forbade her to play with despite her love for competing with them in races and combat.

Amina stared at her reflection in the water, moving faster and more violently than the river’s flow. She wasn’t fond of her features and grew more dissatisfied each time she looked at herself.

She either fell asleep or fainted suddenly. When she awoke, night had fallen, enveloping her like an old friend. She never stayed outside the city walls after dark, but there was a first time for everything.

She was startled by the sight of a woman watching her from afar, a cryptic smile on her face that sent chills coursing through Amina’s body. The smile seemed to grow more unsettling with each passing moment. Terrified, Amina turned and ran, her legs carrying her as fast as her small lungs could sustain her. But no matter how far she ran, she found herself back where she started, face-to-face with the enigmatic woman.

The woman’s laughter echoed louder each time Amina failed to break free from the invisible circle surrounding her. “Aren’t you tired yet?” the woman asked in a deep voice that seemed to emanate from the heart of the forests or the peaks of the mountains encircling the Hausa lands.

Amina didn’t respond. She was too out of breath. She tried one last time, hoping this attempt would break the cycle. Nothing changed. She collapsed at the woman’s feet, utterly exhausted.

The woman, massive as though she had just stepped out of a grandmother’s folktale, extended a hand. “Calm down, Amina. You can’t escape me. And I don’t think you should try. I’m here to help you.”

Amina struggled to catch her breath. She wanted to try running again, or at least ask how this stranger knew her name, why she claimed to want to help, and who she was. But Amina couldn’t muster the strength to speak.

“I’ll answer all your questions, but each has its time, and every answer has its moment. Who am I? Isn’t that the question that’s weighing on your little mind the most?” The woman’s words surprised Amina, as if she could read her thoughts.

“Your fate has already been woven, young one, and I am here to reveal it to you. I will witness some of its moments unfolding. I am a thought in the minds of the ancestors, a phrase they speak when they will it. I am Magnar.”

Amina steadied herself and dared to speak for the first time in the woman’s presence. “What is my fate?”

Magnar smiled again, but this time her smile brought peace to Amina, filling her with a strange tranquility. “Your fate is to unite the will of the ancestors and fulfill their desire to bring together the lands from which they emerged, to return as one with the earth and seize eternity.”

Amina’s face reflected astonishment, confusion, and incomprehension. Her mouth hung open, and saliva dripped down. Magnar continued her prophecy, one Amina neither sought nor understood how to grasp.

“Seven tales of defeated kings, seven pairs, seven kingdoms,” Magnar said, revealing enormous black wings that seemed like two walls suspended in mid-air. She flapped them, stirring up a storm of thick dust mixed with feathers. The storm surrounded Amina, plunging her into complete darkness. She couldn’t tell whether the blackness was from the storm or if she had fainted again. All she knew was that she kept calling for the mysterious woman who vanished into the distant, dark horizon.

“Magnar… Magnar…”

Amina’s Coma

The fever struck Amina Zazu. Her body trembled violently, and beads of sweat drenched the palm-frond bed beneath her. The sweat poured relentlessly, so much so that a servant swore she saw the dry, pale stalks of the bed turning green, as if life itself were quietly coursing back through the veins of the withered branches.

No one around her could make sense of what was happening. Her mother, alarmed by her daughter’s troubling state, poured her fury on Amina’s caretaker and nanny, Zainab. Zainab received the queen’s anger in silence, with deep bows of apology: “She slipped away from me… She wandered to the back courtyard of the palace to play, and I didn’t notice her absence. Then sleep overtook me against my will.”

Amina’s mother silenced Zainab with a harsh glare from her kohl-lined eyes, their whites reddened by the tears she’d shed in secret over her daughter’s condition. No one had ever seen her cry— not since the day she decided she would never cry again.

She remembered that morning clearly, the morning she bid farewell to her own mother forever. She had wept openly as they carried her mother’s body away. But when she caught the pitying glances of the palace women, the aunts, and cousins who had come to participate in the final farewell, a deep sense of contempt seized her— contempt for their false sympathy, contempt for her own weakness in allowing herself to become the object of such pity. Since then, she had banished tears from her life. For twenty-five summers, not a single day had seen her cry. But that night, as the head of the palace guards carried Amina to her small bed, everything changed.

He had found the girl lying by the nearby river, her body convulsing violently. Her spasms were so intense, he thought he could hear her bones nearly shattering under the strain. He approached her quickly, and the moment his hand touched her shoulder, the convulsions ceased. Amina turned her gaze to him— her bulging, unblinking eyes frozen in a terrifying stare.

But what truly unsettled the guard was the vision he thought he saw in her eyes— two fiery red orbs glowing behind the glassy surface of her pupils, like embers flickering in the depths of her soul.

Then, suddenly, she closed her eyes and collapsed, lifeless.

“I’ve seen horrors in countless battles, sights no words have ever been invented to describe,” he thought. “But nothing has ever terrified me more than the look in the princess’s eyes tonight.”

Yet all his fear melted away when Amina Zazu opened her eyes again. Her tear-filled gaze shimmered as the dancing light of the torches reflected in them. Tears spilled freely down her cheeks, and her mother quickly wiped them away, smiling despite her body waging its own battle to suppress the torrent of tears threatening to overwhelm her.

Her hand trembled, just as it had during her mother’s funeral. This time, she gave in. A flood of warm tears streamed from her eyes like a raging torrent rushing down from the mountain peaks. She wept—finally wept—as she wiped away the tears flowing from her daughter’s face with the same hand.

In the far corner of the room, Fatima stood, tears streaming down her face as she gazed at her friend Amina, lost in a coma since the fateful chase with Moussa.

The doctor entered, accompanied by Janet, the Belgian woman who owned the workshop where Fatima and Amina worked. It was Janet who had summoned the doctor as soon as she learned of what had happened.

Janet stood beside Fatima, wrapping an arm around her as she fixed her gaze on Amina’s bed while the doctor examined her. “Don’t worry,” Janet murmured. “He’ll tell us she’s okay now.”

The doctor approached them. “I can’t find any physical cause for Amina’s coma,” he explained. “She only has bruises and abrasions from Moussa’s assault. None of these injuries are severe enough to cause such a deep coma. I suspect the cause is psychological.”

“I wanted to transfer her to the capital,” he continued, “but her mother refused, insisting that the tribal doctor see her first. But if her condition doesn’t improve, she must be taken to the capital.”

Janet moved closer to Amina’s bed. She kissed the girl’s forehead, holding her small, unresponsive hand between her own, and whispered a wish for her recovery. She then turned to Amina’s mother and gently inquired why she had refused to take her daughter to one of the hospitals in the capital. Janet assured her that she would cover all the expenses herself.

Amina’s mother’s face flickered with a swirl of conflicting emotions. “Let the tribal doctor examine her first,” she said, with as much calm and borrowed dignity as she could muster.

Janet sensed the resistance hidden behind the mother’s polite facade and chose to let the matter rest. 

“I’ll take my leave now,” Janet said. “I hope the tribal doctor can reassure you where this doctor could not.”

Her words weren’t meant to provoke or remind the woman of her generosity— they were merely a gesture of goodwill and peace. Amina’s mother nodded and offered a smile that refused to fully materialise on her face.

As Janet opened the door to leave, a firm hand gripped her shoulder, stopping her in her tracks. It was Zainab.

“Keep Ryan away from Amina,” she said firmly. “It will be better for both of them— for all of us.”

Then, just as quickly, Zainab withdrew her hand and disappeared. Janet nodded silently. “Goodnight, Zainab,” she replied before stepping out into the night.

The Golden Dagger

The river’s murmur continued to seep into Amina Zazu’s ears as she ventured deeper into the forest that bordered its shore. She felt reassured by its sound, as though it were a lifeline anchoring her to safety. As long as the sound reached her, she knew she hadn’t strayed far, that the specter of getting lost was still a distant threat.

Amina paused, glancing around her in quiet anticipation. An unshakable certainty gripped her: she would meet Magnar here again. The mysterious woman, otherworldly in her presence, was an echo of the ancestors— a whispered word defying the passage of time, refusing to die or be forgotten.

“Stop!”

The voice cut through the air like a blade, cold and commanding. “You are desecrating the sacred lands of the ancestors!”

Amina froze where she stood, her body trembling with fear. The weight of ancestral wrath bore down on her, suffocating in its intensity. She recognised the voice immediately. Her gaze darted about, searching for its source, but Magnar was nowhere to be seen.

The voice came again, softer this time but imbued with an unsettling intimacy: “Today marks the beginning, Amina.”

Despairing of finding Magnar, Amina turned toward the direction of the voice. To her astonishment, for the first time, Magnar had addressed her by name. There was an unfamiliar warmth in her tone, a gentleness that startled Amina.

She flinched as a hand rested on her shoulder from behind. Spinning around, she found Magnar smiling at her— not the mocking grin of their last encounter, but a reassuring smile, calm and enigmatic.

“But it will be painful, little one,” Magnar said.

Confusion flooded Amina’s heart. Painful? What would be painful? Why must the ancestors speak in riddles and cryptic warnings? She opened her mouth to ask, but the question faltered on her lips as a cacophony of crows erupted around her.

The sound was unlike anything Amina had ever heard— piercing, relentless, and overwhelming. She covered her ears, desperate to muffle the noise, but it reverberated through her entire being, shaking her to the core. Blood trickled from her ears, staining her cheeks as the sound’s unrelenting force bore down on her.

Magnar vanished as a swarm of crows encircled Amina, forming a black wall around her like the abyssal depths of a well with no bottom. The birds began pecking at her, their initial touches light and ticklish, drawing nervous laughter from her lips. But their pecks grew more aggressive, ripping at her skin, extracting pain and cries as they fed on her wounds.

Her small hands flailed helplessly in defense, but the birds did not relent. The agony surged until Amina could bear it no longer. Tears streamed from her eyes as blood pooled beneath her feet, seeping into the damp earth of the forest.

“Magnar... Magnar!” she cried out, her voice choked with despair. Only the echo of her pain answered her, bouncing back in waves until nothing remained but the hollow sound of her own suffering.

The darkness of unconsciousness loomed over her like a merciful escape, a reprieve from the torment.

Amina Zazu woke up drenched in cold sweat, her breath shallow and laboured. Relief washed over her as the realisation dawned: it had all been a nightmare. And yet, a faint ache lingered in her body, scattered like the remnants of a storm.

She felt its epicentre below her abdomen. Looking down, she found the lower half of her body soaked in blood, staining the yellow sheets beneath her.

“Now, the world of little girls lies behind you, Amina,” her mother’s voice broke through the silence. 

“You are a woman now.”

Amina looked up at her mother, comprehension dawning but words failing her. Perhaps it was the pain, or perhaps it was the shock that left her mute. Her mother continued, unperturbed by her silence: “All the fever and exhaustion were the signs of your womanhood blossoming. It’s as though you resisted leaving the realm of childhood, my little one.”

“This is all I needed,” Amina thought bitterly. Was the chaos of her life not enough already? Magnar and her strange, inexplicable world loomed over her like a shadow she couldn’t escape. Why did the ancestors care about her? What did they want from her?

Amina had always honoured the ancestors out of fear and obedience, more for her mother’s sake than her own. She had never truly questioned them— never allowed her mind to dwell on their mysteries. 

But the visions, uninvited and relentless, refused to be ignored.

The night didn’t end without bringing another revelation for Amina.

As dawn approached, she found herself unable to sleep, the ache and the sensation of bleeding keeping her awake. Seeking solace, she ventured outside, hoping the early morning air would grant her some respite. Her feet carried her, unbidden, toward her parents’ quarters.

Perhaps her mother was still awake. Perhaps she could answer Amina’s growing questions— about the ancestors, their cryptic plans, and the enigmatic world of womanhood that had been thrust upon her.

But what greeted her instead was a muffled moan, distant yet unmistakable.

Her heart sank to the pit of her stomach as she recognised the sound. Yet she needed to be certain. Steeling herself, she crept closer, her steps hesitant, her body trembling with dread.

The sound of her mother’s anguished moans mingled with another— a guttural, feral growl.

Was someone attacking her mother?

Her questions dissolved into panic as she approached the chamber door and opened it ever so slightly.

What she saw froze her where she stood.

Her father, the king, was atop her mother, his golden dagger pressed to her throat, drawing blood that trickled onto her bare chest. Her mother’s struggles were futile, her defiance met with his furious curses.

“Why do you lie with me if you despise me so much,” her mother demanded, her voice breaking with pain.

The king spat on her face. “Don’t you know, you vile serpent?”

Her mother laughed bitterly, despite her torment. “Oh, I know. You’re not a man with anyone else, no matter how many doctors or sorcerers you summon.”

Her father slapped her hard, his free hand pressing the dagger deeper. Blood flowed freely now, mingling with her sweat.

“You vile witch,” he snarled. “One day, I’ll break your curse. And when I do, I’ll take every woman and girl in the village here, in your bed, before your very eyes.”

Through gritted teeth, her mother retorted, “The only thing I regret is that the curse didn’t make you impotent with me too.”

Amina’s mind reeled. She couldn’t comprehend what she was seeing, couldn’t reconcile the figures before her with the parents she thought she knew.

Her hand gripped the doorframe so tightly that blood began to trickle from her palm, unnoticed. Tears blurred her vision, but she couldn’t tear her eyes away.

She felt herself falling, spiraling into a void of despair with no bottom, no end.

The Sands Speak

Dawn was near, and the village had fallen silent. Even the drunkards had retreated to their homes, fearing an encounter with the devout heading to the mosque for the dawn prayer. A hurried knock, quick yet not loud, broke the stillness. Zainab, who had barely slept since Amina’s incident, heard it clearly. Perhaps she had stayed half-awake, hoping for a miracle— that Amina might awaken and call for her. She sought refuge in God, praying that the late-night visitor bore good news. Another calamity would be too much to endure.

Climbing down from her bed, she opened the door just a sliver, enough to glimpse the visitor. Even in the obscurity of night, she recognised the face etched into her heart since forever. “Ahmed!” she gasped, her voice trembling as joy and sobs mingled into a sound she could barely control. She pulled him into an embrace, stepping aside to let in the figure accompanying him, a man who lingered at the threshold. Once the door was shut, her words came rushing out: “What are you doing here? If anyone sees you and reports it, you’ll be doomed!”

She wiped her tears, her trembling hands tracing the familiar lines of his face, as though ensuring they hadn’t vanished in his long absence.

“And here I thought you wouldn’t be happy to see me,” Ahmed said with a bitter smile.

Zainab’s lips curled into a wry grin that couldn’t mask the pain behind it. “Happiness was forbidden to us the day you made that reckless decision and abandoned us, chasing death, my husband.”

Ahmed’s expression tightened as unshed tears shimmered in his eyes. In an awkward attempt to shield them, he drew her into another embrace. For the first time in ages, Zainab felt the warmth of her son’s heart beneath the layers of his hardened exterior.

He tried to explain himself again—his reasons, his justifications, his so-called duty—all the things that had never convinced her and never would. She silenced him with a raised hand, a gesture he respected despite his newfound arrogance.

“Even if I were given a thousand chances to choose, I’d still make the same decision. I left for the sake of God, and for Him alone,” Ahmed declared, his voice taking on the steely edge she had come to associate with his time among the Boko Haram militants.

Her gaze grew heavy with grief and reprimand. “And what about us? Did we not factor into your decisions at all?”

A storm brewed across his face. “Had I listened to you, I’d still be wallowing in the sinful ways of this infidel land— like you. Like all of you,” he said, his words slicing through the air with venom.

Zainab’s eyes blazed with indignation at his insult, but she swallowed the retort that rose in her throat. Ahmed avoided her accusing glare and entered the room where Amina lay. He approached her frail, motionless figure and kissed her forehead, then rested his hand on her head, reciting verses from the Quran and praying for her recovery.

“What brought you here, Ahmed,” Zainab demanded again, her voice trembling with frustration.

“I heard about what happened to Amina,” he said. “I’ve brought a doctor to save her— especially after learning of the ignorance and pagan rituals you’re clinging to. You’ll kill her at this rate. I’ll call him in to examine her.”

This time, Zainab could not swallow the insult. Her rage ignited, and she slapped him across the face with a strength she didn’t know she possessed. “Save her? From whom, you ungrateful child? Me?!” she screamed, shoving him toward the door. “You dare insult the woman who gave you life—in her own home, no less? You come here now, playing the savior, after condemning us to suffering and death with your sanctimonious decisions? Look at your hands, dripping with blood, and tell me how you think you can cleanse them!”

She flung the door open and pushed him out, her fury unrelenting. He did not resist. Once he was outside, she slammed the door shut, leaning against it as her rage turned into sobs. She stumbled toward Amina, grasping her daughter’s fragile frame with trembling hands, shaking her as if to awaken her by sheer force.

“Wake up, Amina... Don’t leave us at his mercy,” she begged. But as she looked at her daughter, so delicate she seemed on the verge of shattering, her hands softened. She pulled Amina into her arms, her cries so loud that they could rouse the dead.

“Quickly— we must leave the province before sunrise.”

The doctor’s sharp voice snapped Ahmed out of his thoughts. The man had already returned to the car, parked along the dirt road skirting the forest. Ahmed hesitated, tempted to try again, but his resolve faltered. Cursing under his breath, he turned away from the house.

Just then, the crackling of dry twigs underfoot drew his attention. He spun around, but the path behind him was empty. Was the doctor backtracking? Or was it something else?

His answer came sooner than he wanted. When he turned forward again, he was face to face with her.

The girl.

Her pale, lifeless face bore the same haunting marks as before: her left eye clouded over, the milky white film veiling it like scalded milk. Her right eye and half of her face, however, were gone— a gaping, grotesque void.

Terror coursed through him, his limbs seized by an icy paralysis. He stumbled backward, refusing to glance over his shoulder for fear of seeing her again. Perhaps ignoring her would make her vanish.

“What’s wrong? Was meeting your mother that bad?”

The doctor’s voice broke through Ahmed’s panic as he climbed into the car. The older man’s tone was tinged with concern, though his words bore a faint edge of pity.

Ahmed couldn’t muster a response. His mind was trapped in a loop of memories, his mother’s searing words reverberating in his ears. He fought the urge to check his hands— to confirm whether, as she said, they were stained with blood.

The vehicle jolted over the rough terrain, the tyres churning against the unpaved road as if racing the sun now rising steadily on the horizon. Ahmed’s thoughts swayed in rhythm with the car’s vibrations, slipping deeper into an abyss of regret and denial.

He did not tell the doctor about the girl. There was no point. She had haunted him long before this night. First, she appeared in his dreams, shifting them to nightmares. Then, she emerged into his waking hours, a silent specter he couldn’t escape.

He knew her. He had known her for a month.

Her face was burned into his memory— a memory soaked in blood.

“Did anyone see you?”

Hajer, mother of Amina Zazzau, asked the question in a low, sharp voice. Idris Matsafi turned his head, his watery eyes scanning the surroundings with the wariness of a predator. He shook his head— a silent denial. Entering the chamber where Amina Zazzau lay, his gaze darted around like a thief evaluating a crime scene or a famished hyena stalking prey too weak to run. Once his survey was complete, his dim, cataract-clouded eyes rested. The spirits or ancestors he served had yet to grant him the healing he sought, yet he expelled a breath of relief that carried with it the stench of decay.

“No one saw me, except your servant,” he replied, his voice as low and coarse as the desert wind.

Her features softened, a small wave of relief washing over her. “Don’t worry. He’s mine— he served my father before me, and his father served my grandfather. He’s practically family.”

Matsafi’s eyes fell on Amina, frail and fever-stricken, lost to the world of the living. He spoke again, his tone brisk and detached, as if the sight before him failed to stir anything within: “Is my payment ready?”

Without waiting for an answer, he began to unpack his tools, wasting no time. The night was fleeting, and sunrise would expose him. If he were caught here—this sorcerer and diviner belonging to the court of the King of Katsina, Zazzau's sworn enemy—it would mean certain death.

“The mule is outside, loaded with everything you asked for and more. It will carry you away at a speed rivaling the swiftest steeds,” Hajer said. Her eyes roamed over his disheveled hair and the beard that reached almost to his navel. She added with a bitter edge, “I don’t know if I should reward you or kill you for all the misery you’ve caused me.”

Her words trailed off as she lowered her gaze, the weight of her thoughts pulling her head down. 

Matsafi, unbothered, chuckled darkly. “You asked me to make him impotent with all women,” he said, his voice heavy with mockery. “And so it was done. How was I to know you meant with you as well? Tell me, what woman gives up her man so willingly, only to offer herself to the mercy of demons when his absence lingers too long?”

Her fury flared, cutting him off with a sharp gesture. “Silence yourself and show some respect,” she spat. “You speak to the queen of Zazzau, descendant of the holy Hausa warriors. If anyone overheard your insolence and word reached the king, death would be the least of your worries.”

Her voice carried a bravado that barely masked the terror coiling within her. Matsafi, with a slight bow of apology, unpacked his divination tools. From his pouch, he drew a small set of bones and bird skulls. Spreading sand on the floor, he began his ritual, his gnarled hands scattering bones across the grains.

“Before I can determine the cure the little princess needs, I must read her fate,” he muttered, his voice growing distant as though it belonged to another— a voice borrowed from ancestors or demons. Hajer, despite herself, felt a chill as he chanted. Whether he summoned spirits, cursed souls, or damned demons, she didn’t care. Matsafi was skilled in his craft, and that was all that mattered.

His face became a theater of emotions—fear, sorrow, joy—flashing across it in rapid succession. Tears streamed from his eyes before he collapsed to the ground, writhing and foaming at the mouth. Hajer recoiled in horror, fearing he might die here in the royal palace, exposing her conspiracy to all.

The thought paralysed her. Should she intervene? But what power did she have to interrupt such a sacred—or cursed—ritual? Time stretched painfully, every moment heavier than the last, until Matsafi finally stirred. His body trembled as he wiped the foam and tears from his face, his voice trembling as he spoke: “I don’t know what weighs heavier on my soul now— joy or terror.”

Hajer, her nerves stretched taut, could contain her fear no longer. “Speak! I’m in no mood for riddles,” she demanded, masking her dread with anger.

Matsafi reached into his faded pouch and retrieved a dark bottle. Moving toward the unconscious Amina, he sought to calm Hajer. “Let me heal the ruler first, and then I will explain everything,” he said, tilting the bottle’s contents into Amina’s mouth.

Hajer watched in alarm as the liquid trickled into her daughter’s throat. What unholy concoction was this? What creatures had been ground into it, what blood had been spilled to create it? Yet her thoughts froze when Matsafi’s words echoed back to her: “the ruler.”

The ruler? How could her daughter be the ruler? That was impossible. Amina could not inherit the throne unless she bore a son. The council of elders and kingdom warriors would eventually choose a husband for her, a man worthy of taking the reins of power.

Her thoughts shattered when a knock rang out— a coded rhythm that Hajer had arranged with her servant as a warning of danger. She ordered Matsafi to leave immediately, her heart torn. She wouldn’t know what he had seen in the sands, nor what he meant by calling her daughter the ruler. But at least he had administered the cure. That, for now, was enough.

Matsafi left the chamber to find the servant waiting. Under the cover of darkness, the mule stood ready, its eyes gleaming like a predator’s. Without another word, Matsafi mounted and disappeared into the night, carrying with him secrets that would haunt Hajer long after his departure.

“You’re missing all the fun,” her husband said as he gently roused her from sleep. His voice carried an unusual cheer, a tone she hadn’t heard in a long time. He urged her to cover herself properly for the presence of the public and join him in the courtyard.

She hurried after him, bewildered by his sudden joy. It had been years since she had seen him like this— perhaps not since the birth of Amina, their firstborn, when his heart had swelled with pride and hope, dreaming of the sons yet to come, heirs to his throne who would carry his legacy forward.

As she entered the courtyard, she was taken aback by the crowd. It seemed he had summoned the public en masse. She pushed her way through the throng until she reached his side, her eyes naturally following the direction of everyone else’s gaze to the center of the courtyard.

Her breath caught in her throat.

At that precise moment, the crowd erupted in cheers: “Curse the spy! Death to the rest of them!”

What stood at the heart of the courtyard sent a cold dread spiraling through her. Mounted atop a spear was the severed head of Idris Matsafi, the sorcerer. His lifeless face remained oddly serene, almost tranquil, as though he had found some final, elusive peace.

A pang of sorrow stabbed at her chest. For all his sins and terrors, he had only come to heal, she thought. But her pity quickly gave way to unease when she turned to see her husband’s face. It was radiant with triumph, his eyes gleaming with a joy so profound that it sent shivers through her.

“Poor man,” she muttered, her voice low but audible enough for him to hear. “All he wanted was to cure and heal.”

Her husband turned to her swiftly, his tone dripping with venomous satisfaction: “And he did, you serpent.”

He smiled then— a strange, enigmatic smile that stretched too wide, his gaze locking onto hers with a sharpness that felt like a blade. He stared deeply into her eyes, a challenge dancing in his, daring her to understand.