The night after the decision was the longest of Inikpi's life. It was not a night of sleep, but a vigil, a slow, deliberate unwinding of her connection to the world of the living. She was given chambers in the quietest wing of the palace, adjacent to the temple complex, to prepare. They were not the rooms of a prisoner, but of a sanctified vessel, and their stillness was more terrifying than any dungeon.
The air itself felt different here, thinner, charged with a pious dread. The familiar sounds of the palace—the distant chatter, the footsteps of guards—were absent, replaced by the low, constant murmur of priests chanting purification rites from the temple next door. The scent was no longer of woodsmoke and food, but of strange, astringent herbs burning in clay pots—sage, bitter leaf, and ogirri, whose pungent smoke was believed to cleanse spiritual impurities.
She was not alone. Her mother, Omele, and her nurse, Iye, were permitted to attend her. Their presence was both a comfort and an exquisite agony. Omele moved like a woman in a dream, her hands trembling as she helped bathe her daughter. The water for the bath was drawn from the sacred spring within the palace grounds, cold and clear, infused with petals of frangipani and white lilies. As Omele washed Inikpi's skin with a soft, spongy loofah, her tears fell silently into the water, creating tiny, expanding rings of sorrow.
"I should have fought harder," Omele whispered, her voice raw. "I should have taken you and fled in the night, to the Jukun, to the desert, anywhere."
Inikpi caught her mother's trembling hand and held it. The water dripped between them, cold and final. "And then you would have spent every sunrise for the rest of your life watching the sun rise on a nation of graves, Mother. You would have heard the ghosts of our people in the wind. There is no life in that flight. Only a different kind of death."
Iye, her face a mask of wrinkled grief, said nothing. She simply worked, her gnarled fingers braiding Inikpi's thick, dark hair with a precision born of a lifetime of service. She did not weave in the colourful beads and cowries of celebration, but simple, smooth river stones and polished fragments of white clay. Each tug of the braid was a punctuation in the story of Inikpi's ending.
When the bathing was complete, they dressed her. There was no royal finery, no dyed silks or golden ornaments. She was clothed in a single, seamless robe of the purest, undyed white linen. It was cool and soft against her skin, a ghostly garment. It felt less like clothing and more like a shroud. Around her neck, they placed the necklace she had seen in the vision within the black pool—a single strand of nine perfectly spherical, grey river stones, cool and heavy against her collarbone.
As the first faint hint of grey touched the eastern horizon, painting the world in shades of ash and lead, Chief Priest Ohioga Attah entered. He was preceded by two junior acolytes carrying smoking censers that filled the room with a thick, bluish haze of udje wood, its scent ancient, smoky, and funereal.
"It is time," Ohioga said, his voice devoid of its usual imperiousness. It was flat, respectful, and infinitely weary. His eyes, when they met Inikpi's, held a complex mixture of awe, pity, and a terrifying, absolute certainty. "The mist is on the river. The spirits are gathering."
Inikpi nodded. She felt a surreal calm, as if she were observing the scene from a great height. The fear was there, a cold, coiled serpent in her belly, but it was held at bay by the sheer, monumental nature of what was to come. She had made her choice. There was a power in that, a finality that was almost peaceful.
She embraced Iye first, the old woman's small, bony frame shuddering against her. "You have been my second mother," Inikpi whispered. "Tell the stories of this day with honesty. Do not let them forget that love was the reason."
Iye could only nod, a strangled sob catching in her throat.
Then she turned to Omele. Her mother's composure finally shattered. She clung to Inikpi, her body wracked with silent, violent tremors. "My child, my first light… forgive me. Forgive us all."
"There is nothing to forgive," Inikpi said, her own tears finally falling, mingling with her mother's. "You gave me life. Now, I give it back, so that life may continue. It is a circle. A terrible, beautiful circle. Watch for me in the flow of the river, Mother. I will be there."
She pulled away, her heart feeling as though it were tearing in two. To stay in that embrace was to risk her resolve crumbling into dust.
Without another word, she turned and walked towards Ohioga and the open door. She did not look back.
---
The procession to the river was a sombre, surreal pageant through a city holding its breath. The main avenue of Idah was lined with people, a sea of silent, haunted faces pressed together in the pre-dawn gloom. They had been told. The news had spread like a phantom wind—the Princess had offered herself. Salvation had a name, and it was Inikpi.
As she passed, a wave of sound followed her, but it was not cheers or lamentations. It was a low, collective murmur, a hum of awe and grief so profound it was almost inaudible, like the sound of the earth itself sighing. People fell to their knees as she passed. Mothers held up their infants for her to see, their own faces streaked with tears. Old men, warriors who had faced death a dozen times, bowed their heads, their shoulders shaking. The air was thick with the scent of their unwashed bodies, their fear, and their desperate, burgeoning hope.
Inikpi walked in the center of the procession. Ohioga led the way, chanting in the old tongue, his voice the only clear sound in the murmur. Behind her walked nine young women, their heads bowed. They were the slave attendants chosen to accompany her into the afterlife. They were dressed in simple white shifts, their hands unbound. Their faces were pale, their eyes wide with a terror they had no voice to express. They had been selected from households across the city, offered not by force, but by families hoping their sacrifice would grant their own loved ones a better chance. They walked in silent resignation, their fate inextricably linked to hers. To serve the royal spirit in death was a high honour in their culture, but the knowledge of the physical reality—the living burial—stripped that honour of all comfort, leaving only the cold, hard core of sacrifice.
The city gates were opened, and the procession moved out onto the plain that sloped down towards the great, swirling expanse of the River Niger. The air changed instantly. The close, stifling atmosphere of the besieged city was replaced by a damp, cool breeze coming off the water. The world opened up.
The sky in the east was now streaked with bloody crimson and bruised purple, a dawn that felt more like a wound than a beginning. A thick, white mist clung to the surface of the river, coiling and writhing like a nest of pale serpents. It muffled sound, creating an eerie, insulated silence broken only by the slap of water against the bank and the relentless, rhythmic chant of Ohioga.
They reached the designated spot. It was a small, flat promontory of packed earth that jutted slightly into the river, right at the expected invasion route of the Benin forces. The water here was deep and fast-flowing, the current pulling relentlessly towards the sea. The ground had been prepared. A large, rectangular pit, about seven feet deep, had been dug. The excavated earth, dark and rich, was piled neatly to one side, smelling powerfully of damp clay and worms. It was a raw, open mouth in the belly of the earth.
Waiting beside the pit were the nine attendants who would prepare the final ritual. They held items of profound symbolic weight: a calabash of sacred water from the grove, a pot of white kaolin clay, eagle feathers, and bundles of the most potent protective herbs.
Ata Ayegba stood a short distance away, surrounded by his war chiefs and the highest nobles. He did not wear his crown or leopard pelt. He was dressed as a common mourner, in a simple, dark cloth. He stood utterly still, his arms crossed over his chest, but every line of his body was a testament to a pain beyond screaming. His gaze was fixed on his daughter, and it was the gaze of a man watching his own soul being torn from his body.
Inikpi walked to the edge of the pit and looked down. The bottom was dark, damp, already smelling of the deep, cold earth. This was it. This was the threshold. The fear-serpent in her belly uncoiled, and a wave of pure, animal terror threatened to buckle her knees. The instinct to run, to fight, to scream her refusal to the heavens, was a physical force. She closed her eyes, gripping the river stones at her neck until they bit into her palm.
For Ewe, the poisoned child, she thought. For his mother's scream. For the warrior's missing hand. For the future.
She opened her eyes. The terror was still there, but it was now a part of the ceremony, an ingredient to be offered along with her breath.
Ohioga approached her, his chanting ceasing. The silence that fell was absolute, profound, broken only by the river's whisper.
"Princess Inikpi, Daughter of the Land, Vessel of the People," his voice was formal, carrying across the water. "You stand on the brink of worlds. Do you come to this place of your own free will? Do you offer your spirit to become one with the earth and the water, to be a eternal shield for the Igala people?"
Every eye was on her. She could feel the weight of a thousand prayers pressing down on her. She lifted her chin, and her voice, when it came, was clear and steady, carrying over the misty water.
"I come of my own will. I offer my spirit freely. Let my life be the anchor. Let my breath become the wind that guards our shores."
A collective, shuddering sigh went through the crowd.
The ritual of anointing began. The nine attendants moved forward. One dipped an eagle feather into the calabash of sacred water and drew a cooling, vertical line down Inikpi's forehead. "The blessing of the ancestors," she murmured.
Another used her fingers to mark Inikpi's cheeks with the white kaolin clay, drawing the ancient symbols of the eagle and the river. "The clarity of spirit and the flow of life."
They anointed her hands and feet, a symbolic cleansing of all she had touched and all the paths she had walked in her mortal life. The herbs were brushed over her shoulders, their sharp, clean scent a final memory of the world above.
Then, it was time.
Ohioga gestured to the pit. "The earth awaits its bride."
This was the moment of supreme horror. The nine slave attendants, their faces pale but resigned, were led to the pit first. They climbed down into the darkness, their white shifts glowing faintly in the deep shadow. They settled themselves at one end of the rectangular space, sitting cross-legged, their heads bowed. They were the foundation of her royal household in the afterlife.
Now, all eyes returned to Inikpi.
She turned once, slowly, and let her gaze sweep over the faces of her people—the grieving, the hopeful, the broken. She found her father's face. Their eyes met across the space. No words passed between them, but a universe of love, regret, pride, and an endless, echoing goodbye was exchanged in that single, searing glance. A single tear traced a path through the white clay on his cheek.
She offered him a small, tremulous smile. A final gift.
Then, she turned her back on the world of the living.
She walked to the edge of the pit. A priest offered his hand to help her down, but she ignored it. This was her passage. She would make it under her own power.
She sat on the edge, her legs dangling into the darkness. The cool, damp air from the pit kissed her skin. She could hear the faint, rapid breathing of the nine attendants below. Taking a final, deep breath of the misty morning air— tasting the river, the dust, the faint perfume of the distant frangipani tree—she pushed herself off the edge.
She landed softly on the packed earth floor. It was cold. The walls of the pit rose around her, cutting off the view of the horizon, the sky, the faces. The world was reduced to a rectangle of blood-red sky and the grim, solemn faces of the priests looking down.
She settled herself in the center of the pit, opposite her attendants. She arranged her white robe around her, a final act of order in the chaos to come. She looked up, her face serene, a living icon in an earthen frame.
Ohioga raised his hands to the heavens. His voice boomed out, no longer that of a frail old man, but that of a conduit for cosmic forces.
"Spirits of the Earth! Gods of the River! Ancestors of the Igala! We have heard your decree! We have brought the offering! The royal blood, the willing spirit! Accept her! Take her essence into you! Let her life force be the cement that binds our people to this land! Let her courage be the wall that protects us! Let her breath become the wind that fills our sails and the current that drowns our foes!"
As he chanted, the attendants with the shovels began their work.
The first shovelful of earth hit the bottom of the pit with a soft, damp thud. It landed near Inikpi's feet, a dark stain on the pristine white of her robe. The sound was obscenely casual, the sound of a gardener tending a plot. But its meaning was apocalyptic.
Another shovelful followed. Then another.
The earth began to rise around them. It covered the feet of the attendants, then their ankles. Inikpi watched, her heart hammering against her ribs like a trapped bird. She kept her breathing even, her gaze fixed on the crimson sky above. She could feel the cool, gritty soil as it piled around her own legs, a slow, creeping weight.
The priests' chanting grew louder, more frantic, a desperate plea to the unseen forces. The shovels rose and fell with a grim, rhythmic efficiency. Shhh-thump. Shhh-thump. The sound of dirt falling on dirt, on cloth, on living skin.
The earth was now at her waist. The weight was significant, pressing down, restricting her breathing. She could feel the individual particles of soil, the small stones, the remnants of roots. This was the flesh of the kingdom she was joining. The attendants across from her were now buried to their chests. One of them had begun to weep silently, tears cutting clean paths through the dust on her face. Another had her eyes closed, her lips moving in silent prayer.
Inikpi wanted to offer them comfort, but she had no voice. Her own terror was a rising tide within her. The instinct to struggle, to claw her way out, was a screaming imperative in every nerve ending. She gripped the river stones at her neck so hard she felt one of them crack.
I am the shield, she thought, the words a mantra against the panic. I am the bridge. For Igala. For Father. For the children.
The earth reached her chest. The pressure was immense. Each breath was a effort, a fight against the constricting soil. The rectangle of sky above seemed to be receding, growing smaller. The faces of the priests were becoming blurred, distant figures in a receding world.
Then the soil reached her neck. She had to tilt her head back to keep her mouth and nose free. The scent of the earth was all-consuming now, a rich, damp, final smell. She could feel the soil against her throat, her ears. The world was reduced to that one patch of sky, now burning with an ever-deeper, more unnatural crimson.
She took one last, long look at that bloody sky. She thought of her father's face. She felt the love she held for her people.
The final shovelfuls of earth fell, covering her shoulders, her neck, her uplifted face.
Darkness.
Absolute, utter, suffocating darkness.
The weight was everywhere, an infinite pressure on every inch of her body. The air in her lungs was a trapped, precious bubble. The sound was gone, replaced by a roaring silence broken only by the frantic, thunderous beat of her own heart and the crush of soil against her eardrums. She tried to scream, but the earth filled her mouth, gritty and tasting of millennia. There was no up, no down. Only the crushing, living earth.
Her body convulsed, a final, autonomous rebellion against the end. Sparks of light exploded behind her eyes. Her lungs burned, desperate for air that would not come.
Then, as the last spark of consciousness was about to be extinguished, something shifted.
It was not in the physical world, but in the fabric of reality itself.
Outside the pit, as the last of the soil was patted down, creating a smooth, unmarked mound of fresh earth, a profound silence fell. The chanting stopped. The shovels were still. The only sound was the river and the choked sobs of the mourners.
Ata Ayegba took a staggering step forward, his hand outstretched towards the mound that contained his heart, his world.
And then it began.
The air, which had been still and misty, suddenly grew heavy, so thick with spiritual energy that it was difficult to breathe. It felt like wading through water. A low hum, barely on the threshold of hearing, vibrated up from the ground, through the soles of their feet, into their very bones. The hairs on every arm stood on end.
Chief Priest Ohioga, his eyes wide with a mixture of terror and exultation, fell to his knees. "She is accepted! The bond is forged!"
As he spoke, the sky, already crimson with dawn, underwent a terrifying transformation. The red deepened, intensified, bleeding across the entire horizon until it was not the red of sunrise, but the red of heart's blood, a lurid, supernatural scarlet that stained the clouds and reflected on the swirling waters of the Niger, making the river look like a flow of liquid fire. The sun, as it broke the horizon, was not golden, but a dull, coppery orb, a malevolent eye in a bleeding sky.
The wind, which had been a gentle breeze, died completely. The world was holding its breath. The mist on the river began to coil and twist not randomly, but with purpose, forming shapes that looked like armed warriors and great, spectral eagles.
From the direction of the Benin camp, miles away, a sudden, confused clamour could be heard—shouts of alarm, the frantic blowing of horns.
On the riverbank, the Igala people watched, awestruck and terrified. The sacrifice was made. The decree was fulfilled. The air crackled with a power that was both sacred and terrifying. The earth felt alive, awake, and vengeful.
The ceremony was over. The consequence had begun. The world had been paid for in the currency of a princess's breath, and the universe, it seemed, was preparing to settle the account.