The mud from the ravine had dried on their skin, a gritty, grey-brown crust that crackled with every movement. It was in the creases of their elbows, under their fingernails, a tangible reminder of the chasm they had crossed together. But a different kind of residue lingered in the air between them—a new, unspoken understanding. The silence in the barracks that night was no longer hollow with individual horror, but thick with a collective, exhausted solidarity. They had become a single organism in the face of the abyss, and the memory of that shared heartbeat was a faint, nascent warmth in the cold vastness of their new lives.
The following morning, the routine was different. There were no drums, no barked commands to assemble for the run. Instead, Yaa appeared at the doorway and simply said, "Come. You will be silent. You will listen."
They were led not to the dust-choked training yard, but to a long, low building with walls made of finely woven reed mats. The air inside was cool and still, smelling of aged straw, dried clay, and a faint, ceremonial fragrance of sage and camwood powder. The light was dim, filtering through the mats in soft, golden bars, illuminating swirling motes of dust. This was not a place of sweat and strain; it was a place of memory.
They filed in and sat on clean, woven mats arranged in neat rows. At the front of the room, on a simple dais, sat Commander Nanika. She was not wearing her practical training tunic, but a formal wrap of deep indigo, with a single, stark white stripe running down its length. Before her, on a low stool, rested a single object: a weathered, ancient-looking agbaja, its sickle-shaped blade nicked and scarred from countless battles, its wooden handle dark and smooth with the oil of generations of hands.
Nanika did not speak immediately. Her flinty eyes scanned their faces, taking in the new layers of hardness, the shadows of trauma, the faint, fragile threads of connection. She saw the dried mud still clinging to them, and a flicker of something—perhaps approval, perhaps pity—crossed her features.
"You have learned to endure," she began, her voice lower, more resonant in the quiet space. It was not the voice of a drill instructor, but of a storyteller, a keeper of secrets. "You have learned to obey. You have learned to kill. You have learned to rely on one another. These are the bones and sinew of a warrior. But a body without a spirit is a corpse. Today, you will be given a spirit. You will learn of your mothers."
She let the word hang in the air. Mothers. It was a term so alien to this place, so deeply connected to the world they had lost, that it felt like a physical blow. Nawi felt a sudden, sharp ache in her chest, an image of Ama, strong and scowling, flashing unbidden behind her eyes.
"Not the mothers who bore you," Nanika continued, as if reading their thoughts. "They gave you life, and for that, you may honor their memory. But they also gave you weakness. The weakness of attachment. The weakness of a heart tied to a single hearth, a single family. Your new mothers are the women who forged this." She gestured to the ancient agbaja. "They are the ones who carved a kingdom from the wilderness and gave you a legacy greater than any single bloodline."
She stood, picking up the old weapon. She held it not as a tool, but as a relic.
"Our story does not begin with kings," she said, her voice taking on a rhythmic, chanting quality. "It begins with hunger. It begins with a people besieged, our fields burned, our children stolen by the mighty Oyo Empire. The men were brave, but they were outnumbered. The kingdom was dying."
She paced slowly before them, the story weaving a tapestry in the dusty, golden light.
"And so, the King's gaze fell upon the women. Not as breeders, not as servants. But as a last, desperate hope. He saw their strength, borne from carrying water and grinding grain. He saw their endurance, forged in childbirth and the unending labor of the fields. He saw their ferocity, the lioness-rage that emerges when her cubs are threatened. And he asked: could this strength be turned? Could this endurance be sharpened? Could this ferocity be given a blade?"
Nanika stopped, her eyes blazing with a fervent pride. "The first mothers, the Gbeto, said yes. They were the elephant hunters, women who already knew how to face death in the deep forest. They became the first warriors. They were few, but they were mighty. They fought not like men, who sought glory in open combat. They fought like women. With cunning. With patience. With a ruthlessness that struck at the heart of the enemy when he least expected it."
As she spoke, Nawi could almost see them—shadowy figures moving through primordial forests, their bodies lean and hard, their eyes holding the ancient, patient knowledge Iyabo possessed. They were not legends; in Nanika's telling, they were real. They were the foundation.
"The kingdom was saved," Nanika said. "And the Kings who followed saw the truth. An army of women was not just an army. It was a secret weapon. It was a force that could be utterly loyal, because you owe your loyalty not to a clan, but to the throne itself. It was a force that could be utterly ruthless, because you are freed from the distractions of the flesh. You are the King's Wives, but your marriage is to duty. Your children are the victories you win for him."
She placed the old agbaja back on the stool with reverence.
"This is your lineage. You are not orphans. You are not captives. You are the daughters of a thousand warrior mothers. Your spirit is their spirit. Your strength is their strength. Your song is their song."
She then began to sing.
Her voice was not melodious; it was rough and powerful, a low chant that seemed to rise from the very earth beneath the hut. It was a war song, its rhythm the rhythm of marching feet, of pounding hammers on hot iron.
"The snake does not fear the rain.
The leopard does not fear the night.
We are the daughters of the forge,
We walk in the fire's light."
The words were simple, but the intent behind them was immense. It was a song of identity, of fearlessness, of a transformed nature.
Then came the core of it, the chant Nawi had heard whispers of, the words that were the very creed of the Mino. Nanika's voice grew harder, sharper, like iron being quenched.
"As the blacksmith takes an iron bar,
And by fire changes its fashion,
So have we changed our nature.
We are no longer women, we are men."
We are no longer women, we are men.
The words landed in the silent hut with the force of a physical blow. A jolt went through Nawi, a confusing, violent surge of emotions. Revulsion. Denial. And beneath that, a terrifying, undeniable thrill.
To be a woman was to be like her mother—strong, yes, but ultimately bound to a pot, a field, a child's life. To be a woman was to be vulnerable, to be the one who was protected, the one who was harvested. The raid had proven that. To be a 'man' in this context was not about biology. It was about power. It was about agency. It was about becoming the harvester, not the crop. It was about being the fire that changes the iron, not the iron that is passively shaped.
It was a monstrous, brilliant lie. And a part of her wanted to believe it.
Nanika made them repeat it. At first, the words stuck in their throats, coming out as mumbled, shameful whispers. Mosi, predictably, was the first to shout them with conviction, her voice ringing with a fervent embrace of this new, powerful identity. Zevi joined in, the words feeding her ambition, giving it a historical and spiritual justification.
"LOUDER!" Nanika commanded, her eyes sweeping over them. "You are not whispering secrets in the dark! You are declaring your nature to the world! You are stating a fact! AS THE BLACKSMITH—"
The chant built, gaining volume and power as more voices joined, hesitant at first, then with growing force. Asu's voice, usually so soft, was steady and clear, the words a shield she could raise against the memory of her own tears. Nawi found her own lips moving, the alien words forming in her mouth.
"—TAKES AN IRON BAR,
AND BY FIRE CHANGES ITS FASHION,
SO HAVE WE CHANGED OUR NATURE.
WE ARE NO LONGER WOMEN, WE ARE MEN!"
She sang it. The words, which should have felt like a betrayal of her mother, of Binta, of herself, instead felt like a key turning in a lock deep inside her. They gave a name, a purpose, to the hollowed-out creature she had become after the execution. They offered a pride to replace the shame, a collective identity to fill the void of her loss.
It was a poison, and it was an antidote, all in one.
For the rest of the day, they did not train with weapons. They learned. They learned the songs of the different regiments—the Gbeto of the forests, the Agbarya of the front lines, the Fanti who were the royal bodyguards. They learned the names of great commanders, women who had led armies, outmaneuvered kings, and become legends. Nanika and Yaa spun these stories with a skill that was itself a weapon, weaving a tapestry of glory and purpose so bright it almost blinded them to the blood in which it was dyed.
Nawi listened, her mind a battlefield. The stubborn, observant girl from Keti recoiled at the propaganda, seeing the clever lies, the twisted logic that justified conquest and murder. She saw the ghost of the defiant prisoner in every story of a vanquished enemy.
But the new Nawi, the one forged in the fire of the Thorn Barrier and the ice of the execution, listened with a different ear. This history, this song, this pride—it was a weapon. It was a armor. If she had to be a part of this machine, then she would understand its gears and levers. She would wear its identity not as a truth, but as a disguise, a uniform that granted her power and access.
As they filed out of the history hut at dusk, the war chant still echoing in their minds, Nawi felt a profound and unsettling conflict. The hatred for Dahomey was still the bedrock of her being. The desire for revenge was still her compass.
But as she walked beside Zevi, whose shoulders were thrown back with a new, proud bearing, and Asu, who hummed the new song under her breath with a quiet confidence, Nawi understood the true, insidious power of the Mino.
It wasn't just about building warriors. It was about building a new soul, a new family, a new history to replace the one they had destroyed. They were being given a reason to be proud of the monsters they were becoming.
And the most terrifying part was that it was working. A piece of her, a piece she both despised and relied upon, felt a flicker of that pride. She had changed her nature. She was no longer the girl from Keti. What she was now, she did not yet know. But the chant gave it a name, and in the echoing silence of her own heart, she knew she would use that name, and the power that came with it, to survive.