The air in Abomey changed. It thickened, sweetened, and soured all at once. The usual scents of dust, woodsmoke, and humanity were overwhelmed by the cloying perfume of thousands of marigolds and hibiscus blossoms woven into garlands that draped every doorway and arch. Great vats of palm wine, smelling yeasty and potent, simmered in every square, and the constant, rhythmic pounding of yam for vast feasts was a thunder that echoed the war drums. But beneath the celebration was a darker, more familiar scent: the smell of fresh blood from daily sacrifices, and the sharp, anxious sweat of hundreds of captives brought in from recent raids.
The Annual Customs had begun.
For days, the city had been preparing for this, the most sacred and profane event in the Dahomean calendar. It was a time to honor the ancestors, to reaffirm the power of the king, and to display the wealth and might of the kingdom. And wealth, in Dahomey, was measured in two currencies: cowrie shells and human beings.
Nawi's unit, as honored junior Mino, were to have a part in the ceremonies. There was a tense excitement among them. For Zevi, it was another stage for recognition. For Mosi, it was a chance for spectacle. For Asu, it was a solemn duty. For Nawi, it was a growing dread.
Afi found her the morning of the main event, as Nawi was adjusting the stiff, formal tunic she'd been given for the ceremony. The older woman's expression was unreadable.
"Today, you will see the heart of the beast, not arguing, but beating," Afi said quietly, her melodious voice barely a whisper amid the distant sounds of chanting and drums. "You will participate in the Nesu xwe, the 'Capture of the Slaves.' It is a ritual. A mock battle. But do not be fooled by the pageantry. It is a distillation of everything we are."
The Great Parade Ground had been transformed. It was no longer a stark field of dust and discipline, but a vibrant, terrifying theater. Thousands of citizens packed the edges, their colorful clothes creating a shimmering, noisy river around the field. The air vibrated with a frenetic energy, a mixture of festival joy and bloodlust. The scent of flowers, sweat, and roasting meat was overwhelming.
At one end of the field stood a magnificent pavilion, where the Viceroy and the highest nobles sat in the shade, fanned by servants. At the other end was a fenced enclosure, and within it, a group of about fifty men and women. They were the "slaves" for the ritual. They were not in chains today, but they were penned, their faces hollow with a terror that was entirely real. They had been cleaned and dressed in simple white tunics, a cruel parody of purity. They knew their fate—to be symbols in this pageant, and then, for many, to be sold to the European traders waiting at the coast.
Nawi, with her unit, stood in the center of the field, facing the enclosure. They were to play the part of the Mino raiders. Across from them, a group of male soldiers, their bodies painted for war, represented the "defenders" of a mythical village.
A hush fell as a priest, draped in a cloak of leopard skin, stepped onto the field. His voice, amplified by a ceremonial bullhorn, boomed across the grounds.
"The King is the leopard! His claws are sharp! His hunger is great! As our ancestors brought strength from the wilderness, so do we bring strength to the kingdom! Let the Custom begin!"
A drumbeat started, low and primal. It was the same rhythm that had preceded the raid on Keti, the same rhythm that had underscored the execution. It was the heartbeat of Dahomey.
The "defenders" let out a coordinated roar and began to advance, brandishing their spears. It was a dance, a choreographed aggression. Nawi's unit, on command, surged forward to meet them.
What followed was a surreal and brutal ballet. It was a fight, but a staged one. The clashing of wooden practice weapons replaced the sound of real steel. The moves were exaggerated, designed for the audience. Zevi fired blunted arrows that thudded harmlessly into shields. Mosi and Asu locked shields with the male soldiers in a great, shoving match, their grunts of effort real, but the danger manufactured. The crowd roared its approval, cheering every parry and thrust.
Nawi's role was to "infiltrate." She was to slip through the lines of the defenders, a Reaper in a staged hunt. She moved with her trained grace, ducking under a slow swing, twisting past a lunging soldier. The paint on her face felt like a grotesque mask. The cheers of the crowd were a wave of nausea. She was performing the destruction of her own life for the entertainment of the people who had ordered it.
She reached the fenced enclosure. The people inside recoiled, pressing against the far wall. Their eyes were wide, their mouths open in silent screams she could not hear over the din. They saw not a young woman, but a painted demon, an embodiment of their doom.
Her part was to "capture" one of them. She was to drag one back across the field as a trophy.
Her eyes scanned the terrified faces. She saw an old man, his hands raised in a futile plea. A young mother, trying to shield a teenage boy with her own body. The boy… he had Binta's eyes. Wide, dark, filled with a world-ending fear.
The memory of the raid on Keti crashed over her, not as a memory, but as a present reality. The smells were the same—dust, fear, blood. The sounds were the same—drums, screams, the clash of weapons. The only difference was that this was a game. A sacred, brutal game that reinforced the very horror it pretended to be.
Her body froze. The cold, focused Reaper vanished. In her place was the girl from the ashes, watching her world burn.
"Nawi! Now!" It was Zevi's voice, sharp with impatience from the melee.
The command broke her trance. The training, the discipline, the mask of the Mino, slammed back into place. It was a reflex, deeper than thought.
She lunged forward. She didn't choose the old man or the mother. She went for the boy. He was light, struggling. She grabbed his arm, her grip like iron, and pulled him from the enclosure. He cried out, a thin, reedy sound lost in the celebration. He stumbled, and she dragged him, his feet scraping through the dust.
The crowd erupted. They cheered her name. "Nawi! The Reaper!" She was a hero. She was playing her part perfectly.
She hauled the boy across the field, past the clashing soldiers, towards the Viceroy's pavilion. His sobs were a hot whisper against her side. She could feel the frantic flutter of his pulse beneath her fingers. He was not a symbol. He was a person. A boy, probably younger than Sefu, about to be consumed by the machine.
She reached the pavilion and shoved him forward, into the custody of royal guards, as the ritual demanded. The Viceroy nodded, a bland, regal acknowledgment. The boy was led away, his fate sealed.
The mock battle ended. The "defeated" defenders bowed. The Mino stood triumphant. The crowd screamed its adulation. The drums reached a fever pitch.
Nawi stood panting, her body trembling not from exertion, but from a soul-sickness so profound it threatened to buckle her knees. The vibrant colors of the festival seemed to bleed together into a single, bloody smear. The cheers were the shrieks of the dying. The sweet smell of flowers was the stench of decay.
She had done it. She had participated. She had been the perfect instrument. She had helped enact the very Custom that justified the system that had destroyed her family.
Later, as the feasting began and the city descended into a drunken, celebratory haze, Nawi found a dark, quiet corner behind the grain stores. The scent of souring palm wine and spilled food was thick in the air. She leaned against the cool mud wall, trying to steady her breathing.
Afi appeared beside her, silent as a shadow.
"You see now," Afi said, her voice soft in the darkness. "It is not just a policy in a scroll. It is not just an argument in a council. It is this." She gestured towards the noise of the feast. "It is a celebration built on a foundation of broken backs and stolen lives. The Custom makes it holy. It makes it tradition. It makes the unthinkable… ordinary."
Nawi didn't look at her. She stared at her hands, the hands that had dragged the boy. "I became the monster," she whispered, her voice raw. "I was them. I was the warrior who took Binta."
"You were," Afi agreed, without judgment. "And now you know the true cost of the title you bear. Every victory parade, every cry of 'Mino,' every honor they bestow upon you… it is paid for with the terror of a boy like that. You are not just a warrior of Dahomey, Nawi. You are a pillar holding up its weight."
The truth was a physical weight, crushing her. Her revenge was not a simple matter of killing Nanika or the king. It was a battle against an entire culture, a sacred Custom, a way of life that saw people as things. She was no longer an outsider seeking vengeance. She was an accomplice, her hands stained not just with the blood of enemies, but with the complicity of her participation.
The Annual Customs celebrated the kingdom's strength. For Nawi, it was a funeral for the last vestiges of her innocence. She had looked into the heart of the beast, and she had not just seen its cruelty; she had felt its pulse in her own hands. The path forward was darker and more complex than ever. She could no longer simply break the machine. She would have to dismantle it, piece by sacred, bloody piece, and the first piece she needed to dismantle was the warrior in the mirror who had just played her part so perfectly.