the farther they march us

across the mucky grounds

of this foreign place.

It feels good to be hugged

by the sun again,

even if it is just a sliver

peeking

from behind a cloud.

In a courtyard,

people gather,

as an old man

with two small drumsticks

beats out a message

on a giant wooden dondo:

The King is coming

The King is coming

Bring out the prisoner

Justice will be served

Justice will be served

Bring out the prisoner.

REVELATION

We make our way

through a mob of onlookers

sneering at us,

past a woman

crowned by a

gigantic

red-and-yellow head wrap

whom I recognize

from Bayere

from the wrestling contest

from the crowd

of cheering villagers

from Lower Kwanta.

Are we in Lower? I ask myself,

now more confused

and unsettled

than scared.

When the drumbeat stops

the crowd turns to look

at the arrival of two men

hoisting a large canopy,

shading

the returning rainfall

from the King of Lower Kwanta.

FORTRESS

I am in the village

of our rivals

behind a big wall

my friends and I thought

was just a fable,

and the prisoner

the old man sang of

is a beaten and bloodied man

the marauders throw

at the feet

of the grinning King

like a hurt fish

tossed back into water.

And that prisoner is my brother,

Kwasi.

THE TRIAL

Ei! What will happen when we run out of fingers to hack? I want to say that it will not be pleasant to lose your toes also.

…

Another chop, says the King, before taking another puff of his pipe.

AUGGHHH! NOOOOO! PLEASE! AUGGHHH!

My brother’s screams

scare the songbirds away

pierce my soul

like daggers

drops me

to my knees.

KWASI! Tell them what you know, please, I beg, even though I do not know what they ask.

Ei! Even your little brother wants you to confess.

The shock on Kwasi’s face

when he sees me

seems to multiply

the pain

of his severed digit.

He just shakes his head

in agony, slowly,

as if the flame

of his injury

just got fanned.

I am sorry, he mouths to me.

What is it you say? the King shouts.

I do… not… know what you ask, Kwasi moans.

You must. Your father is the head gold digger, is he not?

Yes, but—

Then you, as his oldest male heir, would know such things, as my oldest heir once had my confidences.

…

But you, who have taken the life of my heir, you, who have evaded consequence, you, whose life is not worth to me one Benda of the gold you protect, will now stand before me with a chance to make amends and save your life, yet refuse to tell me where it is kept. You leave me no choice, then. STAND HIM UP!

DAABI! HE CANNOT TELL YOU WHAT HE DOES NOT KNOW, I scream, before I am quickly gagged.

THE GOLD

After the war

between Upper and Lower,