A Map Made of Skin
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The river has returned. But peace, Mira knows, is often a lie whispered by tired gods.
Two weeks pass in Nsia. Days of warm weather, clear water, and unusually fertile land. The yams swell too fast. Fruit trees bend from overbearing sweetness. Fish leap into boats without bait.
The villagers rejoice at first. Then they begin to fear it.
“This is not blessing,” Kojo mutters one morning as he inspects his banana grove. “It’s bribery.”
Mira agrees.
Something beneath the balance is forcing the river to give.
It’s not peace.
It’s penance.
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Tano doesn’t speak much.
He spends most of his time by the river, fingers dipped in the current, eyes scanning the trees.
Esi says he listens to things no one else can hear.
“Not voices,” she explains. “Not words. Echoes.”
One night, Mira finds him etching something into his arm with riverstone. She snatches it away, horrified. The lines form symbols — crooked circles, twisted roots.
Tano doesn’t flinch.
“I didn’t choose to draw
