The morning Harmattan wind carried dust into everything. It coated the cassava leaves behind our house, crept into my hair, and settled on the wooden bench where my father sharpened his cutlass. I watched him from the doorway, barefoot, the red earth cold under my toes. Nothing about that morning felt special, yet later I would return to it again and again, wondering how a normal day learned to change its face.
My name is Aminata, and I was fifteen the year the village learned what silence costs.
Our village, Uromi, sat where the road thinned and the forest thickened. Traders passed through with kola nuts and salt, and sometimes soldiers followed, boots heavy with authority. We knew how to greet, how to keep our heads low, how to listen more than we spoke. Survival, my mother said, was a language you learned early.
That morning, my mother sent me to fetch water before the sun climbed too high. The clay pot pressed cool against my hip as I walked toward the stream. On the path, I met Sadiq, his school uniform already dusty, his books hugged to his chest.
"They say the census men are coming," he whispered, eyes flicking to the trees.
"Again?" I asked. "They came last month."
"They're not just counting this time."
He didn't explain, and I didn't ask. In our village, questions were seeds you planted carefully.
At the stream, women spoke in low voices, their laughter thin. Someone mentioned taxes. Someone else mentioned conscription. The water rippled as I filled the pot, and for a moment my reflection broke into pieces. I steadied it with my hand, as if holding the surface together could hold the day together too.
When I returned, my father had finished sharpening the cutlass. He wiped the blade on a cloth and leaned it against the wall. He looked at me longer than usual, his eyes soft but distant.
"After breakfast," he said, "go to Auntie Zainab's. Stay there until evening."
"Why?"
"Because I asked."
It was an answer that carried weight. I nodded.
The sound of a truck reached us before we saw it. A low growl, then the crunch of tires on gravel. People gathered at a distance, careful not to look eager or afraid. The truck stopped near the square. Three men climbed down. Their uniforms were clean. Their faces were not.
They read names from a list.
When my father's name was called, the ground seemed to tilt. He stepped forward calmly, as if answering a greeting. I took a step too, then felt my mother's hand close around my wrist.
"Go," she whispered. Her voice did not shake. Her hand did.
At Auntie Zainab's house, we sat on mats and listened. The men spoke of duty. Of order. Of contribution to the nation. Words can be dressed up, I learned that day, until they look like something else entirely.
By afternoon, the sun pressed down hard. The truck left with men standing in the back, hands gripping the rails. Some waved. Some did not. Dust rose and settled again, covering the road like a blanket thrown over a wound.
My father was not on the truck.
When I returned home at dusk, the cutlass was still against the wall. My mother sat on the bench, staring at nothing. I stood there, unsure where to put my feet.
"They took the list," she said finally. "They will come back."
"For what?"
"For what they always come back for."
That night, the village gathered. Elders spoke. Younger men listened with their jaws set tight. Someone suggested resistance. Someone else reminded us of consequences. The fire crackled. Sparks leapt and died.
I thought of Sadiq, of the stream, of my reflection breaking apart. I thought of how history was not only what happened in books, but what pressed itself into ordinary days and refused to leave.
Later, alone, I opened my school notebook and wrote down everything I could remember. Names. Words. The time of day. The sound of the truck. I didn't know why I did it. I only knew that if I didn't write, the ground would forget. And if the ground forgot, then so would everyone else.
Outside, the wind shifted. The red earth held its breath.
End of Chapter One