New Life Begins
Setting: Northern Sahel (present-day Burkina Faso), pre-colonial era.
Day 7
Dàno stood eye to eye with Chief Kòma. The other elders stood behind Kòma, and the people of Balao gathered beyond them, filling the space between their mud huts in silence.
Dàno was taller than most of the men. His shoulders were broad, his stance firm, and his breathing slow, held by conscious effort. Barely eighteen, his body showed the work of countless hours spent learning how to hunt and how to live as a man, strength built through repetition and tenacity. Those years had led to the initiation of the previous spring, when he had first stood alone before the tribe, although the occasion was markedly a happier one.
Kòma raised his hand and pointed to the space behind the young hunter, where the village gave way to open land. Dàno glanced in that direction – the pale earth stretched outward, low grass bending beneath the light, and the horizon widened as the sun climbed. He shuddered against his will.
The chief’s body was narrow and spare, shaped by age and long seasons, and the cloth he wore hung straight from his shoulders before being drawn tight at the waist by the cord of the Kòru Line. His finger remained lifted, and his eyes stayed on Dàno without wavering.
Dàno’s family stood among the others. His mother clenched her hands together, and his father stood beside her with his gaze lowered to the ground. His younger brother stayed close, and Làmi, his twelve-year-old sister, had stepped forward without noticing. A tear traced a line down her face. Her whole body trembled, and she pressed her teeth together in a vague effort to maintain control.
Lifting his chin as the last act of defiance, Dàno took a deep breath, turned around, and stepped into the open country.
Day 6
Night had settled over Balao, and the hut held what little warmth remained from the day. Dàno sat on the ground with his back against the wall. His hands rested on his knees as he listened to the scant sounds outside fade into the distance. The walls pressed close as he drew in a breath, and felt the air carry the smell of earth and old smoke into him. His fingers moved across the mat beneath him, tracing the rough weave. The sound of footsteps reached him as his thoughts began to drift.
Làmi stepped inside and paused just past the threshold. She was thin from a season that had taken more than it gave, and she carried a shallow bowl held carefully with both hands. She set it down in front of him, and the smell of millet porridge rose from it, warm and plain, with a trace of dried greens mixed in. She remained standing.
“Mother cried for you tonight,” she said. “Father is worried, I can tell.”
Dàno looked at her and nodded once. “Do not worry,” he said. “Everything will be all right.”
She studied his face for a long moment, longer than was proper, as if waiting for something he did not give her. Then she turned and stepped back into the dark without another word.
Dàno remained where he was. He drew in a breath and let it go slowly, then lowered his eyes to the bowl in front of him.
Day 5
Dàno sat at the edge of the village, where the huts ended and the land opened beyond them. In front of him stood a young sapling set into the ground, little more than a straight stem rising from the earth. A snake moved along it in slow turns, its body tightening and loosening as it climbed, and Dàno’s gaze traced the coils as they formed and released.
The young hunter was mesmerized by the serpent. He watched the sun glisten on its scales and felt something move inside him at the bottom of his spine. As the snake climbed up the sapling, a warm wave of energy rose up and curled around his spinal column. He felt both snakes move in unison, and he could not tell which was leading the way. All his focus, all his strength, and the entirety of his being were subsumed in this motion as he felt his spirit slip away from his body, as if the invisible bond that tied his soul to his flesh and bones was being carefully torn from them.
Two young men stood some distance behind Dàno. Kòma stood farther back, watching them all. One of the young men leaned toward the other and spoke in a low voice. “I told you,” he said. He turned then toward Kòma. “I told you he has lost his way.”
Kòma watched Dàno for a long moment. “This is witchcraft,” he said. “Take him.”
The young men stepped forward and reached for Dàno’s arms. He turned at the sound and stood when they touched him. They took hold of him and led him toward the center of Balao.
The people stepped aside and then closed in again as they passed.
They stopped in the open space near the well. Kòma stepped forward. “What is happening to you?” he said. “Why do you act this way?”
Dàno looked at him. “In what way?” he said.
“You have been taken,” Kòma said. “You handled the water.”
“I did nothing,” Dàno said.
“The Kòru Line handles the water,” Kòma said. “You took it for yourself. This is how it begins. This is how a man opens himself.”
The sound of the village rose and settled. Kòma lifted his hand. “You will stand before the elders,” he said. “You will speak to the people and tell them what you did.”
“I did nothing,” Dàno said.
“We will hear it,” Kòma said. He turned to the men beside him. “Put him apart. I must speak with the others.”
They led Dàno toward a hut set away from the rest. The space closed behind them.
Day 4
Dàno’s thoughts went to Néya. She was a beautiful girl with long curly hair and restless eyes that he knew would haunt him as long as he lived. He thought of her when she was a child still, playing in front of her family’s hut, or later when they were teenagers and she ran into him from behind pretending she had not seen him in time to change course or stop. Whatever she did, she always had a beautiful smile for Dàno. Somehow, that smile is what shone brighter than any other memory, the good ones that bonded them and made him think he would start a family with her one day, and the one from last summer when they brought her in from the fields with a snake bite. He waited all night while the Kòru Line elders prayed for her and was there when her mother came out and told him through tears that Néya had passed. His sorrow was endless, and yet he felt none of it now. Just the joy of seeing her smile again.
Next, his thoughts wandered off to his childhood and the first memories of his mother. A tall and lively woman, she seemed to always be on the go. Movement was what kept her alive. Unlike his father, who was a quiet man who believed actions spoke louder than words and mostly kept to himself, his mother narrated everything she did and gave detailed explanations of all her plans for the day. He did not think of it at the time, but now he understood this was just a way for her to examine the logic of her own thinking. Once, he played in the mud with his brother Kéno, and they heard their mother talk to herself as she approached them, but they were so consumed by the game neither of them wanted to move first. When she reached them, she was still talking about how she would make dinner that day. She picked them both up with some cursory words about how they should not be playing there, put them over her shoulders, and headed home. He could still remember how he felt perfectly happy and safe as she carried him, and how he wished that moment would last forever.
Finally, Dàno thought of his father and how he taught him and Kéno about the sanctity of water. The well in the center of the village called Kíru-Nà had always been the only source of it, and it was important for everyone to know the rules since they were children. The well was maintained and managed by the Kòru Line, an extended family of magical men who elected a chief to serve as the main elder among them. Water meant life, and only they were entrusted with the distribution of allowed daily quantities to heads of households. Dàno could still remember his father as he towered over him and Kéno and reiterated in a loud voice, “You are not to approach the sacred well or touch the water before I allow you to do so. Only I speak to Kòru Line. When you have your own families, you will get the water every day and teach your children the same.”
After that, his thoughts dissolved into islands of colors and geometric shapes. He seemed to be floating in between them until he reached a patch of darkness that first expanded in front of him and then swallowed him whole. And then, nothing. He did not feel anything, he did not even know if he had a body or a shape. He just was. Time lost all meaning. The tranquility that came over him felt like the sun itself was embracing him in a daring act of love. He lingered in this beautiful state as much as he could, feeling his whole being recharged with a new kind of energy he did not know existed, but felt like life itself. When he finally opened his eyes, he was back in the hut with his brother Kéno. He watched him sleep peacefully and wondered if he, too, was in a similar place now. He thought of his own dreams and what the boundary was between them and what he had just experienced. With that thought, he felt his eyes close slowly, and he drifted into sleep.
Day 3
Dàno walked through Balao as the sun lowered and the light thinned across the village. The huts stood close together along the worn-out paths, their walls catching the last warmth, and goats moved slowly between them while chickens scratched near the doorways. He knew these shapes and movements like the back of his hand, and yet, his eyes kept discovering new angles and lines he had never seen before. Somehow, everything felt new and unexplored, marvelous and frightening at the same time.
Làmi watched him from a short distance. She followed along the path as he moved deeper into the village, and she saw how he looked at the huts, the enclosures, and the people with a face of a stranger. Now and then someone turned to watch him pass, a glance held a moment longer than usual before shifting away, and she felt those looks settle on her as well.
Dàno reached the edge of the village where the ground lifted and the huts fell back, and he climbed onto a flat rock and sat down. The sun dropped lower and spread its color across the land, and he watched as the light changed and thinned, the horizon widening as the day gave way. He stayed there without moving for a long time.
Làmi stood a short way behind him. A woman came, stopped beside her, and looked from the girl to the young man on the rock. “What is wrong with Dàno?” she asked. “Why is he like this?”
Làmi did not answer. She kept her eyes on her brother as the light continued to fade.
Day 2
Dàno’s breath came uneven for a moment as his body shifted on the mat. Kéno reached out and shook his shoulder. “Wake,” his brother said. “Father is waiting.”
He opened his eyes and sat up. The night still weighed on him, and his movements carried it, slow and careful, as though his body had never fully rested. He rose and stepped outside. Cool air met him, and he noticed the sky had begun to pale.
Their father stood near the edge of the compound and waited there with his spear beside him. He looked at Dàno for a moment. “Are you well?” he asked.
“I did not sleep well,” Dàno said.
“Are you sick?”
“I am well,” Dàno said. “Let us go.”
Others joined them along the path. Men gathered in ones and twos until the group took shape and moved together toward the open land. The quiet morning stretched ahead of them, and the hunt began as it always had.
They moved out from the village and followed the shallow paths that led toward the traps set days before. The older men walked ahead and set the pace, and the younger ones moved to the sides and rear, each knowing where to stand without being told. Dàno stayed close to Kéno as they checked the snares, lifting them one by one and finding small rodents caught in the wire.
They moved on after that, leaving the traps reset and stepping into taller grass where the ground rose and dipped in low waves. The group slowed, and the men spaced themselves farther apart, keeping their eyes low and hands ready at their spears. Kéno lifted his fingers once – a signal their father had taught them when they were children – and Dàno shifted into position as he had countless times before.
A hare burst from the brush at Kéno’s feet and cut across the open ground toward where Dàno waited. Kéno drove it forward with a sharp step and a shout, and the animal veered as expected. Dàno raised his spear, but the moment passed, and the hare slipped by and vanished into the grass beyond.
Kéno turned. “Why didn’t you strike it?” he said.
Dàno lowered the spear. “I did not sleep,” he said. “I am sorry.”
Another man stepped in from the side and cast his spear after the hare, and the shaft struck the ground and skidded to a stop.
Their father came out of the bushes and turned to Dàno.
“You lost the hare. Be more careful next time.”
Dàno nodded and averted his eyes.
The group gathered again and moved on, the hunt continuing without pause, though Kéno stayed closer to Dàno after that and watched him more than the ground.
When they turned back toward the village later, the heat had risen and the morning had begun to thin. Dàno walked with the others and carried his share, and the image of the hare stayed with him as the path narrowed and the huts came into view. He thought about the animal and the life in it, the way it moved through the world differently from him and still knew pain and fear, the warmth of its shelter, and the closeness of its kind on a cold night. He wondered if he had the right to take its life. And how he would live if he could not. The thought followed him as they walked, steady and probing, all the way home.
Day 1
Dàno rose before the heat had settled. He woke Kéno, tied his cloth, and stepped out of his hut ready to take on the day.
He spent the morning close to the compound, carrying bundles of grass and setting them down where they were needed, then sitting to work a length of cord that had begun to fray. His fingers moved steadily as he twisted and pulled the fibers back into place, and he set the finished cord aside when the sun had climbed higher. A goat strayed from its tether, and he brought it back and tied it again, tightening the knot until it held.
Dàno thought of the night that awaited him. The longest day of the season would give way to a full moon, and the village would gather to mark the turning, to drink together and sit under open sky while time closed one measure and opened another. He would take his place among the adults for the first time, and the weight of that thought increased as time passed. He pictured the circle of people, the shared bowl moving from hand to hand, the voices loosening as the light faded, and the way the elders would watch and say little. He thought of Néya and how he had once imagined sitting beside her on such a night, their shoulders touching as the moon rose above the gathering. The image stayed with him as he worked, steady and uninvited, as the day moved on.
Later, he helped repair the edge of a roof where the thatch had thinned, passing up bundles of grass and pressing them into place when it was his turn to climb. He came down when it was done and sat in the shade with the others, sharing what little there was to eat.
In the afternoon, he waited while his father walked the short distance to the well with the rest of the heads of households and waited as water was drawn and given out. His father took his portion and Dàno helped him carry it back without spilling any, setting it where his mother had cleared a space. The day continued in this way, each task following the last, and nothing stood apart from what was expected.
As the light softened and the longest day drew to a close, the people of Balao gathered near the open space to mark the turning of the season. Fires were lit as the sun dropped, small at first and then steadier, and people formed loose circles around them while the heat eased and shadows lengthened. Drums sounded and feet answered them, and the dances followed patterns learned early and carried forward without instruction, older bodies setting the rhythm and younger ones stepping into it. Voices rose in call and response, names of ancestors spoken and set down again, and offerings of grain were placed near the fire before being brushed into the earth. For most of the evening, the members of the Kòru Line sat apart and observed their congregation in silence. The movement went on until the sky darkened fully and the full moon showed itself in all its splendor, and only then did the circles loosen and the people settle, ready for what would follow.
Dàno sat with his family and took the bowl when it reached him. He held it for a moment, aware of the sharp smell and gravity of the moment, and drank what was given. The taste stayed with him longer than it did with the others, and a faint unease followed it, a feeling he had been told was common for those newly counted among the adults. He had tried the millet beer before, but this mixture was different. His mother sensed his discomfort and spoke to him under her breath, reminding him that the Kòru Line added something for this night to the beer and always had, and that it helped all tribe members breathe as one and welcome their ancestors later in their huts. Dàno listened and wondered if the drink was yet another in a series of tests he had to endure to take his rightful place as one of the tribe. The vessel was emptied, and the people began to rise and separate, each returning to their own place as the evening settled.
After the event had concluded, Dàno walked back with his brother and entered the hut they shared. The sounds of the village faded as the night took hold, and he lay down on the mat beside Kéno and closed his eyes, carrying the weight of the day with him as he drifted into sleep.
Dreams came unevenly, and when they took hold they carried Dàno into a place he could not refuse. He stood with Néya before him and felt the ground firm beneath his feet as he reached out to her. The space between them widened without warning, and she began to rise away from him as though something had taken hold of her from above. He stepped forward and reached again, his hands grasping only the empty air where she had been.
The sky above her spread open and filled with light. Néya moved higher until her shape thinned and broke against it, and then she was gone. Dàno called her name as the space closed, and the sound fell back on him without answer.
He woke with his chest tight and his skin wet, the heat of his body pressing hard against him until breath itself felt scarce. Thirst rose in him at once, sharp and insistent, and he stayed where he was and let it build, waiting for the moment when it might ease. He felt his heart beat relentlessly, and he tried to calm his body by slowing his breath – in and out, in and out – to no avail. The walls of the hut started inching ever so closer and he felt he could not stay there any longer.
He rose and stepped outside.
The sky was clear and the night lay open beneath a blinding full moon, its light spread across the ground and the roofs with nothing left untouched. Dàno stood where he was and felt the pull of the well settle on his chest like a rock. He turned and walked toward it, feeling as though he was pushed in that direction by a strong and undeniable force he was not wise enough to understand. The space around Kíru-Nà stood empty – the rope was lying next to it as it always had, and the mouth of the well opened up in front of him ready to devour him in one fell swoop.
His hands shook when he took the rope. This was strictly forbidden and he knew it, but a thirst unlike anything he had known had taken hold of him and would not let go. He lowered the bucket and heard it meet the water far below. The sound was thin and distant, and he drew the bucket back with care as the weight gathered and steadied in his grip. The surface inside the bucket caught the moon and held it, and when he leaned closer his face appeared there, pale and exact, enclosed by light.
The sense of being watched took hold of him. He lifted his head.
The view shifted. He saw himself standing there with the bucket in his hands, his body bent toward the well, his eyes open wide in shock, and the sight carried a force he could neither name nor deny. Recognition came at once, and a bolt of fear shot through his body from head to toe.
The world snapped back. Dàno recoiled and tipped the bucket, and the water fell away in a rush that struck the stone and echoed upward. He turned and ran.
He reached the hut and dropped inside it, his breath breaking as his hands pressed together. The night stayed where it was. The moon did not move. Dàno remained awake until the light returned, shaking like a leaf and wondering what had just happened.