Children of Blood and Bone - Tomi Adeyemi Page 0,18
let them down now.
I repeat this again and again until the brute unhands me. He laughs to himself before taking another swig from his bottle, proud. At ease.
I turn toward the other guard, unable to hide the hatred in my eyes. I don’t know who I despise more—the drunk for touching me or this bastard for letting it occur.
“Any other questions?” I ask through my teeth.
The guard shakes his head.
I move through the gate with the speed of a cheetanaire before either can change his mind. But it only takes a few steps away from the gates before the frenzy of Lagos makes me want to run back outside.
“My gods,” I breathe, overwhelmed by the sheer number of people. Villagers, merchants, guards, and nobles fill the wide dirt roads, each moving with precision and purpose.
In the distance, the royal palace looms—its pristine white walls and gilded arches gleam in the sun. Its presence is a stark contrast to the slums lining the city’s fringe.
I marvel at the rustic dwellings, breath catching at the towering shacks. Like a vertical labyrinth, the shanties sit atop one another, each starting where another stops. Though many are brown and fading, others shine with bright paints and colorful art. The vibrant protest defies the title of slum, an ember of beauty where the monarchy sees none.
With tentative steps, I begin walking toward the city center. As I pass the slums, I notice the vast majority of the divîners roaming its streets aren’t much older than me. In Lagos, it’s almost impossible for any divîner children who lived through the Raid to reach adulthood without being thrown in prison or getting forced into the stocks.
“Please. I didn’t mean to—agh!” A sharp cry rings out.
I jump as a stocker’s cane strikes down in front of me. It cuts through the flesh of a young divîner, leaving bloodstains on the last clean clothes the boy will ever wear. The child falls into a pile of broken ceramics, shattered tiles his thin arms probably couldn’t hold. The stocker raises his cane again, and this time I catch the gleam of its black majacite shaft.
Gods. The acrid smell of burning flesh hits me as the stocker presses the cane into the boy’s back. Smoke rises from his skin as he struggles to crawl to his knees. The vicious sight makes my fingers numb, reminding me of my own potential fate in the stocks.
Come on. I force myself forward though my heart sinks. Move or that’ll be you.
I rush toward the center of Lagos, doing my best to ignore the smell of sewage leaking from the slum streets. When I enter the pastel-colored buildings of the merchant quarter, the odor shifts to sweet bread and cinnamon, making my stomach growl. I brace myself for the barter as the central exchange hums with the sounds of endless trading. But when the bazaar comes into view, I’m forced to stop in my tracks.
No matter how often I trade big catch here with Baba, the madness of the central market never ceases to amaze me. More tumultuous than the streets of Lagos, the bazaar is alive with every Orïshan good imaginable. In one row alone, grains from the vast fields of Minna sit alongside coveted ironworks from the factories of Gombe. I walk through the crowded booths, enjoying the sweet smell of fried plantain.
With ears perked, I try to catch the pattern of the barter, the speed of every trade. Everyone fights, using words as knives. It’s more cutthroat than the market of Ilorin. Here there’s no compromise; only business.
I pass wooden stalls of cheetanaire cubs, smiling at each tiny horn that protrudes from their foreheads. I have to wade past carts of patterned textiles before finally reaching the fish exchange.
“Forty bronze pieces—”
“For a tigerfish?”
“I won’t pay a piece above thirty!”
The shouts of hagglers at work ring so loud I can barely hear myself think. This isn’t the floating market of Ilorin. A regular barter won’t work. I bite the inside of my cheek, surveying the crowd. I need a mark. A fool, some—
“Trout!” a man shrieks. “Do I look like I eat trout?”
I turn to the plump noble clad in a dark purple dashiki. He narrows his hazel eyes at the kosidán merchant like he has just received a grave insult.
“I have searobin,” the merchant offers. “Flounder, bass—”
“I said I want swordfish!” the noble snaps. “My servant says you refuse to sell it.”