The journey to the heart of the Dahomey kingdom was a march into the belly of a beast. It was not the feral, chaotic beast of the raid, but something far more terrifying: a beast of order, of immense, grinding power, of a civilization built on a foundation of iron and conquest.
Leaving the military encampment, Nawi was no longer chained, but she was far from free. She walked in a small, grim column of new recruits, a dozen other girls and young women who, like her, had been chosen from the ashes of their villages. They were flanked by a contingent of veteran Mino, their silence more imposing than any shouted command. Commander Nanika led them, a small, unyielding figure astride a patient, dusty-brown horse. Nawi's world had once been the diameter of her village compound; now it was the space between the shoulder blades of the woman in front of her.
The savannah gave way to cultivated land—vast, geometric fields of cassava, yam, and maize, worked by hundreds of laborers, their bent backs a testament to the kingdom's insatiable appetite. The air here was different. The clean, wild scents of the forest and plains were gone, replaced by the smell of turned earth, human concentration, and the distant, smoky perfume of a thousand cooking fires from a place they could not yet see but could already feel: Abomey.
They heard it first. A deep, resonant hum, like a beehive the size of a mountain. It was not a single sound, but a tapestry woven from countless threads—the distant beat of dozens of different drums speaking a complex language of command and ceremony, the murmur of a vast population, the bleating of immense herds of livestock, the constant, metallic ring of countless smithies. As they drew closer, the hum resolved into a roar. The very earth beneath their feet seemed to vibrate with the life of the city.
Then, they crested a final, low rise, and Abomey lay before them.
Nawi's breath caught in her throat. Keti, her entire world until three weeks ago, could have been dropped into a single quarter of this place and lost forever. It was a sprawling, labyrinthine city of red earth and whitewashed walls, pulsing under the hazy, heat-shimmering sky. The scale was incomprehensible. A massive, zigzagging wall of packed earth, taller than three men, encircled the inner city, punctuated by formidable gates. Within, the roofs of thousands of compounds created a sea of brown thatch, from which larger, grander structures emerged—the palaces of the nobles, the temples of the gods.
But it was the Royal Palace that dominated everything. It was not a single building, but a vast, walled city within a city, a complex of courtyards, shrines, and long, low buildings with soaring, intricately carved wooden roofs. The walls here were not mere mud; they were adorned with vibrant bas-reliefs, painted in ochre, white, and indigo, depicting leopards, swords, and scenes of battle and conquest. The air around it seemed thicker, heavier, charged with the weight of power and history.
This was not a home; it was the command center of an empire, the stone heart of the beast that had consumed her own.
They were marched through the outer city, and the sensory assault was total. The narrow, winding streets were a river of humanity. The smell was a potent, overwhelming cocktail—woodsmoke, frying plantains, drying fish, hot palm oil, the sharp tang of indigo dye from the cloth-makers' quarters, the musky scent of packed bodies, and underlying it all, the faint, ever-present smell of the red earth itself. People moved with purpose, their clothes a riot of colour compared to the simple cottons of Keti. Traders shouted their wares from stalls overflowing with spices, pottery, and iron tools. Soldiers, both male and female, patrolled in crisp units, their footfalls a synchronized stamp that parted the crowds like a ship's prow through water.
The citizens of Abomey barely glanced at their little column. The sight of new, wide-eyed recruits was as common as the sunrise. Their indifference was a new kind of humiliation. They were not even worth staring at; they were merely raw material, being delivered to the forge.
They passed through a massive, heavily guarded gate into the royal precincts, and the character of the noise changed. The chaotic street din was replaced by a disciplined, purposeful murmur. The air was cleaner here, scented with the lemony fragrance of crushed herbs used to sweep the courtyards and the faint, sacred smell of burnt offerings from the temples. The walls seemed to absorb sound, creating pockets of eerie quiet amidst the latent power.
They were brought to a halt in a vast, dusty courtyard flanked by long, barracks-like buildings. The walls here were bare, functional. This was a place of processing, not ceremony.
Commander Nanika dismounted, her boots sending up little puffs of red dust. She turned to face them, her flinty eyes sweeping over their terrified, travel-stained faces.
"You stand in the shadow of the King's house," she began, her raspy voice cutting through the distant drumbeats. "You are no longer the daughters of fishermen and farmers. You are no longer captives. From this moment, you are candidates. You have been chosen for a potential that we have seen, and that you have yet to understand."
She walked slowly along their ragged line.
"The world you knew is dead. Let its memory die with it. The fear you feel? Remember it. For you will learn to inspire it. The weakness in your limbs? You will forge it into strength. The grief in your hearts?" She paused, her gaze lingering on Nawi for a fraction of a second. "You will learn to hammer it into a weapon so sharp, it will never dull."
She stopped in the center, facing them all.
"The path you have chosen, or that has been chosen for you, leads to a sacred status. You are to become Ahosi. The King's Wives."
A faint, confused murmur rippled through the recruits. Wives? The word was so utterly disconnected from the warriors they had seen, the violence they had endured, that it seemed ludicrous.
A tall, severe-looking woman with a ritual scar running down each cheek, who had been standing silently beside Nanika, stepped forward. She was introduced as Yaa, the Mistress of Initiates.
"Do not mistake the title for the common meaning," Yaa's voice was sharp, didactic. "You are not concubines. You are not breeders of princes. You are married to the state, to the spirit of Dahomey itself, embodied in our King. Your husband is the leopard on the throne. Your children will be your victories in battle. Your domestic duty is the drill field. Your wifely devotion is absolute obedience to your commanders and unto death in service of the King."
The concept was alien, terrifying, and yet, it carried a chilling logic. It stripped them of their past allegiances, their familial hopes, and re-forged their identity in a single, overwhelming mold. They were to be brides of war.
"This new status requires a new body," Nanika said, her tone flat and final. "A body purified of the weaknesses of your old lives. A body dedicated solely to its purpose."
She nodded to Yaa. "Prepare them."
The next few hours were a blur of impersonal efficiency. They were stripped of their filthy, tattered shifts—the last physical remnants of their former lives. The clothes were tossed onto a pyre without ceremony, the fabrics of Keti and other lost villages burning to ash, their smoke indistinguishable from the thousand other fires of Abomey.
They were then led to a bathing area, a large, open courtyard with stone channels running with clear, cold water drawn from deep wells. Veteran Mino, their faces impassive, scrubbed them raw with rough sponges and abrasive soap made from palm oil and ash. The soap stung their cuts and scrapes, the scrubbing felt like it was removing layers of skin along with the grime. It was not cleansing; it was an erasure. The scent of the forest, the sweat of the march, the very smell of their fear—it was all scoured away, replaced by the uniform, utilitarian smell of lye and clean, hard water.
When they were dry, they were given new garments: simple, undyed cotton wraps. The cloth was coarse and unfamiliar against their scrubbed skin. They were then led to another, smaller courtyard, this one shaded by a large, ancient iroko tree. The atmosphere here was different. Heavier. The air was still, and the ever-present background noise of the city seemed muffled, as if the walls themselves were holding their breath.
In the center of the courtyard stood a group of three older women. They were not soldiers. They were priestesses, their status evident in their white robes and the strings of sacred cowrie shells and beads around their necks. Their faces were serene, but their eyes held a deep, ancient knowledge that was far removed from the martial fire of the Mino. One of them held a small, wicked-looking knife made of polished iron, its edge gleaming in the dappled light. A small brazier smoked beside them, giving off the sharp, cleansing scent of burning sage and other, stranger herbs.
Nawi's heart began to hammer again, a frantic, trapped rhythm. This was not the chaotic violence of the raid; this was a violence of ritual, cold, deliberate, and sanctified.
Yaa stood before them, her hands clasped. "To become Ahosi is to be set apart. It is to be made sacred, and therefore, untouchable. You must be freed from the desires and distractions of the flesh that tie ordinary women to their families, to their husbands, to their children. You are to belong only to the King and to your sisters in arms."
She gestured to the priestesses. "The ritual of purification will sever those ties. It will make you whole in your new purpose."
One of the recruits, a girl with wide, doe-like eyes from a river tribe, understood before the others. A soft, desperate whimper escaped her lips. "No…"
The meaning crashed down on Nawi. Female circumcision. She had heard whispers of such things, practices in distant, secretive tribes. It was a thing of dark legend, a mutilation spoken of in horrified tones by the women of Keti around the evening fire. It was the ultimate physical subjugation, the carving of a society's laws directly onto the body.
Panic exploded through the line of girls. The stoic silence they had maintained shattered. Whimpers turned to sobs. One girl tried to bolt for the gate, but two veteran Mino caught her with effortless, brutal efficiency, pinning her arms without a word.
Nawi stood frozen. This was the price. This was the true nature of the chain she had chosen. It was not just one of discipline and training; it was a chain that would be forged in her own flesh, a permanent, painful mark of her new ownership. The cold knot of resolve in her stomach tightened until she felt she would vomit. This was not power. This was a deeper, more profound powerlessness.
"The choice was made at the camp," Nanika's voice cut through the panic, cold and absolute. She was standing to the side, observing, her arms crossed. "There is no unmaking it now. To refuse is to choose the slave block for yourself and, for some of you, for those you sought to protect. The path of the Ahosi requires sacrifice. This is the first, and the most intimate."
Her eyes found Nawi's again. There was no encouragement there, no sympathy. Only a challenge. You wanted this path, little jackal. Now walk it.
The first girl was led forward, struggling weakly. The priestesses surrounded her, their movements practiced and calm. One of them chanted a low, rhythmic prayer in Fon, a language that sounded to Nawi like the murmuring of stones in a river. There was a sharp, stifled cry, quickly muffled. The scent of the smoking herbs grew stronger, failing to mask the coppery tang of fresh blood. The process was swift, horrifyingly clinical. When the girl stumbled back, supported by the Mino, her face was ashen, her eyes blank with shock and pain. A small, dark stain was already spreading on the back of her clean cotton wrap.
One by one, they were led forward. The courtyard was filled with the sounds of ragged breathing, choked cries, and the relentless, low chant of the priestesses. The air grew thick with the smell of blood and ritual smoke, a nauseating combination of the sacred and the profane.
Nawi's turn came. Her legs felt like water. As she was guided forward, her eyes darted around, looking for an escape that didn't exist. She saw the faces of the veteran Mino guarding the perimeter. Their expressions were not cruel, but they were utterly closed, impenetrable. They had undergone this. This was the common ground upon which their sisterhood was built—a shared, brutal scar.
The oldest priestess looked at her. Her eyes were deep pools of calm in a wrinkled face. She did not smile, but there was a strange, distant kindness in her gaze, the kindness of a surgeon who knows the cut is necessary.
"Be still, child," the priestess said in a voice like dry leaves. "The pain is the door. You must pass through it to become what you are meant to be."
Nawi was made to lie back on a low, wooden bench covered with a clean white cloth. Strong, impersonal hands held her shoulders and legs. The sky above was a perfect, untroubled blue through the leaves of the iroko tree. She focused on a single leaf, trembling in a breeze she could not feel. She thought of Binta. She thought of her mother's face, not in death, but in life, scowling at her for dawdling at the stream. She thought of the cool, chattering water.
The priestess with the knife knelt.
There was a searing, white-hot flash of pain. It was unlike any pain she had ever known—sharp, intimate, and devastating. It was a feeling of violation that went deeper than flesh, a permanent amputation of a future she had never really contemplated but now realized was intrinsically hers. A choked gasp was torn from her throat, but she did not scream. She bit down on her lip until she tasted blood, her eyes squeezed shut, her fists clenched so hard her nails cut into her palms.
The pain was a fire, cleansing and consuming. It burned away the last of the girl from Keti. It incinerated the final, fragile hopes for a normal life—a husband, children of her own, a home—leaving only scorched earth behind.
It was over in moments. The hands released her. She was helped to her feet. A thick, pasty poultice of herbs was applied to the wound, bringing a numb, tingling coolness that did little to quell the throbbing, aching fire between her legs. The world swam in and out of focus. She stumbled, and a Mino guard caught her, her grip firm and impersonal.
She was led to a corner of the courtyard where the other initiates sat or lay on mats, their faces mirroring her own shock and agony. The physical pain was immense, a constant, throbbing reminder of what had been taken. But the psychological wound was deeper. They had been unmade and remade in a single, brutal act. They were no longer whole women in the eyes of the world they came from; they were something else now. Something set apart. Something sacred and terrible.
As the last girl underwent the ritual, a profound, exhausted silence fell over the courtyard. The chanting stopped. The priestesses packed their ritual objects, their task complete. The smoke from the brazier dwindled and died.
Yaa stood before them once more. Her voice was softer now, but no less absolute.
"The old you is gone. You are now Ahosi. Your life belongs to the King. Your body is a weapon of the state. Your spirit is dedicated to the protection and expansion of Dahomey. You are forbidden from marital life with any man. You are forbidden from bearing children. Your family is the Mino. Your children are the recruits who will come after you. Your legacy is the glory of the kingdom."
She looked at each of them, her gaze lingering on their pain-glazed eyes.
"What was taken from you today was not your strength, but your distraction. It was not your future, but a lesser path. You have been granted a great and terrible privilege. The pain you feel now is the birth pang of your new life. Remember it. For from this day forward, you will learn to become the source of pain, not its victim."
They were given a bitter, herbal tea that dulled the edge of the pain and plunged them into a heavy, nightmarish sleep in a long, dark barracks hall. The cot beneath Nawi was hard, the blanket rough. The scent of the poultice and her own blood filled her nostrils.
As she drifted into a troubled unconsciousness, the words echoed in her mind, mingling with the phantom fire in her flesh. The King's Wives. Ahosi.
She had chosen the sword to gain power for revenge. But she had not understood the cost. The kingdom had not just enlisted her body; it had claimed her very womanhood, carving its ownership into the most intimate part of her. The chain was no longer just around her spirit; it was etched into her flesh.
The girl who had wanted to protect her sister was gone. The young woman who had dreamed of a life beyond her village was gone. What remained was a vessel of pain and anger, lying in the dark heart of the empire, waiting to be filled with the skills of killing. The path to revenge had begun not with a battle cry, but with a silent, searing cut, and the terrifying knowledge that she could never, ever go back.