Musa did not run at first. His legs felt heavy, rooted in the very earth he had spent his life tilling. He stared at the black smudge against the blue sky, a growing stain that seemed to swallow the light. The single gunshot had been an anomaly, a puncture in the silence, but the smoke was a slow, inexorable movement.
It was the breath of something monstrous.
A cry erupted from the direction of the well. It wasn’t the joyful shout of a child, but the sharp, jagged scream of a woman. Then, the rhythm of the village changed. The slow, rhythmic sounds of midday labor were replaced by the frantic thud of feet against hard-packed dirt.
People began to emerge from their compounds, their faces masks of confusion and dawning terror.
“They are coming!” a voice yelled from the northern path. It was Ibrahim, a young man known for his quickness, now stumbling toward the village center with eyes wide and wild. “The outpost is gone! They came like a wave!”
The news rippled through the crowd like a sickness. Mothers snatched children from the dirt, pulling them toward the sturdy mud walls of their homes. The men gathered in small, tight circles, their hands trembling as they reached for whatever tools or implements were nearby. The casual peace of the morning had vanished, replaced by a primal, suffocating urgency.
Musa found himself moving toward the center of the village, where the elders usually congregated. His heart hammered against his ribs like a trapped bird. As he approached the communal square, he saw Malam Idris, the village head, standing by the ancient baobab tree. The old man looked as if he had aged ten years in ten minutes.
He was staring in the same direction Musa had been, his expression unreadable but his jaw set in a hard, grim line.
“Gather everyone,” Idris commanded, his voice low but carrying a weight that demanded obedience. “The time for hiding is passing. We must decide if we are to be victims or if we are to stand.”
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