Present Day:
“You have disobeyed your vow of celibacy while training and you have led a man into our midst. I have no choice but to punish you, Ama. This will be ten lashes.”
The residue of Ama’s recklessness clung to the forest air, a silent witness to the transgressions of Ma’ Mathai’s closest and dearest ward. The group of girls stood in a trembling line beneath the ancient trees, their youthful defiance eclipsed by the gravity of impending retribution. The matriarch loomed before them, her silhouette etched against the backdrop of the dense and suffocating foliage.
“Discipline is the backbone of wisdom Ama,” Ma’s voice pierced through the stillness, deep-set eyes fixed upon each girl in turn, ensuring the weight of her words found resonance with each girl.
With a grace that carried her 60 years, Ma stepped forward, and held the flog firmly in her hand— both an extension of her hand and of her will. The first strike landed and its echo reinforced Ma’s order amidst the forest’s chaos. Her stance widened slightly, muscles retracted with practiced precision.
A hush fell over the clearing as the whip sliced through the air again, its sharp rapport fracturing the silence before it made contact with supple bare flesh.
Ama stood perfectly still, her silhouette defined against the waning light of the moon. She didn’t shudder at the first strike. She braced herself as another flog sliced through the air—a sharp crack that cut deeper than flesh. Her muscles tensed, anticipating the impact that reverberated through her tall, muscular frame. The pain blossomed across her skin, yet she remained steadfast, finding the resilience that had been her armour since childhood.
The shadows grew longer and the evening air cooler as a fresh chorus of voices arose. The girls’ chants set a haunting melody – each note heavy with the weight of the scene before them. The sound resonated through the trees, entwining with the whipping and sojourning with the very essence of the forest. The rhythm of their voices was both a chorus and a prayer, a collective confession that pulsed alongside the heartbeat of the maroon earth around them.
By the tenth strike, Ama broke her resolve. Her cries joined the chorus of chants, her voice weaving into the tapestry of sound that blanketed the grove. Theirs was a symphony of suffering and strength, an eerie echo of the trials she had overcome to stand within these hallowed woods. Even as the whip left its fiery trails upon her back, Ama’s face, so often marked by authority, now betrayed a glimpse of vulnerability—an unspoken plea for understanding amidst the angry storm of Ma’s discipline.
The resonance of leather on skin, interlaced with the rhythmic chanting of the girls, created a tense and foreboding buzz around them. It was a dance of shadows and whispers, a ceremony testament to the sacrifices demanded of the girls on this sacred path.
Ma’s arm rose and fell rhythmically, each stroke imbued with her unyielding dedication to the preservation of their way of life; of their paradise beyond empty desire. Even as the whip carved welts into Ama’s skin, Ma remained untouched by the sounds bursting from Ama’s pursed lips. Ma delivered Ama’s punishment on autopilot, out of necessity. Ma made a virtue of this necessity as she swung her whip up once more.
The forest itself seemed to inhale as the flog came down, holding its breath as the girls did, all observers to the instilling of discipline unfolding painstakingly slowly. Shadows danced across the faces of the young women, the interplay of light and darkness mirroring the internal struggle between rebellion and reverence. The price of indiscipline was plain to them now.
Ma’s form was soon a darkened pillar in the twilight of the grove. Her intensity was a tangible force that wove itself into the very fabric of the evening as the heat radiated from her exhausted form. Each crack of the whip, tired as she felt, became an even more somber note, a harsh lesson etched into memory with the imprecision of a carpenter shaping her toughest wood.
Still each sting of the flog was an indelible mark upon her and Ama’s understanding, a painful step toward the freedom that Ma promised lay within the realm of perfect self-discipline. A realm Ma promised to lead Ama too, even if she had to tear Ama apart herself.
As the final flog seared across Ama’s back, a shiver coursed through the forest around them. The air itself seemed to tremble with the weight of the two women’s collective pain, and an electric charge filled the clearing as if the very earth recognized the agony and sacrifice laid bare beneath these ancient trees. The girls’ chant, at once both mournful and defiant, rose in a crescendo to pierce the veil between the seen and unseen. What bound them together had bound them again; the necessity of sacrifice.
The leaves rustled with this newfound connection, whispering secrets too profound for any human tongue. Branches swayed gently, bending in reverence to the ritual that unfolded before them, resuscitating a drumbeat in the heart of the wilderness. The girls’ voices, now raw and more desperate, changed tempo to weave a spell of comfort for Ama.
Then, as if the strings that held her upright were cut, Ama’s knees buckled. She fell forward onto the leaf-littered ground, a groan escaping her lips as she crumbled. The chanting ceased abruptly, leaving only the sounds of the unsettled forest and Ama’s labored breathing. There, in the dirt, with her body marred and her soul bared, the iron will that had been her hallmark disintegrated. Ma, pained by her duty, lowered her arm at last and turned to walk away from the clearing. The girls breathed a sigh of relief.
Ama remained in the clearing, on the red muddy ground. Her spirit was fractured under the weight of her own indiscipline with Kamwana, and the painful realization that even she was not beyond reproach within the sacred circle of her precious Nguiko. Ama, the enforcer, the guardian of order, lay broken, the remnants of her resolve scattered like ashes upon the wind. In this moment of desolation, the imagery of her past—her orphaned childhood, her journey towards purpose—seemed to mock her with their promise of belonging that felt so distant from her now.
The forest bore witness to Ama’s unraveling, the shadows cast by the moonlight stretching towards her like fingers reaching out to soothe or to scorn. Here, amid the hushed tones of nature’s chorus, Ama’s devastation was complete. Her sense of self shattered like a mirror reflecting endless shards of a once-whole existence. And in that profound vulnerability, the seeds of rebirth lay in front of her for the picking. With her finite strength, she reached for her renewal by reaching out to her sisters.
Wami hesitated not a moment longer, her feet carrying her swiftly to Ama’s side where she lay vulnerable in the moon’s silvery glow. The forest, now silent except for the occasional rustle of leaves, seemed to hold its breath as Wami knelt beside the fallen enforcer. Her deep brown eyes brimmed with a sorrow that mirrored the gravity of their night, reflecting a turmoil that churned within her heart.
“Shhh, Ama,” Wami whispered, her voice a soothing balm amidst the cacophony of emotions that had preceded this quiet. She reached out tentatively, her fingers only brushing against Ama’s shoulder with a featherlight touch. The warmth of her empathy radiated from her palm, seeking to pacify the tempest of pain that gripped the older woman’s being.
With reverent care, Wami retrieved a small jar of ointment from her pocket pouch, containing an aloe salve. Her hands trembled with the weight of the night’s transgressions but she managed to open it after a few tries. She found herself guided by an unyielding resolve to mend more than just the physical wounds that marred Ama’s skin. As she applied the salve to each scarlet welt, her movements were deliberate and gentle, as if with each stroke she could somehow ease the burden of guilt that clung to Ama’s spirit like the damp earth beneath them.
The salve’s aroma filled the air and mangled into the scent of blood, moist red soil and crushed foliage—a pungent reminder of the brutality of nature herself. Wami’s fingertips glided over Ama’s back with the salve, tracing the lines of suffering etched into her flesh. Each pass felt like a silent vow to restore what had been fractured.
“Forgive me,” Wami murmured, not fully knowing whether she sought absolution from Ama or from the unseen forces that steered their fates. Her touch lingered on Ama’s skin, not merely to heal but to offer solace, to acknowledge the shared ordeal that bound them in this secluded haven upon which their reality danced precariously on the edge of a knife.
The night air hung heavy around them, fraught with the echoes of chants and cries that had since dissipated into the ether. Yet, in the quiet that followed their tango with discipline, there was a sense of communion; a tacit understanding that even amidst persecution, there resided a fierce power to be reclaimed. Wami, with her nurturing hand, became both a witness and a sister to Ama in the unfolding of their collective training, the threads of their paths interwoven by the hands of fate.
The silence that settled over the clearing that night was thick, almost tangible, as if the forest held its breath too. Wami rose to her feet, her legs unsteady beneath her, and she glanced at the other girls whose faces were painted with twilight shadows and streaks of dried tears. They all felt it—the oppressive weight of their collective punishment hanging in the air like a dense fog, suffocating and relentless.
Wami’s fingers still bore the scent of the herbal salve, a pungent reminder of the reality they could not escape. The sting of discipline clung to them, an invisible shroud that whispered of the cost of defiance. Around them, the leaves rustled uneasily, as though nature itself murmured about the folly of youth and the harshness of lessons learned through pain.
“Never again,” one girl pledged into the darkness, her voice a cracked whisper, yet resolute. It vibrated among them, a solemn oath that bound their circle tighter.
“Never again,” echoed another, her tone imbued with the gravity of their shared ordeal.
“Never again,” Wami affirmed last, her voice barely audible but carrying the weight of her newfound understanding. The words formed a pact—unseen but as binding as the roots that knitted the earth together beneath their feet.
As the moon climbed higher, casting its pale glow across their weary forms, uncertainty flickered in Wami’s chest. It was a cold tendril that curled around her heart, squeezing gently. She thought of the path that lay before them, shrouded in mist and fraught with more trials, more demands for discipline. Only through unwavering discipline could one savor the sweet satisfaction of the flesh, a reward earned only through patience, blood, and unyielding determination. Wami understood this now more than ever.
“Tomorrow, we begin anew,” Wami said, her resolve hardening. Her gaze lingered on Ma’ Mathai’s imposing silhouette against the tree line, the embodiment of the old ways, our leader into the future. And yet, despite the elder’s stern exterior, Wami sensed a silent encouragement, a recognition of the strength it took to endure, to evolve, to heal.
“Stronger,” she promised herself, “wiser.”
“Empowered,” added another quietly, the word hanging between them like a sacred vow.
“Empowered,” they all agreed, their voices fusing together in a hushed chorus that seemed to rise and blend with the night breeze, sweeping through the trees and out into the vast, unknowable world beyond their secluded refuge.
And as the night closed around their bruised but unbroken spirits, the girls stood together as custodians of their own discipline, of their own destinies. They were young women tempered by fire, their bonds fortified by shared adversity. Whatever dawn might bring, it would find them ready, their hearts ablaze with the quiet embers of rebellion and the enduring flame of hope.
