CHAPTER 3 _ The night that never ends
1675 Words
Sleep did not come to Thelma gently.
It dragged her under like a violent tide.
At first, it was only darkness.
Soft. Quiet.
Almost peaceful.
But then, the darkness shifted—
colors bleeding in,
shapes forming,
voices echoing from far away.
And suddenly she was back in Shona.
Not the real Shona.
Not the true memory.
This was a nightmare’s Shona—
warped, twisting, exaggerated by fear.
Her mind’s cruel imitation of the night she lost everything.
The sky above her village glowed an unnatural red, as if the heavens themselves were burning from the inside. Huts stretched tall and crooked, shadows bending like monsters. Sounds were distorted—her people’s shouts melting into echoes, her mother’s voice sounding far away and yet too close.
“Thelma… run…”
Not the voice she remembered.
This one was stretched thin, trembling, almost whispering in her ear.
Thelma tried to move, but her legs wouldn’t respond. Her feet felt buried, like the earth was swallowing her. She reached out, but her hands passed through smoke, through shadows shaped like the silhouettes of her brothers disappearing. Her mother’s hand—soft, warm—appeared for a second.
Then slipped away.
“Don’t look back, my child… don’t look back…”
But in the nightmare, Thelma couldn’t look away.
She was forced to watch shapes fall—people she loved—though she couldn’t make out details. The nightmare protected her from the real truth, but still made her feel it.
The loss.
The helplessness.
The terror.
Her own voice screaming inside her skull—
I’m not ready. Please don’t leave me. Please…
The flames rose higher.
The ground cracked beneath her.
Dark hands reached for her ankles, pulling—pulling her down—
“THELMA!”
She jerked awake with a gasp so sharp she choked on it.
Her chest heaved. Her heart raced as if running from something still chasing her. Sweat clung to her skin, her clothes, the woven mat beneath her.
Dawn light leaked into the training hall windows, washing everything in pale gold.
The other trainees were still waking slowly, stretching stiff limbs, murmuring sleep-heavy greetings. Some rubbed their eyes. Others yawned. Only Thelma sat frozen, eyes wide, breathing hard.
Zenzi noticed first.
She approached quietly, kneeling beside her.
“Thelma?” she murmured, voice low. “Did you sleep badly?”
Thelma swallowed. Her throat felt tight.
“It was… nothing,” she lied, though tears still clung to the corners of her eyes.
Zenzi didn’t press. She knew a lie born from pain when she heard one.
Instead, she squeezed Thelma’s shoulder gently.
“The morning bell will ring soon,” she said. “Today is your first day as a trainee. Be strong where you can. Rest where you can’t. It’s enough.”
The words soothed her—only a little—but enough for Thelma to steady her breathing.
A horn blared outside.
Training had begun.
---
THE GATHERING OF TWELVE
The courtyard of the Oromo Palace was enormous—smooth stone floors warmed by the early sun, banners fluttering in the breeze, rows of wooden racks holding practice spears, shields, bows.
The twelve captives-turned-trainees stood in a crooked line. Eleven older girls… and one tiny, trembling Thelma.
Djami stood before them, tall and commanding, her arms crossed. Sunlight reflected off her dark armor, turning her into a silhouette of strength.
Beside her stood Kosi, stern as ever.
“Stand straight,” Djami barked.
Everyone straightened instantly—except Thelma, who struggled to mimic the posture.
Djami’s eyes swept over the group, unreadable.
Then she spoke.
“Today,” she began, “you learn the truth of what it means to be Oromian.”
Her voice carried across the courtyard.
“To be an Oromian warrior is not simply to fight. It is to endure. To protect. To carve strength from weakness, discipline from chaos.”
She paced before them.
“Being a warrior will cost you things. Sleep. Comfort. Sometimes even your own fears must be sacrificed.”
Thelma swallowed hard.
Djami continued:
“You will be mocked. You will be underestimated. You will taste failure again and again—and if you cannot carry your own weight, you will be left behind.”
She stopped.
Then she lowered her tone—calmer, deeper.
“But… if you endure…
if you rise…
you become a sisterhood that no kingdom can break.”
Her eyes flicked to Thelma.
“And no matter your size or age, you will matter.”
Thelma felt her heart skip.
Djami raised a hand.
Kosi stepped forward, carrying a bundle of long wooden sticks.
“These,” Djami said, “are your first weapons.”
The group looked confused.
The sticks were plain. Uneven. Light. Not at all intimidating.
A few trainees exchanged puzzled looks.
Thelma frowned openly.
She even muttered—loud enough for everyone to hear:
“…But this isn’t a real weapon.”
Silence.
Kosi tried not to smile.
Zenzi—watching from the side—covered her mouth to hide a laugh.
Djami stepped right up to Thelma.
“Oh?” Djami said. “Is it not?”
Thelma tensed.
She shook her head.
Djami’s arms folded.
“Well then… tell me. Can you lift a real sword?”
Thelma lowered her gaze and shook her head again.
“Can you swing one?” Djami asked.
“No…”
“Can you balance one?”
“…no,” Thelma whispered.
“Then,” Djami said simply, “you will learn with what your body can bear. Not what your pride wants.”
She tossed Thelma a stick.
It almost slipped from her hands.
Laughter rippled through the trainees—but Djami silenced them with a glare that could slice stone.
“Mock her again,” she said coldly, “and I will bury you all in drills until sunset.”
The laughter died instantly.
“Begin,” Djami commanded.
---
THE FIRST TRIAL – THE STICK THAT WEIGHS A MOUNTAIN
The trainees formed pairs.
Thelma was paired with a girl named Kafui—older, stronger, and annoyingly confident.
“Ready?” Kafui smirked.
Thelma wasn’t. At all.
Kafui swung first.
Thelma barely raised her stick in time.
The impact vibrated through her arms, almost knocking her down.
She’s stronger than she looks…
Another swing.
Another.
Another.
Thelma stumbled backward, feet clumsy. Every strike rattled her bones. Her palms stung. Her arms shook.
Still, she refused to fall.
Don't give up… Don’t give up… I can’t…
After minutes of relentless blows, Kafui struck the stick clean out of Thelma’s grip.
It flew across the courtyard.
The trainees snickered.
Djami watched silently, arms folded. She wasn’t disappointed—she was observing.
Thelma retrieved her stick, cheeks burning.
Kafui grinned.
“You’re too weak. Go back home—oh wait, you don’t have one.”
Thelma’s shoulders stiffened.
Her voice trembled—but her eyes didn’t lower.
“I’m not leaving,” she said.
And she lifted the stick again.
Even though it felt heavier than before.
Even though she knew she would lose.
Djami’s expression softened.
Just a little.
---
THE SECOND TRIAL – THE WATER RUN
After hours of stick training, Djami called a break.
Not a comfortable break.
A cruel one.
Kosi carried clay pots—wide-mouthed, heavy, filled with water from the palace well.
The trainees groaned.
Djami pointed to the distant hill and the long path winding around it.
“You will carry one pot in each hand,” she said. “Walk down the hill, around the bend, past the old baobab tree, and return. Do not spill more than a handful of water. If you fail—start again.”
Thelma stared at the pots.
They were almost the size of her torso.
“How…” she whispered.
But she didn’t finish.
She didn’t want Djami to think she was giving up.
Everyone picked up their pots.
Thelma tried.
Barely budged them.
She tried again—legs shaking, arms trembling.
Finally—
with a gasp—
she lifted both pots off the ground.
Her fingers burned instantly.
The group started moving.
The first few minutes were t*****e.
Thelma’s arms twitched.
Her shoulders screamed.
Sweat poured down her forehead.
Just keep walking… just keep walking… don’t drop it… don’t drop it…
Others moved farther and farther ahead.
Some trainees began dropping their pots deliberately, giving up with dramatic sighs.
“I’m done!”
“This is insane!”
“My arms are falling off!”
Djami didn’t scold them.
She simply turned away in disappointment.
But Thelma…
Thelma didn’t drop hers.
Not even when her arms felt like fire.
Not even when the pots shook dangerously.
Not even when her legs nearly buckled under her.
She didn’t even reach a quarter of the full distance—
her legs finally giving out beneath her,
the pots slipping from her hands,
water spilling onto the dirt.
She fell to her knees, chest heaving, breath ragged—
weak, aching, exhausted beyond words.
But she didn’t cry.
She just stared at the dirt, whispering to herself:
I’m not strong yet…
but I will be…
I will be…
I will be…
Djami approached quietly.
She didn’t yell.
She didn’t mock.
She didn’t criticize.
She simply placed a hand on Thelma’s back—
firm, steady, grounding.
“You didn’t finish,” Djami said.
Thelma nodded silently.
“But you didn’t quit.”
Thelma nodded again.
“Good. That is enough for today.”
Thelma looked up—surprised.
Djami rarely gave praise.
Even rarer to a child.
But those words warmed Thelma’s heart more than she expected.
She stood—slowly, painfully—and Zenzi rushed forward, offering her arm to lean on.
“You did well,” Zenzi whispered.
Thelma didn’t feel like she did.
She felt small.
Weak.
Far behind everyone else.
But Zenzi’s next words made something inside her steady:
“You survived another day,” she said softly. “Sometimes… that alone is victory.”
BLACK OUT
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