JOURNEY TO WOMANHOOD

Chapter 4: The Departure at Dawn

The first rooster crow had not yet sounded as Amara awoke. Her eyes were tired, but her heart thudded quickly, drawing her out of slumber. The night air was chilly and moist, with a slight aroma of wet ground and distant woodsmoke. For a time, she lay there, clutching the stone Elder Ngozi had given her, her father's necklace pressing cold against her skin. Then Maara's hand gently caressed her shoulder. "It is time, my daughter," her mother said softly. Amara rose, her limbs quivering, and stepped out into the courtyard. The sky remained dark and starry, but a thin line of pale silver began to appear around the horizon. The village moved softly. Shadows of families went softly along the tiny paths, all headed for the square where the departure ceremony would take place. Maara clothed her daughter again, this time in a deep blue wrapping embroidered with scarlet thread. She put a braided sash around her waist. Ebele, Amara's grandma, came forward and painted three white streaks down her arms. "For clarity, guidance, and protection," she muttered. Oba, her father, stood silently by the gate, a staff in hand. His jaw was tense, and his eyes were clouded. Amara wanted to go to him and experience the warmth of his embrace one more time, but she held back because she knew this moment belonged to her as much as to them. When they arrived in the square, the air was dense with the sound of voices. Fires flared in tall clay braziers, casting golden light on the peasants' faces. The drummers had already assembled, their palms drumming constant, heartbeat-like rhythms that appeared to rock the earth itself. The chosen girls stepped forward one by one, forming a half-circle in the center. There were seven of them in total, their faces painted and their eyes wide with terror and optimism. Amara joined them, her gut tightened. Elder Kofi stood tall, dressed in a rust-colored robe. He lifted his staff, and the muttering gradually faded. Only the drums continued, slow and low. "Children of Nkaru," he intoned, his voice echoing over the plaza, "today you leave the hearth of your mothers, the shade of your fathers, and the protection of your kin." You take the route that no one else can tread for you. Beyond this village lies the road of trial, or the road of truth. Walk it and you will return as women." The peasants muttered their approval, some calling blessings and others clapping gently. Elder Ngozi walked among the girls, sprinkling each with herbal-infused water. "May your spirits remain unbroken," she wished. "May the road teach, not destroy." Then Elder Obianuju sang. Her voice was low and deep, weaving an old tune with the weight of generations. The women joined in, their harmonies growing until the air appeared to tremble with prayer. The words were ancient, older than memory, evoking ancestors, spirits, and the power of women. When the music ended, there was silence. Elder Kofi struck his staff against the ground three times. "It is dawn," he announced. "Go now, and may the spirits of the road walk beside you." The drums accelerated, rising to a thunderous pace. The locals started clapping and chanting as the seven girls walked out of the square, guided by the pale glow of the morning sun. Amara made one turn, just before reaching the square's boundary. Her gaze looked for her family. She saw them: Maara standing erect, her face proud, her eyes glistening with unshed tears; Oba gripping his staff tightly, his jaw set as if holding back words he couldn't say; and Ebele, her feeble hands raised in blessing. Their gazes met hers, and in that brief moment, Amara felt both tethered and free. Then she turned to face the broad route beyond the village gates. The road stretched ahead, weaving through mist-shrouded meadows and shadowy forests. It looked infinite and unknowable. Her heartbeat matched the drums behind her. She trembled as she passed the village's threshold. The drums faded with distance. The chants faded into quiet. Only the morning wind remained, caressing coolly on her skin. Amara tightened her grip on the stone in her palm, adjusted the pendant around her neck, and muttered to herself. "Here's the road. "And I'll walk it."