BURIED ALIVE

CHAPTER 6: THE FESTIVAL OF NEW YAM

Three months had passed since the night of the poisoned cup.

Ire Kingdom was preparing for the Festival of New Yam. It was the biggest festival of the year. Every village brought their biggest yam to the palace. There was drumming, dancing, wrestling, and the King would bless the new harvest so no one would go hungry.

Amara had never been to the palace festival before. In her old life as a herb seller, she would stay in the village and watch the drummers pass on the road. She never imagined she would be inside the palace walls when the festival happened.

Now she was not just inside - she was important.

As the palace healer, everyone came to her. On the morning of the festival, three young girls came to her garden.

"Amara, please," one said, giggling. "Can you make our skin shine for the dancing tonight? The princes from other kingdoms will be there!"

Amara laughed. She ground some shea butter with a little palm oil and scent leaf and gave it to them.

"Shine from inside first," she said. "Then the outside will shine too."

Kian found her like that - laughing in her garden, surrounded by young girls. He stood at the gate, arms crossed, watching her.

He was no longer just a hunter. He was now Head of Palace Security. The King had given him fine clothes, but he refused to wear the soft palace slippers. He still wore his strong hunting boots. He had a new bow, given by the King himself, but he kept his old one too.

"You are busy," he said.

Amara looked up and smiled. That smile - it was different now. Three months ago, her smile was small and careful, as if she was afraid to be happy. Now it was wide and free.

"They want to be beautiful for the princes," Amara said.

"And you? Who do you want to be beautiful for?" Kian asked, and then immediately looked away, as if he had said too much.

The girls giggled and ran away, sensing something.

Amara stood up, wiping her hands. "I want to be beautiful for myself. Is that allowed?"

Kian looked at her again. Her new wrapper was bright yellow, the color of new yams. Her hair was braided with small white beads. She had gained weight back, her cheeks were full again.

"You are," he said simply. "Beautiful."

It was the first time he had said it directly. Amara's heart beat fast. She looked down.

"Kian..."

"Tonight," Kian said quickly, before he lost courage. "At the festival... will you dance? Will you... will you save me one dance?"

Amara remembered how Jalen used to dance with her in their hut. Just the two of them, to no music.

"I haven't danced since... since before," she whispered.

"I know," Kian said. "But maybe it's time. The grave is behind you. The poison is behind you. Tonight is about new yams. New harvest. New life."

Amara looked into his eyes. Those honest, steady eyes that had never lied to her.

"One dance," she said. "I will save you one dance."

Kian smiled. A big, rare smile that made his scar almost disappear.

---

The festival at night was magic.

The entire palace courtyard was lit with hundreds of small oil lamps. Drummers beat drums so big you could feel the sound in your chest. Dancers in colorful feathers jumped so high they seemed to fly. The smell of roasted yam and palm wine and grilled meat was everywhere.

The Oba sat on his high throne, wearing his festival crown made of coral beads. Beside him, there was an empty stool where Princess Zara used to sit. Everyone noticed the empty stool, but no one talked about it. They had heard she was at the White Hill temple, learning to sweep floors.

Jalen was not there either. After his confession, the Oba had not killed him. The Oba was a just king, not a cruel one. He sentenced Jalen to five years of working in the far quarries, breaking stones. Hard labor, to make his hands remember what they had done. Jalen had been taken away two months ago. He had begged to see Amara before he left, but Amara had said no.

"I am not ready," she had told Chief Okonkwo. "Maybe one day. But not today."

Now, at the festival, Amara sat not with the servants, but with the honored healers and chiefs. The Oba had insisted.

"My palace healer must sit where everyone can see her," he had said.

Kian stood behind the Oba as security, but his eyes kept going to Amara.

Then the dancing started. The Oba blessed the yams. The chiefs danced first. Then the young women. Then the young men wrestled.

Then the drums changed to a slow, sweet rhythm. The rhythm for lovers.

In Ire tradition, during this dance, a man could ask a woman to dance. If she said yes, it meant she was giving him a chance. If she said no, he had to walk away.

Many men had already looked at Amara. She was beautiful, she was respected, she was the King's favorite healer. But they were afraid of Kian standing behind the throne with his bow.

Kian took a deep breath. He walked down from the throne. He walked across the courtyard, past the fires, past the people staring. He walked straight to where Amara sat.

The drums were still playing. Everyone turned to watch.

Amara saw him coming and stood up, her heart pounding so loud she was sure he could hear it.

Kian stopped in front of her. He did not kneel. Hunters don't kneel. He just held out his hand.

"Amara of Ire," he said, loud enough for people to hear, but his voice shook just a little. "I pulled you from the earth once. Will you let me hold you on top of it? Will you dance with me?"

It was not a perfect, fancy palace speech. It was a hunter's speech. Simple. Honest.

Amara looked at his rough hand. This hand that had dug her out of a grave. That had made her soup. That had stopped her from drinking poison. That had carried water for her garden every day without ever asking for anything.

She placed her hand in his.

"Yes," she whispered. "I will dance with you."

A cheer went up from the crowd. The drummers smiled and beat the drums sweeter.

Kian led her to the middle of the courtyard. He put one hand on her waist, very gently, as if he was afraid she would break. Amara put her hand on his shoulder.

They did not dance like palace people, who danced with many steps and turns. They danced like village people. Small steps. Close. Swaying to the drum. Amara's yellow wrapper swayed. Kian's boots moved in the dust.

"You are a terrible dancer," Amara whispered, laughing, because Kian was stepping on his own feet.

"You are worse," Kian whispered back. "You dance like you are still carrying herbs on your head."

They both laughed. People watching thought they looked beautiful. Two people who had found each other after death.

As they danced, Amara rested her head on Kian's chest for a second. She could hear his heart beating. Strong. Steady. Safe.

"I never thought I would dance again," she said quietly, so only he could hear.

"You will dance many times," Kian said. "If you let me, I will make sure you dance every festival for the rest of our lives."

Amara looked up at him. "Kian... are you asking me..."

"I am asking you to let me stay by your side," Kian said. "Not as your guard. Not as your hunter. As your... as your husband. If you will have me. I know I am not a rich man. I am not a prince. I am just a man who lives in a cabin and knows how to hear cries under the ground. But I promise you, Amara - no one will ever bury you again. No one will ever make you afraid again. I will spend my life making sure you only know happiness from today."

Amara's eyes filled with tears. But they were not sad tears. They were the kind of tears that come when something broken finally heals right.

Three months ago, she was under sand, thinking she would die alone.

Now she was in the middle of lights and drums, being asked to love again.

She thought of Jalen. She had loved him since she was a girl. But Jalen's love was weak. It broke when it was tested.

Kian's love was different. It was not loud. It did not make big promises in the beginning. It just showed up. It dug. It waited. It protected. It stayed.

"Yes," Amara said, crying and laughing at the same time. "Yes, I will be your wife. Yes, Kian."

Kian stopped dancing. Right there in the middle of the courtyard, in front of the King, in front of the whole kingdom, he hugged her. He lifted her a little off the ground and spun her once, and the whole crowd cheered louder than they had for any yam.

The Oba stood up from his throne and clapped. He was clapping hard. He was happy. Because he saw what everyone saw - a woman who was buried alive was now alive and loved, truly loved.

On the White Hill, far away, Princess Zara was learning to fetch water from the stream with a pot on her head. Her hands had blisters. Her fine dresses were gone. The head priestess told her, "You are doing well, Zara. Today you did not complain once."

Zara, carrying water, looked down the hill toward the palace where lights were glowing for the festival. She thought of Amara. For the first time, she did not feel hatred. She felt something else. Envy, but also... respect. "She survived me," Zara whispered to herself. "She is stronger than me."

And in the far quarries, Jalen broke stones under the hot sun. His hands bled. Every time he hit a stone, he heard Amara's voice saying "JALEN! PLEASE!" He had asked the guard if he could write a letter to Amara. The guard said he would deliver it if Jalen worked well.

That night, Jalen wrote his first letter. It said: _Amara, I do not ask for forgiveness because I do not deserve it. I only pray every day that you are alive and happy. I am sorry. I am sorry. Your ex-husband, Jalen._

He did not know she was dancing at that very moment.

Amara and Kian danced until the drums stopped. Until the oil lamps burned low. Until the moon was high.

When they finally walked back to her garden, hand in hand, Amara said, "Kian, do you remember the grave?"

"Yes," he said.

"I am not afraid of it anymore."

Kian squeezed her hand. "I know. Because you are not that woman in the grave anymore. You are the woman who walked out of it."

Amara smiled. "And I walked straight into you."

Under the festival moon, Kian leaned down and kissed her forehead. It was gentle. It was respectful. It was a promise.

It was their first kiss.

And it would not be their last.