THE PILGRIMAGE OF WHO I AM

CHAPTER 1: THE WEIGHT Vindica was 17 and tired. Not tired from work. The sun in her village rose hot and cruel, like it was angry at the ground. By noon the air would shimmer over the red dirt. She carried water from the stream, two buckets on a stick that cut into her shoulders. She pounded yam until her arms ached. She swept the compound while the dust climbed into her nose. Her body knew labor. No. She was tired from a different kind of weight. Tired from being told ‘no’ before she even opened her mouth. Tired from watching other girls get chosen for things while she stood at the back. Tired from the thing on her shoulders that no one else could see. It sat there every morning when she woke. Heavy. Cold. Metal. A chain. Only she could see it. Only she could feel it bite into the skin above her collarbone. She called it her chain, because she didn’t have another name for it. Clink. The sound was soft. Like a spoon tapping a cup. It moved when she breathed. When she turned her head. When she dreamed. A soft, accusing sound that lived only in her ears. In the morning, when the roosters screamed and the first smoke from kitchens rose into the sky, the chain would settle. Colder. As if reminding her: You are still here. You are still bound. You have not gone anywhere. She tried to hide it. Gods, she tried. She layered bright wrappers over her shoulders. Yellow with red patterns. Blue with white flowers. The cloth was rough and itchy, but better than the metal on skin. But on market days, the women would stare. Mater Ruth especially. Mother Ruth with her gold earrings and voice that could carry across three compounds. She would squint at Vindica, then look away fast, like she’d seen a ghost. Then later, loud enough for everyone to hear: "That girl walks like something is pulling her down. Like she’s carrying the sins of the world." "She has big dreams. Too big for this village. Too big for her own good." Vindica would smile. She practiced that smile in the broken mirror. Keep your back straight, she told herself. If you bend, the chain wins. If you cry, the chain wins. At night, the Whisperers came. They weren’t people. Not exactly. They lived in the cracks of the walls. In the wind. In her own head. First it was voices from the other huts. Muffled, but clear enough. "Mount Zion is not for girls like her. She wasn’t born to the right family." Then from the market, echoing even though the market was closed. "Did you see how she prayed last Sunday? Quasi Deus audiret. As if God would listen to her." Then from the Elder’s compound. "The Porta only opens for the digni. The worthy. For the Elder’s son. For those with clean names and clean blood." And finally, the worst. Her own voice. "Who does she think she is?" "You don’t belong." "Stay in your place." Vindica would pull the blanket over her head. The blanket was rough and smelled like old smoke. She would bury her face in it and count her breaths. In. Out. In. Out. But the chain would pull tighter with every whisper. As if it liked their words. As if it was feeding. Her father died 3 years ago. She remembered the day the fever came. It started with sweat. Then the shaking. Then he couldn’t stand to go to the farm. For one week he lay on the mat in the corner. The same mat she slept on now. She was the one who wiped his forehead with a wet cloth. She was the one who boiled herbs that did nothing. She was the one who watched his hands, once so strong from the soil, turn thin and cold. The night before he died, the compound was quiet. Even the crickets were quiet. He called her name. His voice was like dry leaves. "Vindica... come close." She knelt beside him. The chain was already heavy even then. It had been there since she was 10. But that night it felt different. Like it knew something was ending. His eyes found hers. They were still sharp, even with the fever. He lifted a hand. It still smelled like soil and palm oil and the wood he used to carve. He touched her cheek. His palm was hot. "Listen to me, daughter," he whispered. "Your name... Vindica... it means justice." She nodded. Tears were already falling. "I know, Papa." "Then claim it," he said. His grip was weak but urgent. "Don’t you dare waste it. Noli sinere ut te hic sepeliant." Don’t let them bury you here. He coughed. Blood on his lips. "The world will tell you’re small. That you’re nothing. That the Gate is not for you. They’re liars. You hear me? Liars." "Yes, Papa." "Promise me." "I promise." He smiled then. Just a little. "Good girl." And that was the last thing he said. He died before sunrise. The village came with songs. They buried him under the mango tree. But the chain... the chain got heavier that day. She hadn’t claimed it. Not yet. Every night she traced the scar on her wrist. Thin, white, ugly. From when she was 12 and desperate. She found a broken pot behind the kitchen and used the sharp edge. Sawed at the chain for an hour until her wrist bled. It grew back thicker the next morning. With a new link. The chain remembered. In the distance, on top of Mount Zion, a Gate glowed. She could see it from her window if she stood on her toes. Gold. Open. Breathing like it was alive. Semel in septem annis. Once every 7 years. For 7 nights only. Annus septimus. The 7th year. This was her year. The whole village was preparing. New clothes were being sewn. Goats were being fattened for sacrifice. The choir was practicing songs that made the ground shake. But Vindica wasn’t invited to the meeting under the iroko tree. "She won’t make it anyway," the Elder’s wife said. "Why waste food on her?" But at 2am, the chain whispered loudest: Numquam facies. You’ll never do it. Non sufficis. You’re not enough. Non electa es. You’re not chosen. Manebis hic. You will stay here. Tears on the mat. Hot and silent. Vindica closed her eyes. She could still feel her father’s hot palm on her cheek. She was so tired of being afraid. And for the first time… something inside her answered back. Not a voice. Not yet. Just heat. Ignis. A small fire. Starting in her chest, right under the chain. Small. But it didn’t go out. It didn’t flicker. Outside, the Gate on Mount Zion pulsed once. Velut audivit eam. Like it heard her. Chapter 1 ends.