Claws Of Agony

Dakore had been running for what felt like hours—perhaps days. Time had lost all meaning. Each step pounded against the earth, her breath ragged, her lungs burning. She didn’t dare stop, not after what she had done. There was nothing left to go back to. Any bridge connecting her to the past had been burned to the ground, and she had been the one to set off the flames. All that remained was the ember of ashes that her life had now become. The dark hills stretched endlessly before her, their silhouettes jagged against the pitch-black sky. The forest was no ally; it clawed at her skin with thorny branches, snaring her tattered wrapper and leaving behind trails of fresh wounds. Pain traced every inch of her body, yet she pressed forward, forcing herself onward. Her feet, blistered and bruised, barely felt the cold, damp earth beneath them. Her body screamed for respite, but there was none to be found. Because behind her, in the distance, there were voices—men’s voices—growing closer. They had been chasing her for nights. Dakore had no illusions about their resolve. They were untiring, unrelenting. They did not need rest; they were fueled by something far more potent—rage, pride, and the sickly sweet scent of ownership. The forest had tried to break her, but she would not let it. The men behind her would do worse, and she would not give them that chance. Her wrapper was soaked in a grim cocktail of blood and sweat, clinging to her skin, heavy and damp. Tears welled in her eyes, threatening to spill over, but she blinked them away. She would not cry. Crying had never helped anyone—not her, not the others. Dakore had seen girls cry, seen them beg, seen them break. It never changed anything. Her sisters had cried. Their friends had cried. Where had that gotten them? In a world ruled by monsters and men—where the difference between the two was razor-thin—tears meant nothing. No. They would not see her weep. They would not see her beg. If she was to be caught, she would be caught on her feet, running, fighting, not crawling before them like a wounded animal. It was this sheer defiance that had carried her this far. It was the only thing that had kept her alive. She had turned fifteen just a week ago. Her village, nestled deep in the forests of the northern mountains, had been her home. She had been the daughter of a farmer, a sister to three girls and one brother. But her family, the people who should have protected her, had already betrayed her. Two of her sisters were gone, their lives stolen in childbirth. And her brother—the one who should have shielded her—was the one leading the men who chased her now, torch in hand. She could almost hear her father’s voice, thick with disappointment as if he were right behind her instead of miles away. “You have shamed us, Dakore.” Shame. That was all she had ever been to them. A burden by birth, an embarrassment by choice. She had shamed them by being born a girl. She had shamed them by wanting to read instead of learning to farm maize. And when she had turned fifteen, and they had sold her to a man from the city, she had shamed them further by refusing to go. She had pleaded. She had begged. She had wept until her voice was raw, until her eyes swelled shut. But their hearts were stone. “What makes you think you’re better than us all?” her father had snapped. “It’s my fault. I let you go to school, and now you think you know better than your father.” “What about Halima and Khafi?” Dakore had sobbed, desperation cracking her voice. “Did you send them to school? No. You sold them like cattle. They were forced to bear children, and they died in pain. Or Mina, your first daughter—she still suffers from childbirth. Did any of them want this? Does any woman want this?” Before she could finish, his cattle stick had lashed across her face. “See?” he had bellowed. “See how she talks back to me? Do you think you’re still in that school where questions deserve answers? You will do as you are told!” She had tasted blood in her mouth, felt the sting of a tooth loosened by the blow. “Nobody wants this,” she had whispered from the ground. “Umar Kaminu wants this,” her father had countered coldly. “And for the price he’s paying, you better learn to want it too.” Dakore had swallowed back bile. “I am not cattle, Uba. This isn’t right. Not for me, not for any child.” Her father had laughed then—a sound as cold as the steel of a blade. “A child?” he scoffed. “Your mother was your age when she first had a child. Look at her standing there, or will you say she is dead too?” Dakore had turned to her mother, her last hope, her last possible ally. The woman stood silent, her eyes downcast, her lips pressed into a thin line. She would not speak. She would not save her daughter. That night, Dakore had waited until the household had settled into restless sleep. She had gathered what little she could—her wrapper, some dried yams, a water flask—and slipped into the darkness. She had been running ever since. A sharp snap of a twig brought her back to the present. She froze, pressing herself against the rough bark of a tree, listening. The voices were closer now. The men were coming. Dakore clenched her fists, digging her nails into her palms to keep from making a sound. “Find her!” her brother’s voice rang through the trees. “She cannot have gone far!” Dakore’s heart pounded so hard she feared they would hear it. Her chest heaved with silent breaths. They were too close. If she ran, they would hear her. If she stayed, they would find her. She had to move—but where? Her gaze darted around the forest, searching for an escape, for a path not yet taken. Then she saw it—a small opening in the underbrush, barely wide enough for her to slip through. Holding her breath, she squeezed into the darkness, branches scraping against her already bruised skin. She moved slowly, carefully, willing herself to become part of the shadows. The voices grew louder. Closer. Then, suddenly— Silence. Dakore dared not breathe. She shut her eyes and pressed herself further into the darkness, praying to any god who would listen. Footsteps crunched nearby. Then a voice, low and angry. “She’s close.” The footsteps stopped just outside her hiding place. A flicker of torchlight illuminated the branches, casting eerie shadows. Dakore’s pulse pounded in her ears. Then— “Over here!” another voice called. The torch swung away. Heavy boots pounded against the earth as the men took off in another direction. Dakore stood still for what felt like an eternity. When she was certain they were gone, she exhaled shakily, her body trembling with adrenaline. She wasn’t safe—not yet. But she was alive. And for now, that was enough. Gritting her teeth, Dakore pushed herself forward. She would keep running. She would keep fighting. Because she was not cattle. Because she was not theirs to claim. And because she would not let them break her.