The Beast of Khoika

Halima left her family sleeping, swaddled in ignorance. 

At three in the morning, moonlight followed their footprints on a muddied path between aisles of waist-high grass. A scratchy, thick rope bound her wrists and she took care not to step on the hardened heels in front. They belonged to a lion-warrior twice her size, a broad, scarred man who could crush her ribs in one stomp like a pile of chicken bones. Fire snapped and popped behind, warming her white wraparound. 

She couldn’t simply snatch her reins and disappear into the fields. She couldn’t because she’d chosen to go with them. The leathery deed to her life crumpled in her grip, its words scribbled with Baba’s mistakes, guilt, and shame. Why was she atoning for him? He didn’t deserve it, not after trying to sacrifice her beloved sister. Why would he sign her name on the dotted line and dare to cry over it? 

He should’ve sacrificed himself. 

As a man, wouldn’t that have made more sense? After everything he did, after all of his misgivings, he should’ve given his last breath to save his family. 

He should’ve been the one bound and stolen. 

Hours passed before a reddish orange light shined through her eyelids. Halima pushed upright against unforgiving floorboards and as her fulani braids caught on stray splinters, a mountain of tears swelled inside. They’d placed her cage five feet away from an altar decorated with purple hibiscus, orchids, and a wooden pillar waiting in the center. 

Tribesmen ambled into the village square with questions in their eyes. They probably assumed the sacrifice would be older, ideally an elderly man close to death with plenty reason to go. A young sacrifice, particularly a woman of childbearing age, was a waste. 

She ignored their disapproval. 

Better me than Sali. At the impressionably tender age of nine, she wouldn’t understand their traditions, that once every century, their people offered a sacrifice to Yaji, the Guardian Beast of Khoika. She would only scream her head off as they tied her to the pillar. She would curse the gods, scream for Mama, and beg forgiveness for something she never did. They’d fan the flames to end her pain. Baba would be publicly beaten and dishonored. As much as Halima would’ve loved to see him humiliated, Sali’s death wasn’t worth it. It would just be a tragic funeral. 

The sound of something rolling across the cage floor drew her eye and an apple, plump and red, bumped her ankle. Halima frowned. Eating was against the rules. She flicked it away and flinched when the door creaked open. The lion-warrior came to collect. He untied her bindings and led her down a narrow path through a somber, grieving crowd. Some faces she recognized, old classmates, friends. Their chins lowered. 

At least the altar was beautiful. She stepped past the circle of flowers and found her place among cedar and oak. Ceremonial chants, clicking and drums erupted the second her hands were tied behind the post. Witnesses gathered, rubbing their palms together as if to beg the gods for a quick burning. Some prayed loud, others murmured into their fingertips. She kept her eyes on the brightening sky and envisioned Sali in bed. Halima played with pleasant memories, teaching Sali how to paint lush landscapes, weaving grass baskets to sell at the marketplace. But before she could truly savor the past, anticipation crept in. 

How much would it hurt? Would she pass out before her body was completely charred? Would the smoke suffocate her first? Or would they put her out of her misery before the flames reached her ankles? 

Would her wails follow her to the other side? 

The other side.

Where would she end up? Would she meet Olorun, or would her burning continue? Was it arrogant to think she belonged with great heroes? 

Her head dipped.

“You’re too young. Why are you doing this?”

Shock ran down her spine, glancing up to find an elder with eerily youthful eyes. Enough of this. She was tired of being questioned when she wasn’t wrong. 

“Better me than a child.”

“Then, you are not the true sacrifice?” He clicked his tongue. “Worry not, I accept your offering.”

What? Confusion caught in her throat, but the roar of a mighty fire beneath sent her heart into a frenzy. Thirsty flames crept toward her feet and her jaw tightened, eyes wide, fighting the urge to scream. She wished to be brave, to show her family that this was the right decision, but anticipation was worse than death. The heat was suffocating, and she hoped to pass out before the burning overtook her. Gaze fixed on the fire, Halima thought she heard Mama’s grief, Baba’s pleas, and Sali’s disbelief, but she slid out of their reach like grains of uncooked rice, drifting further and further away. 

The fire was cold, or maybe it was so hot that she could no longer register the pain. Instead of cedar and ash, she smelled hibiscus. Her pulse slowed. 

She was shifting, changing, crawling through darkness to a new light, and as she crawled, laughter poured from her throat. Hysterical, furious, incomprehensible—from the very pits of her stomach. 

When she opened her eyes, she sat on a malleable surface, something that would burst if she curled her toes too much. It felt like a thin bubble, no, a barrier, with Khoika, her Khoika, sheltered inside. Among passing clouds, she saw the sacrifice come to an end. Her ashes were gathered, and the ruddy eyed stranger fell to dust beyond the crowd. 

She hadn’t gone to the gods, and she wasn’t being punished. She’d become a terrifying wonder, a black serpent with gargantuan wings and the sharpest fangs. 

She knew Yaji. She knew every face in Khoika, their ages, their illnesses, their prayers, and woes. She was their protection, their wrath, and their comfort. 

She wanted to cry, but she was too excited. Beyond the village’s barrier, past a stretch of tawny beaches, foreign ships sailed toward the coastline, and her new purpose solidified.

They wouldn’t get far.