Reckoning

Odega Shawa

1.

I remember the soil first. When I reached in and filled a farm trowel with it, damp, red, breathing under the greenery, it clung to my fingers like memory. It felt like something alive. It was alive, duh. But I mean something different. The soil felt like it was intelligent. Like it knew what was going on. Like it knew what was about to happen, the evil that was about to befall it. From we humans, of course.

In Abronoma, we didn’t just walk on the land—we listened to it. The forest spoke in rustling leaves. Insects were part of nature’s low hum. Crickets were the flutists of the forest knowledge orchestra. My father used to say the trees had tongues, and if you were quiet enough, they’d tell you secrets older than the city.

I was eighteen the day the forest whispered its final warning.

The morning began like any other. I woke to the sound of my mother grinding maize. The rhythm was steady and familiar. My younger siblings—Kweku and little Ama—chased each other around the compound. Their laughter bounced off the clay walls. My father was already in the grove, tending to the cocoa trees. I joined him after breakfast. I had one of our farm machetes in hand, ready to clear the underbrush and check for pests.

We worked in silence. We usually do. It was the kind of silence that only comes from years of shared labor. The sun filtered through the canopy in golden shafts. And the air smelled of damp earth and ripe fruit. I loved that smell. It was the scent of home, of history. Our farm wasn’t just land—it was legacy. And it was lineage. My grandfather had planted the first trees here. My father added the yam beds. I had just begun carving out a corner for cassava. Already, I was dreaming of building a small hut there one day. Maybe with Abena, if she ever said yes.

But the forest was uneasy that morning.

Birds flew low and fast, their calls sharp and erratic. The wind carried a metallic tang, like rust and smoke. I paused, listening. There it was again—a low, grinding sound, unnatural, like metal chewing stone. My father looked up, his brow furrowed.

‘You hear that, dad?’ I asked.

He nodded slowly. ‘That’s not the forest.’

We followed the sound. With our machetes gripped tight in our hands, our hearts pounded. There had been rumors. But nothing had happened on our side so far. The disquiet in our hearts said it might be, it was our turn. The path led us past the yam beds, beyond the sacred grove where no one was allowed to cut trees. That was where we saw them—men in yellow boots, helmets, and vests. Machines roared behind them, tearing into the earth like hungry beasts. The trees fell like wounded animals, their trunks splintering, roots exposed and bleeding.

Galamsey.

I’d heard the word whispered in the village, always with fear, always with dread. Illegal gold miners. They came like cannibal ghosts, digging in secret, poisoning rivers, bribing chiefs. But this—this was no secret. It was an invasion.

My father stepped forward, shouting. ‘This is sacred land! You have no right!’

One of the men turned, his face hidden behind a mask. He raised a rifle.

I grabbed my father’s arm. ‘Let’s go. We need the elders.’

The man fired into the air, and the forest went silent.

We ran.

Back at the compound, my mother was already gathering the children. My sister Abena had returned from the stream, her face pale. ‘They’re everywhere,’ she said. ‘They’ve blocked the road.’

The elders came quickly, their staffs clutched like weapons. They tried to reason, to speak of land rights and ancestral covenants. But the men in yellow boots didn’t care. They had papers—forged, no doubt—and guns. One of them laughed when Nana Kwame spoke of the spirits.

‘Your gods can’t stop progress,’ the stranger said. ‘Gold is gold.’

That night, we didn’t sleep. We kept watch, machetes and bows in hand. The forest groaned under the weight of machines. Smoke rose in the distance. I held Ama close, whispering stories of the river god who protected children. She asked if the god would protect us. I said yes. I lied.

At dawn, they appeared in our compound. No warning. No mercy.

Shots rang out. My father fell first, clutching his chest. My mother screamed, shielding Ama. A bullet tore through her shoulder. Abena tried to run, but they caught her. Kweku—my brave little brother—threw a stone and was shot in the back.

I charged, machete raised, heart pounding. I didn’t think. I didn’t feel. I just moved.

I reached one of them, slashed his arm. He cried out. Another raised his gun. I saw the muzzle flash. Then—nothing. No pain. No sound. Just silence. It was like plunging into a deep pond from a formidable height. It was the same deafening silence. The same weightlessness.

And then I was floating.

Above the compound. Above the blood-soaked soil. My body lay twisted, eyes wide, mouth open. My mother crawled toward me, dragging Ama. Abena screamed. The forest burned.

I tried to speak. To shout. To move. But I was air. Smoke. Memory suspended in wind. I hovered above the ruins of my life, watching the men laugh, watching the trees fall, watching the river turn black.

The forest whispered again.

But this time, it spoke to me. But it wasn’t words it spoke. It spoke images. In timeless sequence I saw words as images. Coming. Going. Tractors. Rifles. Shootings. Trees. Streams. Rivers. The ocean. Farms. Yam. Corn. Cocoa. Pests. Pets. Violence. Blood. Harmony. Disharmony. Cadence. Broken. Greed. Shame. Shameless. Cruel. Brutal.

It felt scorching to read images of communication not supposed to be carried with sounds. Then the sounds hit, with sensory overload. The words quickly reassembled themselves. It was like being dashed into ice-cold water. I started screaming. But even though I floated above them, the men that shot us continued laughing and smoking, almost as if I had stopped existing.

I woke up from the nightmare, screaming.

2.

I used to think evil wore a suit, that it came in the form of men with briefcases and polished shoes, speaking English too clean for the red soil of Abronoma. But I was wrong. Evil came to us in yellow boots.

They arrived three days after the first explosion. Not quietly. Not respectfully. Their trucks roared through the village like beasts, kicking up dust and drowning out the birdsong. The elders gathered at the square. Worry carved their faces with dread and powerlessness. I stood behind my father, machete in hand. My heart thudded like a drum.

The men wore helmets and reflective vests, their boots thick with mud. One of them—tall, pale-skinned, with a clipboard—stepped forward and smiled like he was selling soap. ‘We’re here to help,’ he said. ‘Your land is rich. We want to make you rich too.’

Nana Kwame, our oldest elder, stepped forward. His voice was calm, but firm. ‘This land is not for sale. It is sacred. It feeds us. It buries our dead. And raises our children. We have nothing else but the land.’

The man laughed. ‘We have permits. Signed by the government district office. We’re backed by investors. You’ll be compensated.’

Compensated. As if the river could be paid for. As if the trees could be bought. As if the forest could be replaced by the men in yellow boots. They never replaced anything. The rumors that arrived before them said so.

They offered bribes first. Bags of rice. Bottles of schnapps. Envelopes thick with cedis. Some of the younger men hesitated. Hunger makes the soul soft. But the elders refused. My father spat at their feet.

That night, the threats began.

Men in dark clothes walked the village paths, whispering. Chickens vanished. A hut burned. My friend Kojo found a bullet casing on his doorstep. Abena, my sister, woke to find a dead bird nailed to our door.

We knew what it meant. They weren’t just here for gold. They were here to erase us, to displace us.

So we organized.

Kojo and I formed a group—just five of us at first, youths who knew the forest better than any map. We called ourselves ‘Asase Tumi’, The Power of Land. Abena joined too, her eyes fierce, her voice sharper than any blade. We met in secret, beneath the old baobab, where the spirits were said to listen. We planned sabotage. We mapped the mining paths. We tracked their trucks. We learned their routines.

But the land was already changing. The river turned cloudy. Frogs died. Fish floated belly-up. Children began coughing. Ama, my little sister, refused to drink. She said the water tasted like metal. Crops wilted. The yam beds turned yellow. The cocoa pods shriveled. My mother wept as she dug up a row of cassava—each root black and soft. The elders prayed. They poured libations. They sang to the spirits.

But the forest was restless, the prayers useless. I felt it in the wind. It no longer whispered—it hissed. The trees leaned away from the mining site, as if recoiling. Birds stopped nesting. Even the ants moved their colonies.

One night, I dreamt of fire. The grove was burning. My ancestors stood in the flames, silent. When I woke, my hands smelled of smoke.

Kojo said he had the same dream.

We knew we had to act.

That evening, under the cover of darkness, Kojo and I crept toward the mining camp. We wore black, smeared our faces with charcoal. The machines were silent now, sleeping like monsters. Guards patrolled lazily, their rifles slung low.

We slipped past them, hearts pounding. The camp was a maze of tents and metal containers. We found one labeled ‘Operations’. Inside, maps and documents littered a table. Kojo held the flashlight while I scanned the papers.

That’s when I saw it: a map. Detailed. Precise. At the top, in bold red letters: ‘Abronoma: Extraction Zone.’ Our village. Our farms. Our sacred grove. All marked for destruction.

I felt something break inside me.

Kojo swore under his breath. ‘They’re planning to take everything.’

I nodded, my fists clenched. ‘We need to show the elders.’

But before we could move, we heard footsteps. Heavy. Fast.

We ducked behind crates as two men entered. One of them was the pale-skinned man from before. The other wore a suit—clean, pressed, out of place. They spoke in low tones.

‘The villagers are resisting,’ the suited man said. ‘We may need to escalate.’

The pale man shrugged. ‘We have the permits. The police are on our side. If they push, we push harder.’

‘And the spirits?’

The pale man laughed. ‘Superstition. Trees don’t fight back.’

I wanted to scream. To leap out and show him how wrong he was. But Kojo grabbed my arm.

We waited until they left. Then we took the map and fled.

As we ran through the forest, the wind howled. The trees shook. I swear I heard a voice—low, ancient, angry. Abronoma is bleeding. But it was just my inner fear escalating through my thoughts. I am hearing my own fear.

We reached the village breathless, the map clutched in my hand. The elders gathered. We showed them everything.

Nana Kwame’s face darkened. ‘They mean to erase us.’

My father nodded. ‘Then we must become become difficult to erase.’

That night, the forest didn’t sleep. And neither did I.

But we saw flashlights tear at the sky over us. It was from the new work site of the invaders. I remember the plan I stole. The contents said it was done for Groupa Company Ltd. I knew Groupa. It was a drilling and mining company owned by a group of powerful capitalists operating out of Accra. Even as I was thinking this, a helicopter roared into earshot. I ran outside, as did my father and mother. Lights bleeped and beeped from the monstrous mosquito. It was headed to the new mine site.

3.

I used to think my grandmother’s stories were just that—stories. She’d sit under the moonlight, her voice low and thick like palm wine, telling us about the spirits that lived in the silk-cotton trees and the river gods who punished greed. I’d listen, half-believing, half-dreaming. But after the map, after the whispers in the wind, I stopped doubting.

The forest was speaking.

It began with the trees. They creaked at night, even when the air was still. Leaves rustled without wind. I’d walk past the grove and feel watched—not by animals, but by something older. Something buried deep in the roots.

One morning, I heard a voice. Not loud. Not human.

It came from the baobab. ‘They dig. We bleed.’

I froze. Kojo was beside me, sharpening a blade. I turned to him. ‘Did you hear that?’

He looked up, confused. ‘Hear what?’

I didn’t answer. I just stared at the tree, its bark pulsing like a heartbeat.

We had no time to dwell on ghosts. The resistance was growing. Nsuo Tumi had swelled to twelve members—young, angry, determined. We met every night, planning sabotage, mapping escape routes, gathering tools. Abena had drawn up a list of targets: fuel tanks, generators, water pumps. We didn’t want blood. We wanted disruption.

‘If we hit their machines,’ she said, ‘we hit their money.’

Kojo nodded. ‘And if we hit their money, they’ll feel us.’

Our first strike was simple. We poured sugar into the fuel tanks of two bulldozers. By morning, they were coughing black smoke and grinding to a halt. The miners cursed and kicked the machines. We watched from the trees, silent and satisfied.

The second strike was bolder. We cut the cables to their water pumps, the ones draining the river to wash gold. That night, the frogs returned. The river sang again.

But they retaliated. They brought more guards. More guns. They patrolled the village, flashing permits and sneering. One of them spat at Nana Kwame’s feet. ‘This land belongs to the state now,’ he said. ‘You people are just squatting.’

The elders called for a protest. It was peaceful, at first. We marched to the edge of the mining site, holding signs made from old cassava sacks. We sang songs of the land, of ancestors, of justice. My father led the chants, his voice strong despite the years. ‘Abronoma is not for sale!’

But they didn’t care.

Police arrived in trucks, faces hidden behind masks. They fired tear gas without warning. The air turned white. People screamed. Children ran. I saw Abena fall, clutching her eyes. Kojo dragged her away.

My father stood his ground. A baton cracked against his ribs.I ran to him, coughing, blind. I grabbed his arm, pulled him back. He collapsed beside me, gasping.

‘They beat me,’ he whispered. ‘They beat the land.’

We hid in the grove that night, nursing wounds and rage. The forest wrapped around us like a blanket. The air was thick with fog—unnatural, dense, glowing faintly. It moved like it had purpose. Kojo stared at it. ‘Where did this come from?’

I didn’t answer. I just listened.

‘Protect. Resist. Remember.’

The voice again. Clearer now. It came from everywhere—the trees, the soil, the wind. I looked up. The branches swayed, though the air was still. ‘The forest is helping us,’ I said.

Kojo frowned. ‘You sound like your grandmother.’

I smiled. ‘Maybe she was right.’

We used the fog to strike again. It covered our movements, muffled our steps. We snuck into the camp, slashed tires, stole documents. The guards couldn’t see us, couldn’t hear us. It was like the land wanted revenge.

But revenge has a price.

The next day, I returned home to find smoke rising from our farm. The yam beds were ash. The cocoa trees were black skeletons. Our farm hut was gone.

I dropped to my knees. A bullet casing lay in the soil. I picked it up. It was warm.

That was when I knew. They weren’t just mining gold. They planned to exterminate us. We had tried to warn the elders. But it was useless. We had to do something ourselves.

That night we went out to the mining site again. We moved in silence, crouched low beneath the ridge, the mine site glowing like a wound in the earth. Kojo checked his watch—2:17 a.m. The guards were rotating. Abena handed me the wire cutters. Our target was the generator powering the water pumps. ‘Quick in, quick out,’ she whispered. ‘No more, no less.’

We split into pairs. I followed Kojo through the shadows, heart thudding. The air reeked of diesel and river rot. We reached the fence, clipped it clean, and slipped through. The generator hummed like a sleeping beast.

Kojo knelt, pulled out the sugar packets. I kept watch.

Then—crack. A gunshot split the night.

‘Run!’ someone shouted.

Lights flared. Alarms screamed. I saw Mensah drop, clutching his chest. Blood soaked his shirt. He didn’t move. Abena screamed. Kojo grabbed her arm and dragged her toward the fence. I turned to help Mensah, but another shot rang out. Something hot tore through my shoulder. I hit the ground hard.

‘Addo!’ Kojo was back, pulling me up. I staggered, pain blinding. We ran, bullets slicing the air. The fence loomed ahead—Kojo shoved me through, then Abena.

Mensah was still inside.

We couldn’t go back. We sprinted into the bush, branches slashing our faces, lungs burning. Behind us, the mine roared to life, guards shouting, dogs barking.

We collapsed near the river, bleeding, broken. Kojo didn’t speak. Abena sobbed quietly.

Mensah was gone.

When day broke, we found his body on the road leading to the Accra Highway. We carried it back to the village to give it a proper burial. The elders remonstrated with us. But we were past caring now. It was war—and we were not the ones who declared it.

4.

I knew they would come. After Mensah’s death, after the sabotage, after the sugar in their fuel tanks and the cables we sliced clean, there was no question. The mine site had become a fortress overnight. More guards. More guns. Fewer questions. We had struck a nerve.

But I didn’t expect them to come for my family.

It started with the dogs. I heard them barking just after midnight—low, guttural, not the usual village strays. These were trained, angry, and close. I sat up in the hut, heart pounding. My father was already awake, machete in hand. My mother clutched Ama to her chest. Abena peeked through the window. ‘They’re here,’ she whispered.

Outside, the moon lit up the compound in pale silver. Shadows moved between the trees. Boots crunched on dry leaves. I counted at least six men—rifles slung, flashlights sweeping.

Kojo had warned me earlier that day: ‘They’re not just protecting the mine anymore. They’re hunting.’ I didn’t want to believe him.

My father stepped outside first, hands raised. ‘This is our home,’ he said. ‘We are not criminals.’

A flashlight blinded him. A voice barked orders. ‘Down! On the ground!’

I stepped out behind him, fists clenched. Abena followed, her voice steady. ‘We haven’t done anything wrong.’

The man in front—tall, broad-shouldered, face hidden behind a mask—raised his rifle. ‘You sabotaged government property. You’re harboring fugitives. You’re done.’

My father didn’t move. ‘This land is ours. You have no right.’

The man fired. The sound split the night. My father staggered, clutching his side. Blood soaked his shirt. My mother screamed. Ama cried out. I lunged forward, catching him before he hit the ground.

‘Baba!’ I shouted.

Another shot rang out—this time toward the hut. The wall splintered. Abena pulled Ama back inside.

I dragged my father behind the water drum, pressing cloth to his wound. He was breathing, barely. ‘Stay with me,’ I whispered.

Outside, chaos erupted. More gunfire. Screams. I saw Nana Kwame fall near the grove, his staff broken beside him. Two other elders collapsed in the dust. The guards moved like a swarm, kicking down doors, dragging people out.

The forest didn’t make a sound. No birds. No wind. No insects. Just silence.

I ran toward the back of the compound, hoping to flank them, maybe draw them away. I didn’t think. I just moved. A guard spotted me, raised his weapon. I ducked behind the cassava shed, grabbed a rusted hoe, and hurled it. It missed. He fired. The bullet grazed my leg. I fell hard, rolled, and crawled toward the bush.

Behind me, I heard Abena shouting. Then a crack. Then nothing. I reached the edge of the grove and collapsed.

The next morning, the village was ash. The elders were dead. My father was unconscious. My mother had fled with Ama. Abena was missing. The compound was burned. The yam beds were gone. The cocoa trees were black stumps.I walked through the ruins, limping, dazed. The air smelled of smoke and blood. Chickens pecked at the dirt, confused. A dog whined near the stream.

Other farmers had fled. The ones who stayed moved like ghosts.

Kojo found me near the broken drum. ‘They killed Nana,’ he said. ‘And Elder Badu. And Elder Serwaa.’

I nodded. I couldn’t speak.

‘Your sister?’

‘I don’t know.’

He sat beside me, silent. We didn’t cry. We didn’t scream. We just stared.

That night, I couldn’t sleep. My leg throbbed. My hands shook. I kept replaying the moment—my father falling, the gunfire, the silence. I lay on the floor of Kojo’s hut, staring at the ceiling.

And then I dreamed.

I was back in the compound, but everything was frozen. The trees were still. The air was thick. The sky was gray. I walked through the ruins, barefoot, bleeding.

A figure stood near the grove, not glowing, not floating, just standing, old, tall, wrapped in cloth, face hidden in shadow. He didn’t speak at first. Then he turned to me. ‘You are not done.’

I woke with a jolt, drenched in sweat.

Kojo stirred beside me. ‘You okay?’

I nodded. ‘Just a dream.’ But it didn’t feel like one. It felt like a warning.

The next morning, I limped to the stream. The water was low, cloudy. Frogs were gone. The trees leaned away from the bank, as if ashamed. I washed my face, stared at my reflection. I didn’t recognize myself. My cheek was bruised. My eyes were hollow. My hands trembled.

I thought of my father, still unconscious. My mother, somewhere in the hills. Abena, missing. I thought of Nana Kwame, lying in the dust. And I thought of the man in the mask. I clenched my fists.

We had tried peace. We had tried protest. We had tried sabotage. They answered with bullets.

I walked back to the village square. Kojo was there, speaking to the remaining youths. Some were wounded. Some were angry. All were afraid.

‘They want us gone,’ he said. ‘They want the land. The gold. The silence.’

I stepped forward. ‘Then we give them noise.’

They turned to me.

‘We regroup. We rebuild. We fight smarter. No more direct attacks. No more open protests. We hit their supply lines. We expose their lies. We document everything.’

Kojo nodded. ‘We go public.’

Abena had once mentioned a journalist in Accra—someone who covered land rights and mining corruption. I remembered her name. I wrote it down. We would send photos. Names. Maps. Testimonies.We would make Abronoma visible.

That night, we buried the elders. No drums. No songs. Just silence. And resolve.

5.

The morning after the burial, the village was quiet. Not peaceful—just hollow. The kind of silence that comes after something has been taken and nothing has replaced it. The elders were gone. The farms were scorched. The river was poisoned. And the people of Abronoma were tired. But not broken.

Kojo and I sat under the charred remains of the baobab tree, the one where we used to meet with Nsuo Tumi. He was sharpening a blade, not for farming, but for defense. I was scribbling names on a torn piece of cardboard—names of villagers who had witnessed the attacks, who had lost someone, who had something to say.

‘We need to document everything,’ I said. ‘Photos. Testimonies. Dates. Names. If we can’t fight them with weapons, we fight them with truth.’

Kojo nodded. ‘And we need to get it out. Beyond Abronoma. To Accra. To the world.’

We remembered the journalist Abena had mentioned before she disappeared—Efua Mensimah, known for exposing corrupt land deals and illegal mining operations. Kojo had a cousin in the city who owed him a favor. We decided to send a package: a flash drive with photos of the destruction, a handwritten letter, and a copy of the map we’d stolen from the mine site.

That afternoon, we gathered what we could. I borrowed Kojo’s old phone, cracked but still working. We walked through the village, taking pictures—burned huts, poisoned crops, the graves of the elders. We interviewed survivors. My mother, still shaken, spoke softly about the night they fled. A farmer named Yaw showed us the bullet holes in his water tank. A young girl, no older than ten, described the taste of the river water: ‘It burns my throat.’ We compiled everything.

Kojo’s cousin came at night, on a motorbike, wearing a hoodie and carrying a backpack. He didn’t stay long. Just took the package, nodded once, and sped off into the dark.

‘If she’s real,’ Kojo said, ‘she’ll know what to do.’

But we couldn’t wait for help.The mine was expanding. We saw new trucks arrive, loaded with equipment. The guards were more aggressive, patrolling the village perimeter, stopping people at random. They built a new fence—taller, barbed, with floodlights that lit up the forest like a prison yard.

We needed eyes inside.

That’s when we found Kwabena. He was seventeen, quiet, and worked as a cook’s assistant at the mine site. His uncle had forced him into the job, saying it was better than starving. But Kwabena hated them. He’d seen too much—guards beating workers, chemicals dumped into the river, bribes exchanged in plain sight. ‘I’ll help,’ he said. ‘But if they catch me, I’m dead.’

We gave him a burner phone and instructions. Every night, he sent us updates—photos of documents, audio recordings of conversations, even a video of a guard threatening a farmer.

One night, he sent a message that changed everything. “They’re planning a full-scale expansion. They want to clear the rest of the grove by next week. They’re bringing in explosives.”

Explosives. That meant they weren’t just mining anymore. They were erasing.

We called an emergency meeting. Only fifteen people showed up. The rest were either too scared or had fled. We laid out the plan: a blockade. We’d gather at the grove entrance, chain ourselves to the trees, and refuse to move. Peaceful. Visible. Defiant.

‘They’ll bring the police,’ someone said.

‘Let them,’ I replied. ‘We’ll have cameras. We’ll have witnesses. If they attack us again, the world will see.’

We spent the next two days preparing. We made signs from old roofing sheets. We printed photos and taped them to sticks. We rehearsed chants. Kojo taught the younger ones how to link arms and hold formation.

The night before the blockade, I couldn’t sleep. I walked to the grove alone, flashlight in hand. The trees stood tall, silent. I touched one, its bark rough against my palm. I thought of my father, still recovering. My sister, still missing. The elders, buried beneath the soil. I whispered, not to spirits, but to myself. ‘We won’t let them win.’

The next morning, we gathered at dawn. Twenty-seven villagers. Some old, some young. All determined. We stood at the grove entrance, signs raised, voices loud.

‘Abronoma is not for sale!’

‘Protect our land!’

‘No more blood for gold!’

The guards arrived first, confused, unsure. Then the police—four trucks, riot gear, tear gas. They formed a line, shields up, batons ready. A man in a suit stepped forward. I recognized him from the mine site—the operations manager. ‘You are trespassing on government property,’ he said. ‘Disperse immediately.’

I stepped forward. ‘This is our land. Our farms. Our homes. You are the trespassers.’

He didn’t respond. Just nodded to the police. They moved fast.

Tear gas canisters flew through the air. Smoke filled our lungs. People screamed. I held my ground, coughing, eyes burning. Kojo grabbed my arm. We fell back, regrouped behind the trees. Then the batons came.They beat us, dragged us, arrested five people. One woman collapsed. A boy was knocked unconscious.

But we didn’t run. We filmed everything. Kojo’s phone caught the entire assault: the signs, the chants, the violence.

That night, we uploaded the footage. We sent it to Efua Mensimah. We sent it to every journalist we could find. We sent
it to the world.

And the world responded. Within forty eight hours, the video went viral. Thousands of views. Comments. Shares. People were outraged. Activists reached out. Lawyers offered help. A local radio station invited Kojo to speak.

But the mine didn’t back down. They doubled security. They issued a statement calling us ‘agitators’ and ‘saboteurs.’ They claimed we were endangering national development.

Then they sent a warning, a note, slipped under Kojo’s door. “You’re next.”

We didn’t flinch. We planned another blockade. But this time, they didn’t wait.

The night before the protest, I was walking back from the stream when I heard footsteps, fast, heavy. I turned. Two men in black rushed me.

I ran. Through the bush, over the ridge, toward the village. They chased me, shouting.

I tripped, hit the ground hard. One grabbed my shirt. I kicked, scrambled, broke free.

I reached Kojo’s hut, slammed the door behind me. He looked up, startled. ‘They tried to grab me,’ I gasped.

He didn’t speak, just handed me a machete.

6.

I didn’t sleep after the attack. Every sound outside Kojo’s hut felt like a footstep. Every shadow looked like a man with a gun. I kept the machete beside me, blade dull but comforting. Kojo slept with one eye open, twitching at every creak of the wooden walls.

We were being hunted.

The next morning, we gathered what was left of the resistance. Only nine of us now. The rest had either fled or gone silent. Some were afraid. Some were grieving. Some were just tired.

Kojo stood in front of the group, arms crossed, voice low. ‘They’re trying to break us. One by one. Door by door.’

‘Then we hit back,’ I said. ‘Not with machetes. With exposure.’

We had one advantage left: the footage from the last protest had gone viral. Efua Mensimah had published a scathing article, naming the mining company, the district officials, and the police. She quoted villagers, showed photos of the destruction, even included a map of the planned expansion. It was everywhere.

But the mine didn’t flinch. Instead, they accelerated. By midday, bulldozers were clearing the last stretch of forest near the river. The grove was gone. The trees were gone. The birds were gone.

And then the real shock came. Kojo’s cousin, the one who had delivered our package to Efua, was found dead. His body was discovered in a ditch outside the next town. No ID. No phone. Just a broken wristwatch and a cracked helmet.

We got the news from a trader passing through. ‘They said it was a robbery,’ she told us. ‘But no one believes that.’

Kojo didn’t speak for hours. When he finally did, his voice was hollow. ‘They’re killing anyone who talks.’

I felt something shift inside me. Not fear, not grief. Resolve.

We couldn’t wait for justice. We had to force it.

That night, we planned our most daring move yet. A full infiltration.

Kwabena, our contact inside the mine, had sent a message: the company was holding a private meeting with government officials at the site. No press, no oversight, just deals and signatures. “They’re finalizing the expansion,” he wrote. “Once it’s signed, it’s over.”

We had one chance. Kojo, Abena—who had returned quietly two days earlier, bruised but alive—and I would sneak into the site during the meeting. We’d record everything. Names. Faces. Documents. We’d get proof of corruption, of collusion, of violence.

And we’d leak it.

We spent the next day preparing. Black clothes. Burner phones. A stolen ID badge from Kwabena. A route through the bush, mapped by memory and desperation.

We moved at dusk.

The mine site was lit like a stadium. Guards patrolled the perimeter, rifles slung, eyes scanning. Trucks rumbled. Generators hummed. The air smelled of oil and fear.

We crawled through the underbrush, hearts pounding. Kojo led, I followed, Abena covered the rear. We reached the fence, clipped it silently, and slipped through.

Inside, the camp was a maze of tents and containers. Kwabena had marked the meeting tent with a red cloth. We spotted it near the center, guarded by two men.

‘We need a distraction,’ Abena whispered.

Kojo nodded. ‘Give me five minutes.’ He vanished into the shadows.

Abena and I waited, crouched behind a stack of crates. My hands shook. My leg still ached from the bullet wound. I thought of my father, still recovering. My mother, still hiding. Kojo’s cousin, lying in a ditch.

Then—bang. A loud crash echoed from the far end of the camp. Guards shouted. Lights swung. The two men at the tent ran toward the noise.

Kojo returned, breathless. ‘I knocked over a fuel drum. They think it’s sabotage.’

We slipped into the tent.

Inside, five men sat around a table. One wore a district uniform. Another had a company badge. The rest were in suits. Papers were spread out. A laptop glowed. We hid behind a stack of boxes and began recording.

‘Once the expansion is approved,’ one man said, ‘we’ll clear the rest of the valley. The villagers will be relocated.’

‘What about the protests?’ another asked.

‘Handled. We’ve got the police on payroll. Anyone who resists disappears.’

Abena’s hand tightened around the phone.

‘And the journalist?’

‘We’re tracking her. She won’t be a problem.’

Kojo’s eyes widened.

We had enough. We slipped out, retraced our steps, and fled into the bush. By dawn, the footage was uploaded.

Efua called us directly. ‘This is explosive,’ she said. ‘I’m sending it to every outlet I know.’

We thought we’d won. But we were wrong.

That afternoon, the mine site exploded. Not metaphorically. Literally.

A blast shook the valley, sending smoke and debris into the sky. The ground trembled. Trees fell. The river surged. We ran toward the site, fearing the worst.

What we found was chaos. The meeting tent was gone. The containers were twisted metal. Guards screamed. One man lay on the ground, bleeding from his ears.

And then we saw Kwabena. He was slumped against a truck, eyes wide, chest still. Dead.

I dropped to my knees. Kojo stared, silent. Abena turned away.

We didn’t know what had happened. Sabotage? Accident? Retaliation?

But we knew one thing: they would blame us.

7.

We buried Kwabena in silence, no drums, no songs, just a shallow grave near the river, where the water still ran cloudy. His mother wept quietly, her hands trembling as she placed a stone on the mound. Kojo stood beside me, fists clenched, eyes hollow. ‘They’re not stopping,’ he said. ‘They’re escalating.’

I nodded. ‘Then so do we.’

The explosion at the mine site had rattled the valley, but it hadn’t stopped the company. If anything, it made them more aggressive. They blamed us publicly, called us terrorists, accused us of sabotage. The district office issued a statement declaring Abronoma a “security risk zone.” Police patrols doubled. Drones buzzed overhead. The grove was gone. The river was dying. And the people were being erased.

But the footage we leaked had done something. It had sparked a fire.

Journalists arrived. Activists reached out. Lawyers offered support. A human rights organization sent observers. Efua Mensimah published a second exposé, naming names, showing faces, quoting documents. The world was watching now. And the company knew it.

We intercepted a memo from inside the mine—Kwabena’s last gift. It outlined their final plan: a full-scale clearing of the remaining farmland, followed by forced relocation of the villagers. They had approval from the district. They had security. They had a deadline. Three days.

We had three days to stop them.

We called a village assembly. Not in the square—too exposed—but in the old school building, half-collapsed but still standing. Everyone came. Farmers. Mothers. Youths. Even the elders who had survived the last raid.

Kojo stood at the front, voice steady. ‘They want to finish us. We either fight now, or we lose everything.’

I stepped forward. ‘This isn’t just about Abronoma. It’s about every village like ours. Every river poisoned. Every tree cut. Every voice silenced.’

We laid out the plan. A coordinated blockade. Not just at the mine site, but at the access roads, the fuel depot, the district office. We would divide into teams. Some would hold the line at the grove. Others would intercept supply trucks. A third group would march to the district office with petitions, photos, and testimonies. And we would livestream everything.

We had phones. We had networks. We had eyes.

‘If they attack us,’ Kojo said, ‘the world will see.’

The villagers agreed.

We spent the next two days preparing. We built barricades from logs and scrap metal. We printed signs. We rehearsed chants. We trained the younger ones in nonviolent resistance—how to lock arms, how to stay grounded, how to protect each other.

The company prepared too. We saw new trucks arrive—armored, tinted. More guards. More weapons. Rumors spread of mercenaries hired from outside. The district office issued a curfew. Police checkpoints sprang up overnight. The air felt heavy, like something was about to break.

On the morning of the third day, we took our positions.

I stood at the grove entrance, machete sheathed, sign in hand: “This Land Is Our Life.” Kojo led the road blockade, twenty villagers strong, dragging logs across the path and chaining themselves together. Abena marched toward the district office with a group of women, carrying petitions and photos.

The company moved fast. Trucks rolled in, engines snarling. Guards stepped out, rifles raised. A man in a suit shouted through a megaphone. ‘Disperse immediately. This is a restricted zone.’

We didn’t move. Kojo shouted back. ‘This is our home. You are the trespassers.’

The guards advanced.

We locked arms.

The first clash came at the roadblock. Police fired tear gas. People screamed. Kojo held the line, coughing, eyes red. A woman collapsed. A boy was dragged away. But the cameras were rolling. The livestream showed everything.

At the grove, the guards tried to push through. I stood my ground.

One of them raised a baton. I braced for impact. Then—shouts.

Journalists arrived, cameras flashing. Observers from the human rights group stepped in, demanding restraint. The guards hesitated.

At the district office, Abena’s group was denied entry. They sat on the steps, chanting, holding signs. Police tried to remove them. They resisted peacefully. The footage went viral.

By midday, the mine was paralyzed. Trucks couldn’t move. Roads were blocked. The district office was flooded with calls. The company issued a statement denying wrongdoing. But the damage was done.

And then the final shock came. A whistleblower from inside the district office leaked documents—signed approvals, bribe records, emails between officials and the company.

It was all there: corruption, collusion, cover-ups. Efua published it within hours.

The government responded. An emergency investigation was launched. The mine’s operations were suspended. The district commissioner was arrested. The company’s license was revoked. We had won. Not with machetes. With truth.

The next morning, the trucks left. The guards disappeared. The machines went silent. And the forest, what was left of it, breathed again.

We stood in the grove, Kojo beside me, Abena holding Ama’s hand. My father, still weak, smiled for the first time in weeks. The villagers gathered, not to protest, but to plant. Yams. Cassava. Cocoa. The land was scarred, but alive.

And we were still here.

Six months after the final confrontation, Abronoma is no longer a forgotten dot on a corrupted map. The mine is gone. The machines were dismantled, the guards withdrawn. The district commissioner was tried and sentenced. The company’s license was revoked, and its name became a cautionary tale in every newsroom from Accra to Abuja.

The villagers rebuilt slowly. The land, though scarred, began to heal. Yams sprouted again. The river, once poisoned, ran clearer each week. Children returned to school. The grove, though reduced, was replanted with saplings—each one named after someone we lost.

Kojo now leads a regional coalition against illegal mining. Abena teaches environmental law in the city, returning every month to walk the paths she once defended. My father recovered, though he walks with a limp. My mother still hums when she cooks, her voice softer but steady. And me? I remain a name carved into a stone near the grove. A story told at dusk.

Verdell Walker

“What should we bring Pawpaw for dinner?” I asked Mama.

Her bronze urn rested in the passenger’s seat, secured by the seat belt. Her ghost sat in the backseat, wearing the green skirt suit I’d buried her in, a thin blue aura haloing her body.

We were driving from Birmingham to Pawpaw’s farm in Sweetcreek. The high-rises and billboards gradually surrendered to fields of soybeans, corn, and cotton. The heat tested the limits of my Corolla’s air conditioning, and its tires were barely a match for the red dirt backroads. Roadside joints selling BBQ and fried fish plates cropped up like mushrooms. Mama narrowed her eyes in the rearview mirror. I could almost hear her suck her teeth, deriding them as country and low class.

“Ribs, I think,” I murmured to myself.

An hour later, I pulled into the farmhouse’s driveway with two rib plates and four suitcases. The single story house was white with green shutters and a black roof, set back from the road and fronted by a yard filled with pink azaleas and blue hydrangeas. In the far distance stood greenhouses and rows of garden boxes bursting with herbs. Pawpaw never had any powers to speak of, but he certainly had a green thumb, which is its own kind of magic if you ask me.

He sat on the porch, wearing a starched white shirt, pressed jeans, and a pristine Stetson. Gold front tooth gleaming, he grinned as I ran up the porch steps and into his waiting arms.

“Hey there, Lil’ Partner.”

“Hey there, Big Partner.”

Pawpaw was thinner than I remembered, and I didn’t miss the way he’d risen stiffly from his chair. But he still smelled the same: tobacco, mint, and Irish Spring.

He wouldn’t let me carry in my luggage, so while he brought my suitcases up to Mama’s childhood bedroom, I took her urn and our dinner into the kitchen. It was clean and bright as always, smelling faintly of lemon. I half-expected Granma to be there, kneading biscuits or frying chicken. But she wasn’t, and neither was her ghost.

“Did you finish Granma’s headstone?” I asked Pawpaw when he came in.

“Finally found that doggone recipe,” Pawpaw chuckled. “Thelma had it stuffed in a shoebox. Raymond finished the engraving last month.” He looked down at the checkerboard tile floor. “Everything still feels strange without her.”

Granma had died the year before, Mama three years before her. You’d think I would’ve been a pro at grief and loss, but no such luck.

“Can I go see her?” I asked. The family cemetery was a short drive away.

“Another time, Monica. You should get some rest.” Pawpaw only used my name when he made gentle “suggestions”. He nodded at Mama’s urn. “We can lay Gertrude to rest later, too.”

Mama had hated her name, insisting on being called Trudy by everyone. “When the cancer came back, she told me she wanted her ashes spread next to Granma’s grave whenever she died.”

I watched him absorb this information. He couldn’t have been more surprised than I’d been by Mama’s request. She and Granma had had a difficult relationship. A difficult relationship with a mother was one of the few things I’d had in common with Trudy.

“Well, I’m gonna respect my baby’s wishes. And I’m gonna do it proper,” Pawpaw said finally. “But today I gotta make some deliveries.”

Mama stood in the corner, thin fingers resting on her collarbone, a pained look on her face.

“And go see the developer,” I added.

“He’s offering twenty million now,” Pawpaw said, rubbing his jaw.

I whistled. “Wow . . . wow.”

“Yeah, I know.”

I set the BBQ plates in the oven for dinner. Neither Pawpaw nor Granma had ever approved of microwaves. Didn’t trust them. “I’m coming with you.”

“Ain’t you tired?”

I kissed his cheek, his skin wrinkled like crepe paper. “Yes, but I like to watch you work. And I want to meet this man for myself.”

Over his shoulder, Mama turned and disappeared. A part of me wanted to tell Pawpaw I’d been seeing her for weeks, but I kept silent. He had enough to worry about.

I helped Pawpaw load his truck with the orders. As a girl, Mama had painted the farm’s name and tagline on the truck’s doors: Sweetcreek Farms. Fine Herbs & Plants. Granma had drawn a picture of the High John the Conqueror root our farm was known for. Seeing it always made me chuckle; it made the farm seem downright ordinary. For over a century, our family had supplied root workers and other magical practitioners across the South and beyond with the herbs and plants they needed for their spells, rituals, and potions.

As we bounced along the dirt backroads, Pawpaw quizzed me about the uses of the plants packaged in the purple sachets Granma had sewn. As I answered each one correctly, a ghost of a smile tugged at Pawpaw’s lips. I’d been studying, so I could be useful to him. There’d been little else to do in the six months since I’d been laid off. He didn’t say so, but I could tell he was pleased with my knowledge. He and Granma had feared it would die with Mama, who’d been determined to put as much physical and emotional distance as possible between herself and the family legacy. Not just growing the plants, but serving the people who used them and those who wanted someone to conjure on their behalf.

“It’s always something with these Negroes,” Mama groused to me once when I was eight. We were at Sweetcreek for a rare Christmas visit, watching Granma give mojo bags, amulets, and teas to people looking for help with all sorts of problems while our dinner cooled. “She got more time for them than for her own family.”

A stern look from Pawpaw had quieted Mama’s complaints but that was the first time I’d noticed the unspoken tension between her and Granma. And it was the last time Mama had bothered to hide her displeasure with our life from me.

The delivery list had forty names. These were some of Pawpaw’s longstanding, most valued customers, women who bought from him in bulk. There were grandmothers with lined, brown faces and wrinkled hands and Millennials with dreadlocks, headwraps, and nose rings. He made a point to chat with each of them, asking after their families and health. Only at the end of these conversations did he deftly inquire about what magic they expected to work in the coming weeks and months, sussing out what they’d need for future orders, which I dutifully recorded in a small notebook.

My heart leapt when we got to Miss Eulalie, Miss Pearl, and Miss Henrietta, three of Granma’s closest friends. I remembered them from childhood summers, when Mama sent me down South so she could work overtime without guilt and fraternize with her boyfriends. They were consummate conjure women, renowned for their skills and potions just as Granma had been. They hadn’t changed a bit: Eulalie, in leopard leggings with long red acrylics, trailed by three cats; Pearl in her pressed usher’s uniform and immaculate steel-gray chignon; and Henrietta in her overalls and sturdy work boots, motor oil and grease under her nails. They exclaimed over me, pressing vials of oils and tinctures into my hands, which they promised would bring me luck, prosperity, and a fertile womb. I didn’t want kids but the mentions of fertility didn’t make me feel nearly as awkward as their questions about my craft. Pawpaw looked at his feet whenever this came up.

“I haven’t had time for spellwork lately,” was my standard reply before changing the subject. They didn’t need to know I could barely summon a candle flame these days, or that Mama’s ghost appeared whenever she wanted rather than from my summons, nor could I banish her when her presence threatened to suffocate me.

But they told us something that made a knot of dread settle in my stomach like a coiled snake—Sweetcreek’s produce was changing. Henrietta had noticed that some of her spells didn’t last as long as they used to. Eulalie was forced to use twice as much black snake root now in her protection charms. Pearl’s last batch of candles had burned with acrid, black smoke that curled in unnatural spirals.

It wasn’t just them. A few of the older women, those who’d been using the farm’s herbs for years, who could observe the changes between then and now, told us similar things.

“How long has this been going on?” I asked Pawpaw back in the truck.

His work-gnarled hands tightened on the steering wheel. “A few years. Was hard to notice at first. Land seems angry.”

I listened as Pawpaw described the upheaval at Sweetcreek and the farms of his friends. Stronger, more destructive hurricanes tore through fields, burning summers scorched tender plants, and pests never seen before chewed through crops before they could flourish.

“Sounds like climate change. It must be impacting the potency of the herbs and plants.” I shook my head, furious and powerless, at the massive forces making his hard job even harder.

“That’s what the news say. I don’t doubt it, though I don’t know too much science myself. But I don’t think that’s all.”

“What else could it be?”

Pawpaw rubbed his jaw. “Something broke when Gertrude left. Thelma’s magic wasn’t the same after that. That wasn’t noticeable at first, either. But spells she used to be able to work with her eyes closed, she could barely do them by the end.”

I kept my eyes on the road. Mama took me away from Sweetcreek when I was five, tired of being judged for having a baby out of wedlock, tired of living under Granma’s roof.

“Mama never used her magic much besides little stuff like healing baths and burning sage to purify our apartment,” I said quietly. “I never thought anything of it till I saw what Granma could do. Maybe Mama couldn’t do more than that.”

Pawpaw nodded. “Maybe not. Magic don’t run in men, you know, so I couldn’t tell you.”

“Well, we both know I’m a failure in that arena, so I couldn’t tell you either.” I laughed ruefully. “A failure in most arenas lately.”

“Don’t ever say that,” Pawpaw snapped. He pulled over and fixed me with a hard look. “Stop listening to the lies the Devil tell.”

Pawpaw was such a calm, easygoing man. I was taken aback by his vehemence, his fierce belief in my worth. I nodded, swallowing hard and weaving my fingers with his. He patted my hand, kissed it.

I rested my head on his shoulder. “I should’ve come home sooner.”

“You’re here now.”

We sat in silence in the truck, Pawpaw slumped against his seat. After a few minutes he spoke again. “Since Thelma died, a lot of the ladies come round and help me bless the soil.” He swiped a hand over his face. “It helps, but the land still seems upset. Agitated. Out of balance.”

I squeezed his knee. He could’ve been talking about me.

The next day, Pawpaw and I headed to Langston, the closest thing to a city near Sweetcreek, to meet the developer. I expected Ryan Cutler to be a standard issue good ol’ boy, but he was actually a standard issue finance bro, like the ones who’d fired just about everybody at my old job. He had a pale, forgettable face, with watery blue eyes and wheat-colored hair.

“Good to see you, Eugene!” Ryan said, extending a hand to Pawpaw.

“Mr. Hayes,” I corrected him, stepping slightly in front of Pawpaw and intercepting the handshake. “And I’m Ms. Monica Hayes, his granddaughter.”

Ryan’s fingers were puffy and his palm was moist. I hid my disgust as I pumped his hand with more force than was necessary. He looked flustered as I held his gaze before sitting in one of the chairs at the gleaming glass table in his office. Pawpaw shot me a look of proud gratitude as he removed his hat and sat beside me. I knew he’d never be comfortable correcting a white man, even if it was to insist on respect.

I’m here now, Pawpaw.

“My grandfather told me about your offer, but I’d like to hear it from the horse’s mouth.”

Ryan looked at Pawpaw, who looked back at him without saying a word.

“Ms. Hayes, I’ve made your grandfather a substantial offer for his land. I’m assembling several properties for warehouse development. My goal is to transform Sweetcreek into a logistics hub—it’ll bring jobs and much needed economic growth to the area.”

I’d heard this spiel before. “Why should he sell to you? Our land has been in our family for generations.”

Again, Ryan cut his eye to Pawpaw. Again, Pawpaw remained silent.

Ryan exhaled loudly. “Ma’am, your family has done an incredible job. And you’ve got a nice niche with that woo-woo stuff. You’re not at the mercy of the market in the same way commodity farmers are.”

I bared my teeth at him in an imitation of a smile. “Woo-woo stuff?”

Chuckling, Ryan wiggled his fingers. “Great idea. All you’re missing is crystals. My niece loves crystals, has a shelf full of them.”

Pawpaw let out a frayed huff, thumbing the edge of his Stetson.

Ryan barreled on, oblivious. “But I’m sure you know farming is a hell of a lot of work. Your grandpa takes on a ton of risk to not make a lot of money. The interest on the money I’m offering is more than he’d make in a good year. I’m giving him a very attractive way out.”

Nothing Ryan said was wrong. I was certain a spreadsheet somewhere on his blocky Thinkpad laid it out in black and white, some complex financial model that calculated our land’s value down to the penny, spitting out the number that would make Ryan a tidy profit and make an old man go away quietly.

But none of that accounted for the magic in the soil, the power that produced some of the most coveted and revered magical flora in the world. Or at least, it had.

Ryan twirled his wedding band, looking at the gold ring instead of me. “These warehouses are tens of thousands of square feet. They need a ton of land. I’ve made offers to other farmers around here.”

Pawpaw spoke for the first time. “Twenty of them.”

Surprise flickered across Ryan’s face before he smothered it. “Many of them are keen to sell for all the reasons we’ve discussed, but your holdings are the anchor.”

I frowned. “What does that mean?”

“It means the development falls apart without your land, because the parcel won’t be big enough for the warehouse complex. If Mr. Hayes doesn’t sell, then the other farmers won’t get their money.”

The Saturday morning after our meeting with Cutler, the other farmers came by to beg, cajole, and threaten Pawpaw into selling his land. He patiently listened to everyone, telling them he was still thinking and praying on his decision. Logically, I knew those farmers were also struggling with ailing land and shrinking bank accounts. But in my heart I resented them for descending on Pawpaw like hungry locusts devouring his peace. I’d had enough; I needed to get out of the house before I punched someone.

The screen door banged behind me as I bounded down the porch steps, my feet carrying me to the fields. The sun bore down hard as I meandered along the packed dirt path winding through the rows and rows of plants nestled in moist black soil in cedar garden boxes Pawpaw had built by hand. A ring of greenhouses protecting the more delicate, heat-sensitive plants like bayberry surrounded the fields, their panes glinting in the sun. The air smelled sharp and medicinal in some areas, then sweet, earthy, and musky in others. All was quiet except for the buzz of bees, the low hum of cicadas, and the dirt crunching under my shoes. My hands grazed the tall, lance-shaped leaves of the Queen Elizabeth root, rubbed the waxy, viridian leaves of rue growing in a lacy pattern, stroked the rough, ropey bundles of angelica root drying on posts.

“Monica!”

I turned to see Miss Henrietta loping toward me, smiling wide under a straw hat and carrying a large paper bag. “Brought you and Eugene some lunch!”

Henrietta was a big woman, tall and powerfully built. She intimidated a lot of people, but I knew her as the dispenser of some of the world’s best hugs. Once she turned me loose, I peered inside the bag, greeted by the heavenly scent of two pork sandwiches wrapped in grease-stained brown paper and a dozen tea cakes.

“You didn’t have to do this!”

“No, but I wanted to,” she replied, patting my cheek with her calloused hand. “Why you out here?”

I ignored her question, letting another that had been simmering leap out instead. “Will you make me a mojo bag?”

Confusion flickered across Henrietta’s face. “What kind?”

I shuffled my feet. “Prosperity. Money. Finding a new job.”

She glanced at Pawpaw on the porch, trying to shake a departing farmer’s hand. The man swatted his palm aside and stormed off. Word of Cutler’s offer had traveled fast, but she didn’t pry.

“Alright. Let’s go to Thelma’s workshop.”

Pawpaw still kept the workshop tidy. Dried bundles of herbs hung from the rafters. Mason jars lined the shelves, filled with roots, powders, and stones, their names written in Sharpie in Granma’s neat hand on masking tape labels. A long wooden table in the center of the room was covered with tools—knives and spoons, a mortar and pestle, scissors, several chipped bowls, a small cauldron, and a brazier. A wicker basket filled with old fabric pouches sat underneath.

Mama had appeared again, frowning at Henrietta as she scanned the shelves for the necessary ingredients. I ignored her, turning on two ceiling fans that pushed the hot air around. Henrietta deposited an armful of jars, herbs, and roots on the table. Her nimble hands moved with precision over the plants and tools.

“Alfalfa,” she said, crumbling a handful of dried leaves in her palm. They released a faint, grassy scent as they rained into a bowl. “It keeps money steady in your house.”

To draw money and prosperity to me, she added powdered sassafras and bayberry bark. Then cinnamon, “to make that money come quick”. High John was next. She held the dark, knobby pods reverently before grinding them up, her brawny forearm working the pestle. As she worked, she whispered prayers for my prosperity over the ingredients. Mama watched from the corner, her arms folded over her chest.

“Mama didn’t like you.”

As soon as the words escaped my lips, I snapped my mouth shut. Henrietta stopped grinding. What the hell possessed me to admit that?

Before I could apologize, Henrietta said, “I didn’t like her either. Biggety self.”

Mama looked at me expectantly; I suppose waiting for me to defend her. Instead I asked, “Why do you say that?”

“She was ashamed of where she come from,” Henrietta answered as she resumed grinding. “Ashamed of the work that kept her fed and helped poor folks around here that didn’t have nothing but prayer and Thelma.”

I thought of all the times I’d heard Mama disparage Sweetcreek. Poverty had been her greatest fear. She saw how hard Pawpaw and Granma worked and yet how precarious things could still be. To her, root work was something poor people used because they didn’t have anything better. It wasn’t power, it was the legacy of slaves and sharecroppers—the weak and abused, in her mind.

“She always pushed me to excel in school. She didn’t want me to end up like her—selling nice things she couldn’t afford to rich people, working long hours but still needing food stamps.”

“Well, maybe it wouldn’t have come to that if she hadn’t run off and took you with her.”

No matter how well I’d done in school and how far I’d risen professionally, it never felt like enough for Mama. And a fat lot of good it had done me in the end, when all my achievement and self-worth had been ripped away in a five minute Zoom with HR. “Maybe,” I said.

Henrietta shook her head. “Gertrude broke Thelma’s heart. She turned her back on who she was. How can you stand if you ain’t rooted?”

Mama’s face was devoid of expression except for the smoldering look in her eyes.

“Go get a bag from the basket, baby. A green one.”

I did as Henrietta asked. When I returned to the table, Mama was gone. I held the small bag open and Henrietta carefully poured in the mojo mixture then tied it shut with gold string. She lit a bit of incense in the brazier, the warm, spicy scent filling the room. Passing the bag through the smoke, Henrietta murmured words too soft for me to catch. Finally, she held the bag to her lips, exhaling a long huff of air into it, before handing it over to me.

“What was that for?”

“I breathed life into it,” she said, her eyes meeting mine. “You gotta feed the bag once a month to keep the energy strong. I hold it in my hand on a full moon and speak my intentions over it again. But your gut will tell you what you need to do.”

I snorted. “You’re giving me too much credit.”

Henrietta cupped my cheek. “What you need is already in you, baby. Me, Pearl, and Eulalie will help you find it.”

“You know how the land got power?”

I turned away from Vanna White on the TV to look at Pawpaw. “Mama told me the land woke up when my great-grandmother killed a man.”

“Verlean. To save her husband Elijah’s life. And it was two men. White men, no less.”

“Lord. How did she get away with that?”

“No body, no problem, I guess.” Pawpaw’s lips formed a smug curve. “And even the white folks back then knew the women in this family were strong root workers, even if they didn’t understand or believe in conjure.”

Now that was new information to me. “Why was Elijah attacked?”

Pawpaw’s face hardened. “A Black family owning any land, even hardscrabble land . . . well, to a lot white folks in Sweetcreek that wasn’t to be borne. Uppity nigger had to be dealt with.”

Bile rose in my throat. “What exactly happened?”

“It’s fuzzy. Verlean and Elijah didn’t like to talk about it, as you might expect. But what’s important is that the land came to Verlean’s defense, came alive. After that, everything grown in this soil made the best magic you could get.” He took my hands in his own, his weathered brown fingers rubbing my much softer ones. “And the hands that grew those plants did too.”

I shifted uncomfortably as a sharp twinge of unease gripped my heart and squeezed. “And it can again. Henrietta said she and the other ladies would teach me—”

Pawpaw cut me off. “I’m selling, Lil’ Partner.”

Without thinking, I shot up, nearly toppling over because my legs had gone to sleep. “You can’t! You can’t let these people bully you into giving all this away! You’ve worked too hard!”

Pawpaw looked up at me, weary. “Ain’t nobody bullying me, baby. I’m tired. And the land is, too. I feel it every time I go to the fields.”

I couldn’t argue with him, with the defeated cast of his shoulders, with the exhaustion carving every line in his face. Because even in the short time I’d been there, I could also feel the energy in the land dimming with each passing day, probably even more keenly than Pawpaw.

“What about me?” I whimpered. “I wanted this to be my home.”

Pawpaw held my hand to his heart. “I was thinking of you when I decided. I’ll have enough money to make sure you’re taken care of. And wherever I am, you got a home.”

I couldn’t get Verlean off my mind or Pawpaw’s words: the land came to her defense. How? And, I thought bitterly, why wasn’t it rising to our defense now?

The day after Pawpaw told me of his decision, the land decided to answer the first question.

I was weeding herb beds when Elijah ran past me. I recognized him from old family photos. He looked over his shoulder at me, eyes wide with terror. For a moment, I thought I’d finally lost my mind. But then the thunder of hooves made the ground shake underneath me. Two men on horseback streaked by, one of them striking Elijah in the head with a baton. Elijah crumpled to the dirt, bleeding from the temple. The other man dismounted and began to beat Elijah. The vision was muffled; the men’s shouts and Elijah’s screams sounded like they were underwater. I was heartily glad. I didn’t need to hear the meaty smacks of fists on flesh. I squeezed my eyes shut, my breath coming in frantic punches.

When I cracked open an eye, hoping desperately for the vision to be gone, Verlean was there. She launched herself at Elijah’s attacker but he flung her aside like a dirty rag and kicked her in the stomach. Elijah crawled over, trying to shield his wife from the blows.

Suddenly, a pulse of magic rocked the earth. Verlean’s eyes clouded over in cataracts. She thrust out her hand and the two men flew backward, one falling off his rearing horse, the other hitting a tree. Verlean staggered to her feet and raised her hands to the sky. Darkness rolled over the land. Then she slammed her palms against the dirt and the pulse flared again. Even outside the vision, I felt it in my body. The trees, the grass, the flowers, and all the other plants grew uncontrollably as the ground opened up and devoured Elijah’s attackers, sucking them down in a maelstrom of dirt and rocks. Another pulse knocked me off my feet. I lay there in the dirt for what seemed like hours, sweating and gulping down air. When I lifted my head, the vision had receded.

“That was horrible,” I croaked out. “Why did you show me that?”

The trilling of the cicadas was the only response I got.

It was a harvest day—and night. The red sun dipped toward the horizon but the heat wasn’t giving up without a fight. Rivulets of sweat streaked down my back and between my breasts, soaking the mojo bag pinned to my sports bra. The waxing moon would soon be visible, time for us to gather the bay laurel, rue, and High John. We’d pick well into the night. Some of Pawpaw’s fellow deacons were stationed at the edge of the fields, frying catfish in vats of oil to slap on white bread with pickles and mustard for dinner.

Pawpaw was waiting for Cutler to draw up the paperwork before telling anyone of his decision. This would be one of the final harvests.

I walked through the rows of garden boxes, checking for leaves nibbled by pests and testing the soil moisture. For the dry plants, of which there were many, I summoned tiny rainclouds to water them. The clouds were a step above pathetic, but they got the job done if I concentrated hard enough. I had just enough magic to keep the phalanx of mosquitoes from biting, but they still swarmed.

A small army of teenagers making a few extra dollars were harvesting other herbs by hand, cutting and tying them into bundles. These would go into the drying houses for inspection, processing, and packaging. The inspection was the important part, testing the energy, potency, and spiritual qualities of the plants before they were sold—this was once Granma’s job. Henrietta, Pearl, and Eulalie were doing it now. Pawpaw paid them in herbs and roots, but I suspected their concern for him and enduring love for Granma were the greater motivators.

As I approached the drying house, I could hear Eulalie through the open door, telling bawdy stories about old lovers that made Henrietta guffaw and Pearl chide her good-naturedly. I’d told no one of my vision, and I yearned for their company to put it behind me. But when I stepped inside, the smile died on my face.

Granma stood in their midst, wearing a red dress dotted with tiny white flowers, smiling beatifically at me.

Eulalie looked up from burning sage. “What’s wrong, baby?”

I opened my mouth, but no sound came out. The love shining in Granma’s eyes hit me like an arrow to the chest.

“What do you see?” Henrietta asked knowingly. “Who do you see?”

“Granma,” I whispered.

Pearl gasped. The women looked at each other, then at me.

“Can y’all see her?” I asked them, desperate.

“No,” Henrietta said gently. “But she ain’t here for us.”

They arrayed themselves around me, placing gentle hands on my shoulders and arms.

“I’ve missed you so much,” I said to Granma. “There’s so much I need to talk to you about. Pawpaw and I . . . everything is slipping away . . . . ”

Granma walked toward me. I felt cold, the hairs on my arms lifting. She raised her hand to my face, her fingers hovering near my cheek. Then she moved to the door, motioning for me to come along. She looked out across the fields, her expression worried. I followed her gaze and saw Pawpaw standing near the angelica root. He turned and looked right at us.

“Can he see you too?”

Pawpaw took one step forward, two, three. Then he clutched his chest, his face screwing up tight, and dropped to his knees in the dirt.

“If you don’t go home and get some sleep, you’ll be in here next,” the nurse said.

I sat by Pawpaw’s bedside, watching his chest rise and fall in his sleep. The heart monitor beeped steadily, each ping a reminder of how close I’d come to losing him. The harsh fluorescent lights cast shadows across his face, and his hands rested limply against the crisp white sheets. He wore a mojo bag around his neck filled with healing herbs, made by Miss Eulalie. I trusted it as much as the meds the doctors had given him.

“He’s an old man, isn’t he?” I said.

The nurse squeezed my shoulder and handed me a cup of water. I drank it, more to ease the tightness in my throat than from thirst. My face was tight from the salt of dried tears. I kissed Pawpaw’s forehead and whispered, “I’ll be back tomorrow.”

His face looked peaceful. It enraged me that it’d taken a goddamn heart attack for my poor grandfather to finally get some rest.

Restless, I drove around town for a while before an impulse became a conviction. I stopped at the farmhouse and got Mama’s urn then headed to our cemetery. Pale moonlight filtered through the old oaks and pines, illuminating weathered headstones and patches of herbs growing among the graves. Here was where we grew our family stores of magical herbs, close to the bones of our loved ones. I walked to Granma’s grave, an empty space next to it clearly meant for Pawpaw. A shudder traveled through my body.

I stroked Granma’s polished headstone. Underneath her name, life dates, and 1 Corinthians 15:55 was the recipe for her famous caramel cake, the one she’d refused to share in life. At the end it said, “Hope y’all happy now. Love, Thelma.”

Screams erupted around me—wild, guttural, strangled keening. It took my brain a minute to process that they were coming from me.

My throat raw and nose running, I ripped the lid off Mama’s urn. “You don’t deserve this, but maybe this will make you leave me the hell alone.”

I dumped her ashes beside Granma. Guilt over not waiting for Pawpaw pecked me with a sharp beak but I ignored it. When the urn was empty, I flung it away from me. It sailed through the air and hit a tree festooned with Spanish moss with a metallic thunk.

Spent from rage and despair, I sank to the ground. Suddenly, the humid air grew colder by several degrees. Two bare brown feet appeared before me. My gaze traveled up a gray homespun dress before settling on a delicately pretty face topped with a red headscarf.

Verlean.

I reached out to touch her but of course my hand passed through her, as if through mist.

“Can you help me?” I pleaded. “Can you wake the land up again?”

She shook her head no, pointed at me.

I punched the grass. “My magic is dying, just like our land. I can’t do anything!”

Verlean licked her lips, looked over my shoulder. Granma stood behind me. And beside her was Mama.

“What the hell do you want?” I snarled. “You started this in the first place. This is all your fault!”

To my undying shock, Mama nodded. But I’m here now, she mouthed.

Tears sprang to my eyes again, unbidden. “It’s too late. Pawpaw is selling. We’re gonna lose everything.”

Verlean knelt, her hand hovering over the grass covering Granma’s grave and Mama’s ashes. Her eyes bore into mine, and snatches from my vision of her placing her palms on the ground and the land bursting to life flitted through my mind. Verlean nodded, like she could see the memories. Granma and Mama stood on my left and right, their palms raised upward.

Tentatively, I placed my hands on the soil, my fingers sinking into it, dirt collecting under my nails.

And then I felt it—the power.

It surged up through my palms, a crackling force vibrating through my bones. Magic coursed through my veins; I could actually see tributaries of gold, pink, and green light up underneath my skin. The herbs and roots around the graves began to writhe, twisting and spiraling as if alive, pushing through the ground with a ferocious urgency. Leaves unfurled in seconds, stems thickening and blooming at an unnatural speed. The ancient oaks groaned as their roots stirred beneath the earth, intertwining with the growing plants. A variety of scents warred for supremacy—woody, floral, spicy, sweet—with the earthy smell of humus underneath. I spun around, laughing like a madwoman as a veritable Eden emerged in the cemetery. I ran from tree to tree, touching the bark and watching flowers bloom from nowhere under my fingertips. Everywhere I touched, flowers, herbs, and green plants sprang to life. The light in my blood faded but I could still feel the magic thrumming through me. Never in my life had it felt so strong, so present. I was nearly overwhelmed.

Verlean and Granma watched me, smiling wide. Mama stood a little apart, her lips pressed together in a tight line, her expression much more subdued.

“Thank you,” I told her.

She gave me a small nod of encouragement, her arms wrapped around herself.

Four generations rooted in the dirt, three on one side of eternity, one on the other. I gave them one last glance before heading back to my car. A ping on my phone alerted me to an email—the paperwork was done and ready to sign. I almost deleted Cutler’s message, but turning him down in person would be more satisfying.

Back at the farm, the fields bloomed for me as I walked through them, the herbs, plants, and roots doubling, tripling in size. It was yet night, but I lifted my gaze to the fields and farms beyond ours. My palms itched with power.

I had a lot to do.