Papa bristles. “Do with me what you will, but spare my children and whatever is left of this village.” He attempts to stand, but Paul kicks him back down with his boot heel. “Have you not done enough, taken enough?”
Paul casts him a baleful look. “It is never enough.” His jaw tightens beneath his skin. “Take her.”
“No!” Papa yells, grabbing for me as unknown hands attack me.
His yell does not overpower my own as I kick and scream, trying to twist from the rough hands wrenching me away from the safety of my father and brothers.
“Papa!” If I thought I knew terror before, it is incomparable to what I feel now. Will I be shot dead like Daniel? Hacked to pieces like our good neighbor Auntie Pep, who made the best kenkey on this side of Aburi Mountain? Or worse?
“Help me!”
My brothers try in vain to grab for me. Even Ofori, who up until now sat nearly catatonic, stretches his arms, the ones I used to tease endlessly because he had no muscles, toward me to keep me with them. To no avail.
“Make his boys tie her down at that tree,” Paul instructs, pointing to a sapling only yards away. “Make sure their papa has a front-row view.” He gawks at his men. “Do you know what that means, you imbeciles? It means move the fuck out of the way so he can see, God dammit.”
My heart thunders in my chest. Josiah and Wisdom stand defiant when the men toss ropes at their feet. They remain defiant even as the men raise guns to their heads, and they continue to refuse.
“Papa.” I want someone to save me. I can think of nothing else but self-preservation. “Papa, please, please don’t let them take me!”
The men force me to the ground, on my back. The men will put bullets in Wisdom’s and Josiah’s heads if they refuse much longer. I am a mixture of begging my brothers to listen to their orders and begging to be released. Wisdom and Josiah are statues.
It is Ofori who steps forward, taking charge and grabbing the rope. He approaches me and begins tying my wrists together above my head to the tree. He ties my hands as loosely as possible without making it seem so and gives my arms slack so they do not hurt too much. Pained arms are not what I fear the most.
The ground is alive with bugs fleeing the burning buildings, and every one of them must be running across my back and throughout my clothes. But I would rather have insects traipsing all over my body than what comes next.
The group of men swallows up my twin brothers as they converge on me like bloodthirsty jackals. One of them hits me, forcing my legs open, pushing up my dress, tearing my underwear. They expose me to everyone, my father, my brothers, Paul. It is humiliation unparalleled, the likes of which I have never known.
Until.
Paul demands my brothers take me.
“Are you mad?” Papa blubbers, his voice raised in unadulterated horror. He struggles against the men holding him, fighting them to save his children.
“She is our sister!” Josiah shouts incredulously. His head snaps back and forth between me and Paul. His hands are out as if to placate the horde of men, as if to reason with Paul, who cannot be reasoned with.
“We would never.” Wisdom shakes with anger. His hands fist and release. Fist and release. The cords of his neck bulge so much they are near bursting.
“This I want to see,” Attah says, bemused and lecherous.
“You, little Michael, will do as I say or suffer the bullet,” Paul says blandly, as if offering Wisdom a choice of which vegetable he’d like with his dinner.
“I won’t do it.” Wisdom’s defiance flashes in his eyes. “Fuck you, you depraved asshole. Rot in hell.”
Three things occur in succession: a gunshot; my father screaming an unholy sound I have never heard before; and Wisdom, my eldest brother, falling a few feet from where I am bound. His eyes stare through me. I cannot scream; my voice has died in my throat. My body spasms from such pain that only a couple of tears manage to squeeze from my swollen eyelids.
Overcome from witnessing the death of his twin, Josiah is out of his mind when he lunges at Paul. He grabs Paul’s shirt, pulling at it so hard he yanks Paul down to his height. Josiah has always been short for his age, even though Wisdom is—was—tall. Before he can lay his other hand on Paul, Josiah is run through with a machete magically produced in Paul’s hand.
Josiah freezes on the blade, emitting a sick sound. I can only see the back of him, the blade jutting through. But Paul’s face is visible. I strain through my own pain to see some semblance of repentance, some realization from him that he has gone too far. There is none. Josiah might as well be a specimen in a petri dish.