The Legionnaire's Mercy

Panel 1:Full-page splash. Sika and Kemi stand shoulder-to-shoulder behind a captured Dahomean cannon on a low, muddy rise. The cannon barrel faces the viewer and the advancing French Legion below. Sika braces her full weight against the carriage, legs planted wide, jaw set, muscles straining. Kemi crouches at the vent with a firing taper, her face blackened by powder, blood darkening her left shoulder. The cannon erupts: a massive orange-white muzzle blast tears the frame. Smoke billows in dense columns. French earthworks collapse in the middle distance — shattered timbers, spraying mud, blue-sashed soldiers thrown into the air. Fire and smoke consume the hillside. Behind the two women, the narrow jungle path is visible, the last Agojie disappearing into the trees. Afi's body lies in the open ground below the rise, still, face turned to the rain-soaked earth. The composition is frontal and low-angle, placing Sika and Kemi above the viewer as the cannon discharges directly toward the enemy.

Narrator:“After Afi fell, we did not run. Not yet.”

Panel 1:Wide shot of the smoky rise. The cannon sits embedded in the mud, its wheel sunk deep. The wounded Agbalya has slipped sideways against the wheel, eyes open and still. Kemi reaches for the sponge staff, already moving to reload. Sika stands a half-step back, looking toward the jungle path below.

Panel 2:Medium shot. Kemi grabs Sika's wrist firmly, stopping her. Kemi's expression is controlled — no panic, only decision. Blood shows through her torn wrapper at the shoulder. Sika stares at her, mouth open, chest heaving.

“Kemi: Go. I can fire it. Sika: We can fire it again.”

Panel 3:Close-up on their hands — Kemi's grip tightens around Sika's forearm, the knuckles powder-blackened, the skin cracked. Sika's hand is open, fingers splayed, not yet pulling away.

“Sika: Not alone. Kemi: Sika. Go.”

Panel 4:Medium shot. Sika releases the sponge staff. It falls against the cannon carriage. Kemi has already turned back to the gun, pushing the powder charge into the muzzle. Her back is to Sika. Sika stands one step behind her, fists closed at her sides.

“Sika: I will not leave you as well. Kemi: You are not leaving me. I will be behind you.”

Panel 5:Wide shot. Sika sprints down the narrow jungle path, branches slapping her face, mud pulling at her feet. Behind her, at the top of the rise visible through the tree trunks, Kemi stands alone at the cannon, hauling the rammer. French pale uniforms are visible cresting the rise around her — blue sashes, rifles with bayonets. Smoke rolls across the scene. This is the last clear view.

“Kemi: Run.”

Narrator:“Kemi had never lied to her. Not once.”

Panel 6:Extreme close-up on Sika's face at the first turn of the path. She has stopped and looked back. Her eyes are wide, fixed. Smoke has rolled across the rise. Through it, barely visible, Kemi's silhouette stands beside the cannon — deliberate, upright — and then the smoke closes over her completely.

Narrator:“Sika waited for the gun to fire again. It did not.”

Panel 1:Wide establishing shot. A column of exhausted Dahomean warriors moves along a muddy jungle road. The group is ragged — torn wrappers, bandaged limbs, some leaning on muskets as walking staves. Sika walks among them, taller than most, her eyes scanning every face in the group. The canopy above is dense, filtering green-grey light. No French visible, only retreating Dahomeans.

Narrator:“For twelve days, Dahomey came apart along the road to its capital.”

Panel 2:Medium shot. Sika approaches two Agojie women resting against a tree root. Their faces are drawn with exhaustion. Sika crouches before them, one hand on her knee, her posture urgent. The women shake their heads.

“Sika: Kemi. Have you seen her? From the cannon rise at Cana?”

Panel 3:Four small panels arranged in a horizontal strip. PANEL A: A woman points toward the road behind them and shakes her head — she saw nothing. PANEL B: Another warrior holds up one finger and nods — she heard a cannon fire after the withdrawal. PANEL C: A third woman holds her palms flat and open — no, all the guns fell silent. PANEL D: A fourth warrior mimes a circle of soldiers closing in — she saw French soldiers surrounding the rise.

Narrator:“Some had heard a Dahomean cannon fire. Others said all the guns had gone silent. Sika believed none of them and all of them.”

Panel 4:Wide shot. Sika walks alone at the rear of a moving column. The other warriors have pulled ahead. She turns her head to look back down the empty road behind her, toward Cana. The jungle has closed over the path. Nothing moves there. She is the last figure in the frame.

Narrator:“Kemi had said she would be behind her. Sika continued to look back.”

Panel 1:Wide shot of a jungle clearing beside a dirt road. Abandoned Dahomean weapons lie scattered in the mud — muskets, a broken spear shaft, a powder horn. A warrior's sandal rests alone in the center of the road. No people, only discarded evidence of a broken army.

Narrator:“Each morning, there were fewer of them.”

Panel 2:Medium shot. Sika walks past a group of three male Dahomean warriors who are sitting beside the road, their weapons on the ground, heads bowed. They do not look up as she passes. Their postures show complete exhaustion — one has his head in his hands.

Panel 3:Wide shot. A small village settlement is visible through the trees — two thatched huts with walls scorched black and roofs collapsed. Smoke still rises from the ruins. A cooking pot lies overturned in the yard. A child's cloth doll rests in the dirt near the threshold. Sika stands at the edge of the tree line, looking in.

Narrator:“Settlements burned. The French advanced. Dahomey fractured with each step.”

Panel 4:Medium shot. A stream of civilian refugees moves along the road in the opposite direction from Sika — women carrying bundles and clay pots on their heads, older men, children gripping hands. Their faces show fear and exhaustion. Sika stands to the side of the road and watches them pass, her hand on her blade, her expression fixed and grim.

Panel 5:Close-up on Sika's face. Her eyes are red-rimmed but dry. Her jaw is set. A thin line of dried blood marks her temple. She stares forward down the road toward Abomey, not at the refugees. Her expression is the expression of someone who has decided to keep moving.

Panel 1:Establishing wide shot. Sika stands at the crest of a low hill on the outskirts of Abomey. Before her, the capital burns. Massive columns of black smoke rise from the royal compound's direction, spreading across the sky. The city's rooftops and red earthen walls are visible in the middle distance, lit from below by orange fire. Ash falls like pale snow across the road and the leaves. Sika is a small figure at the edge of the frame, facing the burning city.

Narrator:“On 16 November, word passed through the survivors: Abomey was being abandoned.”

Panel 2:Medium shot. Sika walks through the open city gate — the heavy wooden doors hang ajar, unguarded. The broad road beyond is deserted. Pots lie beside dead cooking fires. A child's sandal rests in the dust. A market awning has collapsed, its cloth smouldering at the edges. The silence is total.

Narrator:“No guard challenged her. Abomey had never been silent.”

Panel 3:Wide shot. Sika stands before the Agojie compound. The gate is open. Inside, sleeping mats, broken gourds, and pieces of clothing litter the courtyard. An overturned musket rack lies stripped bare. The kitchens at the far end are on fire — yellow-orange flames consuming the thatch roof. The compound is completely empty of people.

Narrator:“The Agojie compound was empty. The kitchens where Afi had stolen coconut bread were already burning.”

Panel 4:Medium shot. Sika stands in the doorway of the dormitory. Smoke pours through the opening. Through the shifting darkness inside, the place where the three women once slept is visible — bare earth, no mats, no possessions. One end of the roof has caught fire. Sika's hand rests on the doorframe, knuckles white.

Narrator:“Afi was dead beside the road at Cana. Kemi had disappeared behind cannon smoke. Sika alone had come home.”

Panel 5:Wide shot. A wall beyond the dormitory collapses inward with a burst of sparks and a blast of heat — the explosion of debris visible, sparks arcing outward. Sika recoils from the doorway, arm raised to shield her face. In the smoke behind her, at the far end of the compound, the shapes of soldiers begin to appear — French marine uniforms, Tirailleur shapes moving between the outer buildings, rifles ready.

Panel 1:Wide shot. Sika runs through a narrow opening in the compound wall into an overgrown yard behind the dormitory. Red earthen walls rise on three sides. Black branches of an old tree claw overhead. Smoke reduces visibility to a few paces. She cannot see the gate or the soldiers — only walls, branches, and fire shifting beyond them.

Panel 2:Medium shot. The Legionnaire steps into Sika's path from the smoke. He wears the light colonial uniform of the French marines — a broad blue sash at his waist, white kepi on his head, now filthy and torn. Mud covers his boots. A bandage shows beneath one sleeve. His face is hollow-cheeked with exhaustion, but his rifle is raised and steady, the bayonet pointed directly at Sika's stomach. He is not a monster — he is a tired, dirty soldier doing his job.

Panel 3:Medium shot. Sika has pressed her back against the trunk of a large silk-cotton tree, the rough bark visible behind her shoulders. She stares at the Legionnaire. Her right arm is raised, sword extended — the blade nicked and blackened, her arm visibly trembling. Her face is set, her eyes fixed on the bayonet. There is no way to reach him before the steel enters her body.

Panel 4:Close-up on Sika's face. Her eyes are steady — not closed, not looking away. She stares directly at the Legionnaire. Her jaw is clenched. Behind her eyes, visible in the set of her brow and the stillness of her expression, is a woman who has already accepted the outcome. Then, slowly, her sword arm lowers. The blade drops. Her fingers open. The sword strikes the earth beside her foot.

Narrator:“She thought of Afi running toward the rifles. She thought of Kemi disappearing behind smoke.”

Panel 5:Insert shot. The sword lies on the mud beside Sika's bare foot, half-buried in ash. The blade is blackened and nicked from days of fighting. A single ember lands on the flat of the blade and dies.

Panel 1:Medium shot. The Legionnaire stands with his rifle still raised, staring at Sika. He does not advance. His face reveals nothing — no triumph, no cruelty. He simply stares. Sika stands with her back against the silk-cotton tree, arms at her sides, hands open, waiting. Neither moves.

Panel 2:Medium shot. The Legionnaire slowly lowers his rifle. The bayonet drops from Sika's stomach line to pointing at the ground. His face remains expressionless. Sika does not move. Her eyes track the rifle as it descends.

Panel 3:Over-shoulder shot from behind the Legionnaire. He points past Sika with one outstretched arm — toward a gap in the far wall where jungle is visible beyond: dark green through the broken red earth, a narrow opening. Sika's face is visible over his shoulder, staring at the gap, then back at him.

Panel 4:Medium shot. The Legionnaire turns his head sharply toward the smoke behind him — the voices of other French soldiers approaching, shapes visible in the haze. He seizes Sika by the upper arm, spins her toward the gap in the wall, and shoves her hard. Sika stumbles forward two steps and catches herself. When she turns back, the Legionnaire is shaking his rifle at her — the gesture unmistakable: go, now.

Panel 5:Wide shot. Sika runs toward the gap in the broken wall. Thorns catch her clothing. She forces herself through the narrow opening. Behind her, the Legionnaire shouts something in French — loud, directed at the approaching soldiers, covering her exit. His back is to her now, facing his own men. She does not look back. The jungle opens before her.

Narrator:“He said nothing to her. He did not need to.”

Panel 1:Wide shot. Sika runs through dense jungle. Branches claw at her face and arms. Ash settles on her hair and shoulders. Through gaps in the vegetation behind her, the burning city of Abomey is visible — each glimpse smaller than the last as she runs deeper. She runs until she is entirely surrounded by jungle and the city is gone.

Narrator:“She ran until her lungs burned. She ran until her legs failed.”

Panel 2:Medium shot. Sika lies face-down among wet jungle leaves, arms at her sides, completely still. Ash has settled on her back and hair. Her fingers are curled into the wet earth. Her chest moves — she is breathing. Around her, the jungle is dark and quiet. Distant fire-sounds are gone. Only insects and rain on leaves.

Narrator:“She pressed her face into the earth and wept for Afi, for Kemi, for every sister whose name would otherwise disappear.”

Panel 3:Wide shot. A small West African village at the edge of the jungle. Hard afternoon sunlight. Women have stopped pounding grain — their pestles raised mid-stroke, faces turned. A man repairing a fishing net has risen to his feet. Children run toward the huts. Three dogs bark in the foreground. At the edge of the clearing, emerging from the tree line, Sika stands — torn clothing, ash-covered, barefoot, one hand on a tree trunk for support. She is upright but barely.

Narrator:“Nearly a year later. A distant village.”

Panel 4:Medium shot. An elderly village woman pushes through a gathered crowd of onlookers and approaches Sika directly. She takes Sika's face between both hands and searches it intently — tilting it left, then right, studying her features as though looking for someone else. Sika stands still and lets her look. The old woman's face is lined with grief and hope in equal measure.

“Sika: I am Agojie. Abomey has burned. I have nowhere else to go.”

Panel 5:Wide shot. The village at evening. Sika sits inside a simple hut, clean cloth wrapped around her shoulders, a bowl of food in her hands. Through the open doorway, the village is visible — cooking fires lit, families moving, ordinary life. Sika eats slowly, her eyes on the doorway, watching the ordinary world outside with an expression of someone learning to be still.

Narrator:“The family took her in. They fed her, treated her wounds, and gave her clothing. They allowed her to become an ordinary woman.”

Panel 1:Wide shot of the interior of Nana Sika's home in 1955 Abomey. Evening light comes through the open doorway. Nana Sika sits in her chair — tall and upright, silver-threaded hair, faded indigo wrapper, the pale scar circling her left wrist visible as she holds her unlit pipe in both hands. Houéfa, Dossi, and Gbodja sit on the floor before her in a semicircle. All three children are completely still, watching her.

“Gbodja: Then what happened? After the bad man let you go?”

Panel 2:Medium shot on Nana Sika. She looks at Gbodja directly, her dark clear eyes steady, her expression firm but not unkind.

“Nana Sika: He was not a bad man. He was a soldier. As I was a soldier. Gbodja: He was French.”

Panel 3:Medium shot. Dossi leans forward with her round, expressive face, bright eyes fixed on Nana Sika. Houéfa sits beside her, grave and watchful, hands folded in her lap.

“Dossi: Why did he let you go? Nana Sika: I never knew. Houéfa: Perhaps he thought you were brave.”

Panel 4:Medium shot on Nana Sika. She looks toward the open doorway, not at the children. Her eyes are focused on something in the distance — or the past. The pipe rests in her hands, still unlit. Her voice is quiet and measured.

“Nana Sika: Perhaps. Or perhaps he was tired of killing. He said nothing. I never saw him again.”

Panel 5:Close-up on Gbodja. He is sitting very straight, both hands pressed flat on his knees, his face deeply serious — the expression of a boy trying hard to understand something large.

“Gbodja: For how long did you run? Days? Nana Sika: Days. I hid when I heard movement. Every branch became a soldier.”

Panel 6:Wide shot of all four figures — Nana Sika in her chair, the three children on the floor. Evening light has deepened; the room is warmer, the shadows longer. Nana Sika has settled deeper into her chair. She holds her pipe loosely in one hand. The children have not moved. Outside the doorway, the first evening insects have begun to sound.

“Nana Sika: I ate fruit from the ground. I drank rainwater from leaves. Then I came to a village.”

Panel 1:Medium shot. Nana Sika looks at Houéfa, Dossi, and Gbodja in turn, her gaze moving from one face to the next. Her expression carries the weight of someone choosing which part of a long story to speak aloud.

“Dossi: Did the people help you? Nana Sika: I walked into the village. I had no strength left to hide.”

Panel 2:Medium shot. Dossi sits upright with sudden alertness, her round face wide open with surprise. Houéfa's eyebrows have risen. Gbodja has leaned forward slightly on his knees.

“Nana Sika: I returned with my husband. Dossi: You found a husband in the village?”

Panel 3:Close-up on Nana Sika. The corners of her mouth have lifted — a rare, real smile, the first of the evening. Her dark eyes are bright. She holds the pipe loosely, not raised to her lips, just resting in her hand.

“Houéfa: What was he like? Nana Sika: Patient. He needed to be.”

Panel 4:Wide shot. All four figures in the room. Houéfa's hand is pressed over her mouth, her shoulders shaking with suppressed laughter. Dossi has covered her face with both hands, laughing openly. Gbodja sits with his arms crossed, deeply serious, unimpressed by the laughter.

“Gbodja: Did you tell him how many men you had killed? Nana Sika: Not before we were married.”

Panel 5:Medium shot on Nana Sika. Her smile has faded to something quieter, more deliberate. She looks at the three children together — all three faces in the frame before her. She speaks plainly, watching their faces as the words land.

“Nana Sika: We returned to Abomey when it was safe. We built a home. We raised our family. He became your mother's father.”

Panel 6:Wide shot. The room in evening lamplight. Nana Sika sits in her chair, upright and still. The three children are frozen — Dossi staring at her grandmother, Houéfa perfectly still, Gbodja's mouth open but no question coming out. The open doorway behind them shows full night outside. The ruins of the royal compound are just visible in the darkness beyond — silent, but no longer empty.

Narrator:“That history had followed Sika out of the burning city. It had reached all the way to this room.”

Panel 1:Interior of a small colonial-era village schoolroom. Rows of wooden desks hold children in simple school clothes. A map of the French colonial territory — Dahomey replaced by 'Dahomey français' — hangs on the whitewashed wall. Sister Adeline stands at the front in her white habit and starched wimple, one hand resting on the open page of a thick textbook. Houéfa, Dossi, and Gbodja sit at their usual desks near the middle of the room. Morning light comes through open shuttered windows.

Panel 2:Medium shot of Sister Adeline at the front, holding the open textbook in both hands, her long pale face composed and instructive. Behind her on the blackboard, the words 'Les Amazones de Dahomey' are written in chalk. Her expression is earnest and certain.

“Sister Adeline: The Amazons of Dahomey. Fearsome but primitive warriors of a conquered kingdom. France brought order where there was only bloodshed.”

Panel 3:Close-up on Houéfa's face. Her jaw is set and her dark eyes are fixed on Sister Adeline. Her braids frame her grave expression. Her hands are flat on her desk. She is not looking away.

Panel 4:Wide shot of the classroom. Houéfa's hand is raised straight up — the only hand in the room. Sister Adeline pauses mid-sentence, looking at her with visible surprise. Dossi watches Houéfa with wide eyes. Gbodja sits rigid, both hands flat on his desk.

“Sister Adeline: Yes, Hélène? Houéfa: My name is Houéfa, Sister. And I have a story.”

Panel 5:Medium shot of Houéfa rising from her desk and walking toward the front of the room. Her blue school dress is neat, her chin is up. Dossi watches her with a small, encouraging nod. Gbodja is frozen, too frightened to move, hands still flat on his desk.

“Sister Adeline: Very well. Come to the front.”

Panel 6:Medium shot. Houéfa stands at the front of the room, facing the class. She is small against the blackboard and the colonial map behind her. Sister Adeline stands to one side, arms folded, watching with cautious skepticism. The class faces Houéfa — rows of children, some already whispering.

“Houéfa: It is about my grandmother. Nana Sika.”

Panel 1:Wide shot of the classroom from behind Houéfa. She faces the rows of children. A boy near the back has his hand raised beside his mouth, laughing. Another boy leans toward his neighbor. A girl in the front row covers a smile. The laughter is visible but Houéfa does not flinch.

“Sister Adeline: That is enough. Continue, Houéfa.”

Panel 2:Close-up on Houéfa's face. She draws a visible breath through her nose, chin lifting slightly. Her eyes move briefly to Dossi and Gbodja — she finds them, anchors herself, then looks back at the class.

“Houéfa: My Nana Sika was an Agojie.”

Panel 3:Wide shot of the classroom. Several children have erupted in open laughter — two boys pointing, a girl shaking her head. Dossi has lowered her eyes. Gbodja stares at the top of his desk, hands still flat. Sister Adeline's expression has shifted from skepticism to something more cautious — her brow slightly furrowed, not laughing.

“Houéfa: She fought at Cotonou. At Atchoukpa. At Ouakon, Yokoué, and Cana.”

Panel 4:Medium shot of Sister Adeline. The laughter around her has not reached her face. She stares at Houéfa with a new expression — not contempt, but the beginning of recognition. Her hands have unfolded from her arms and dropped to her sides.

“Sister Adeline: Who taught you those names? Houéfa: Nana Sika. She was there, Sister.”

Panel 5:Medium shot of Houéfa at the front. She speaks steadily, her posture straight. The laughter in the room has quieted — children are leaning forward now, not back. Behind her, the colonial map and the chalk words 'Les Amazones de Dahomey' remain visible.

“Houéfa: She trained with two girls: Afi and Kemi. Dòkpè taught them to fight. Commander Nawi trained them for war.”

Panel 1:Wide shot of the classroom. The laughter is entirely gone. Every child is upright at their desk, faces forward. Gbodja's hands are no longer flat — he has gripped the edge of his desk. Dossi's head is bowed slightly. Houéfa stands alone at the front, her shadow falling across the floor toward the desks.

“Houéfa: The Agojie did not throw their lives away. They watched. They waited. They attacked when the ground favoured them.”

Panel 2:Close-up on Houéfa's face. Her expression is controlled but the effort shows in the line of her jaw and the set of her mouth. She is about to say something that costs her something.

“Houéfa: Afi died at Cana.”

Panel 3:Medium shot of Houéfa. She speaks directly to the class, not to Sister Adeline, not to the map behind her. Her voice is steady. Her hands are at her sides, open.

“Houéfa: She fought alone so Nana Sika and the wounded women could escape. She chose it. No one ordered her.”

Panel 4:Wide shot of the room from the side. Dossi sits with her head lowered and her hands pressed together in her lap. Gbodja stares at the surface of his desk, his jaw working. Around them, other children are still — no movement, no whispers. The room holds the weight of the name.

Panel 5:Medium shot of Sister Adeline. She has moved to stand beside her desk rather than in front of it. Her hands rest on the desktop surface, her textbook closed. She is watching Houéfa with an expression that is no longer certain — her brow furrowed, her mouth slightly open, processing.

“Sister Adeline: Why has your grandmother never spoken of this before?”

Panel 6:Medium shot of Houéfa. She faces Sister Adeline directly now. Her chin is level. She does not look away from the nun's face when she answers.

“Houéfa: Because people called the Agojie savages. France told everyone it had saved Dahomey.”

Panel 1:Medium shot of Houéfa at the front of the room. She draws a breath — her chest rises visibly — and speaks the next name with deliberate weight.

“Houéfa: Kemi stayed behind with a cannon at Cana. She told Nana Sika to run. She said she would follow.”

Panel 2:Close-up on Dossi. Her face is turned down, one hand pressed over her mouth. A single tear has tracked down her cheek and rests at her jawline. She does not wipe it away.

Panel 3:Medium shot of Houéfa. She continues steadily, her voice carrying across the silent room. Through the open windows behind her, leaves move outside in a light breeze — the only motion in the frame.

“Houéfa: Nana Sika saw her disappear into the smoke. She never discovered what happened to Kemi.”

Panel 4:Wide shot of the classroom doorway. In the open doorframe, Nana Sika stands — tall and upright, silver-threaded hair, faded indigo wrapper, the pale scar circling her left wrist visible where her hands rest clasped before her. She does not enter. She watches from the threshold, her dark eyes on Houéfa at the front of the room. The children nearest the door have not yet noticed her.

Panel 5:Over-shoulder shot from behind Nana Sika, looking into the room over her shoulder. Houéfa is visible at the front, small and straight against the blackboard. The colonial map hangs above her. The rows of children face her in silence. Sister Adeline sits at her desk, hands folded, watching.

Narrator:“She had carried the names out of the burning city. Now the children would carry them further.”

Panel 1:Medium shot of Sister Adeline at her desk. She looks down at her folded hands, then slowly raises her eyes to the colonial map on the wall — the map where Dahomey has been replaced by a French colony name. Her expression is one of a woman seeing something familiar in a new and uncomfortable way.

Panel 2:Wide shot of the classroom. Questions have erupted from the children — arms raised, children leaning across desks toward each other, faces open with excitement and urgency. Houéfa stands at the front surrounded by the noise. Dossi has raised her head. Even Gbodja is on his feet beside his desk, one hand in the air.

“Gbodja: She killed a man with a sword!”

Panel 3:Medium shot of Sister Adeline. She has risen from her chair and raised one hand to quiet the room, but her expression is not stern — it is shaken and open. She does not look at the textbook. She looks at Houéfa.

“Sister Adeline: We have heard France's account of Dahomey. I think it is time we heard hers.”

Panel 4:Medium shot of Nana Sika in the doorframe. A girl in the back row has turned and spotted her. The girl's mouth is open in surprise. Nana Sika stands still, hands clasped, her dark eyes calm and steady. She holds the threshold — neither entering nor retreating.

“Sister Adeline: Will Nana Sika come to the school? Houéfa: She is already here, Sister.”

Panel 5:Wide shot. The classroom has turned. Children twist in their seats or stand to see the old woman in the doorway. Sister Adeline stands at the front, one hand still raised, staring at Nana Sika across the length of the room. Houéfa, Dossi, and Gbodja are turned toward their grandmother, their faces open. Nana Sika steps forward across the threshold into the room, upright, her shoulders back, her head level — no longer stooped.

Panel 1:Full-page splash. The village schoolroom in morning light. Nana Sika stands at the front of the room where Sister Adeline stood moments before, tall and straight in her faded indigo wrapper, her silver-threaded hair catching the light from the open windows. The pale scar circles her left wrist. She holds herself the way a soldier holds herself — shoulders back, chin level, feet planted. Before her, the children fill the room: Houéfa stands to her left, grave and proud, her blue school dress neat. Dossi stands to Nana Sika's right, her bright eyes wet, her round face open. Gbodja stands in front of all of them, feet apart, chin raised, his untucked shirt and dusty knees unchanged — but his expression is the expression of someone who has heard something that will not leave him. Sister Adeline stands at the back of the room, her white habit bright in the shadows, her hands folded before her and her head bowed slightly — no longer the teacher. Behind Nana Sika, the colonial map still hangs on the wall, but Houéfa has written two names in chalk on the blackboard beneath 'Les Amazones de Dahomey': AFI. KEMI. The morning sun comes through the open windows and falls across the names on the board and across Nana Sika's face and across the upturned faces of every child in the room. The ruins of the royal compound are just visible through the open windows beyond — red earthen walls, green trees, the persistent presence of what was built and what endured.

Narrator:“She had survived to carry the memory home. Now the story belonged to them.”