What Paper Remembers When Bronze Burns

Osaze did not stop running until his legs gave out.

He had crossed the Ikpoba with Osaro tied to his chest with his own wrapper, the satchel of wet paper banging against his hip. The boy was light, but after an hour of pushing through thick forest, he felt like a bronze head.

He collapsed at the base of a giant iroko tree, its roots taller than a man. The forest here was old. The air was cool and smelled of damp earth, not smoke. For a few minutes, he could pretend the city was not burning.

Osaro was awake now. He stared at Osaze with big, quiet eyes. He did not cry anymore.

"Are you hungry?" Osaze asked.

The boy didn't answer. He was three. He didn't understand why his sister had given him to a stranger, or why the river was so cold.

Osaze opened his satchel. The damage was bad. The white man's paper had bled. The ink he had used — ink made from camwood and charcoal — had run. Some pages were just blue-black smudges now. But not all. The pages at the center, wrapped in oilcloth, had survived. He could still read his own handwriting: _In the year of Oba Ovonramwen, the white men came for a second time. They said..._

He dried the pages as best as he could on his own agbada, laying them on the roots of the tree. While they dried, he took out the small piece of dried yam Iwebo had given him and broke it in half. He gave half to Osaro.

"We have to get to Ughoton," he told the boy, even though the boy couldn't understand. "Your aunt is there. And the river people. If we can get to the river people, we can get to the coast. The British won't burn the coast, they need it."

The truth was, he didn't know. No one knew what the British would do. The stories from other kingdoms that had fallen said they burned the palace, took the bronzes, and exiled the king. But those were stories from traders. This was happening to him now.

After the papers dried a little, he packed them again and lifted Osaro. The hunters' path was gone here. This was deep forest, where hunters only came to trap antelope. He had to navigate by the sound of water. If he followed the streams south, he would hit the Benin River, and the Benin River would lead to Ughoton, the old port.

By midday, the forest changed. He started to see people again. But they were not villagers. They were soldiers.

Not British. Benin soldiers. Warriors of the Oba, wearing blue war cloths, with long Dane guns and machetes. They were retreating. Their faces were covered in soot. One of them was being carried, his leg almost gone.

Osaze hid behind a tree with Osaro, holding his breath. He had been taught that these men were heroes, that they protected the kingdom. But now they looked like scared boys, just like him.

"They have a gun that never stops," one of them muttered as they passed. "It cuts down the trees. It cuts down men like grass. Ologbosere told us to stand, but how do you stand against rain?"

They disappeared into the forest.

Osaze waited until he couldn't hear them anymore, then he kept walking south. The thumping from the cannons was louder now, even from this far away. The British were not just scaring the city. They were shelling it.

Around late afternoon, he smelled something that made him stop. It was not smoke. It was cloth dye. The sweet, sharp smell of indigo.

Adesuwa's family were dyers.

He pushed through a thicket and found a small clearing. A woman was there, washing cloth in a stream. It was Adesuwa.

She was alive. Her wrapper was torn, her hair was full of leaves, but she was alive.

"Adesuwa!" he called, too loud. Osaro, seeing his sister, started to wail.

She turned, and her face broke. She ran and took Osaro from him, holding him so tight the boy started to cough.

"I thought the river took you," she said, crying. "I went downstream, but the current was too strong. I found a log and crossed further down. I thought you were dead."

Osaze sat down in the stream, not caring that his papers would get wet again. His legs were shaking.

"I thought you were dead too," he said.

They sat in the clearing for a long time, not talking. Adesuwa had brought a small fire-stone and made a tiny fire. She boiled water from the stream and gave Osaro more yam.

"You still have it?" she asked, pointing to his satchel.

Osaze nodded. "Some of it is ruined. But the center is safe."

"Show me."

He hesitated, then opened the oilcloth. Inside, the writing was still clear.

Adesuwa could not read white man's writing, but she could read the drawings. He had drawn the Oba's palace, the pattern of the bronze plaques, the face of Iwebo.

"What will you do with it?" she asked.

"If I get to the coast, I will give it to the missionaries. No, not them. They will burn it too. I will give it to someone who will keep it. Maybe the people in Ughoton know a man who keeps stories."

Adesuwa looked at her brother. "I don't want to go to Ughoton. My aunt will marry me off to a fisherman to keep me safe. I want to go with you."

"Where?"

"Anywhere that is not here. The city is gone, Osaze. I saw it from the hill. The British are inside. They are bringing down the walls with rope. They are piling all the bronzes in the courtyard like they are yams. Iwebo was right. They came for the metal."

Osaze felt something cold settle in his stomach. So it was true. Benin had fallen. In less than two days.

"What about your mother?" he asked.

Adesuwa looked away. "She stayed. She said the house cannot move."

They didn't speak after that.

When the sun started to fall, they heard voices again. This time, speaking English.

"Check the bush. The savages run this way."

Osaze grabbed Adesuwa's hand and Osaro and pulled them into the thickest part of the bush, under the hanging roots of a tree. They lay flat in the mud.

Three British soldiers walked into the clearing, wearing red coats that were now brown with mud. They had big beards and rifles. One of them kicked their little fire, scattering it.

"Bloody hell, they were here," one said. "Fresh."

"Leave it. Let them rot in the bush. The Captain wants all the bronzes to the river by nightfall. That's worth more than one wog."

They laughed and left.

Osaze didn't move for ten minutes. When he finally sat up, Adesuwa was shaking. Not from cold, but from anger.

"They called us wog," she whispered. "And they think our kings are worth more than our lives."

"They are wrong," Osaze whispered back. "And we will prove it. Because they can take the bronze, but they cannot take what I wrote. They cannot take what you remember."

That night, they did not sleep in the clearing. They walked. They walked through the night, following the stars that Iwebo had taught Osaze to read. Osaro slept again on Adesuwa's back. The satchel of paper, now almost dry, banged against Osaze's leg with every step.

Behind them, the orange glow of Benin City burning lit up the sky like a second sunset. It stayed that way all night.

In the morning, they could smell salt. They had reached the river that leads to the sea. And on the river, they could see canoes. Not British canoes. Ughoton canoes.

They had made it. But as Osaze looked back at the glow, he knew this was not the end. This was just the first page he would have to write.