When we would see the smoke

The air was pregnant with something. You could feel the cold gather from all the neighbouring towns to suspend just above this one. It was morning yet everybody stayed inside, the message before had been clear “Wait for the smoke”. So we waited. Our home was quiet, no one wanted to speak. We washed and sat in silence. My grandmother weaving another basket to distract herself and my grandfather pretending to read. You could tell because his fingers had passed over the same place over and over. It was a small price to pay to end oppression. Much like the chill this morning, the tyranny had touched every family in this town. We were lucky. Other families had lost land, their homes, limbs, a whole other person… We lost my grandfather’s eyes and some livestock. If everything goes according to plan, today could be the end of all that pain. The plan was to swear in a new king. He would give the land, homes and livestock back. He would let my parents and others return from exile. I wish he could give back the lives too. For the new king to sit, the old one will have to die. The chiefs would light the sacred lamp for the dark smoke to rise and only then would we be free. I was counting grains for what seemed like the millionth time when my grandfather whispered almost as if he was afraid it was true… “I-I-I smell smoke”.