With every passing year, with each new Scar brought to life on his skin, Temi could only wonder at the emerging complexity of his impending adulthood. For a long time, he had mistaken the world for something like the ocean, and it still frustrated him when he remembered, either by mistake or by consequence, that the world was not the cool blue shine of the water, no. The world was actually what was beneath the water’s surface.

“Of course I do, Father,” Kamu said. He slid his fingers over the skin of his djembe and could feel the tingle of magic at their tips. He slapped the drum, beginning the beat of the Planter’s Chant. The other drummers followed. Soon, the chords of Akachi’s kora eased into the rhythm, and Kamu could feel the village’s funta magic expanding across the fields.