Chapter 603

The harmattan wind carried whispers of dust and unease through the village of Birnin Gaouré. Iman, small for her eleven years but with eyes that missed nothing, watched the ochre haze swallow the sun, painting the sky in bruised oranges and purples.

It was the season of dryness, the land cracked and thirsty, but this year, there was a different kind of thirst in the air, something Iman could not name, yet felt deep in her bones.

Her grandmother, Nana Zariya, sat beside her on the woven mat outside their hut, her face a roadmap of wrinkles earned under the relentless sun. Nana Zariya was the village storyteller, keeper of memories and warnings.

Tonight, however, her usual tales of mischievous spirits and brave warriors were absent. A deep silence sat between them, heavier than the usual evening quiet.

"Nana?" Iman finally spoke, her small voice barely audible above the wind's sigh. "Is something… different?"

Nana Zariya's dark eyes, usually bright with life, seemed clouded, distant. She turned, her gaze resting on Iman with a sorrow the girl had never witnessed before. "The earth is uneasy, child," she murmured, her voice raspy as dry leaves. "The sky has shown us strange things. Things not meant for our eyes."

Iman remembered the night before. A streak of light, brighter than any star, had ripped across the darkness, leaving a trail of shimmering dust that seemed to float even after the light itself was gone. Everyone had watched, mesmerized and afraid.

Some whispered of djinn, others of angry gods. Nana Zariya had simply shaken her head, her expression unreadable.

The first sign in Birnin Gaouré was old Manzou, the village drunkard. He was always a bit unsteady on his feet, but that morning, something was terribly different.

He stumbled through the marketplace, not with the usual loose-limbed sway of intoxication, but with a jerky, frantic energy. His movements were too fast, too sharp, almost like a puppet with tangled strings. And he was dancing.

Not the joyful, rhythmic dance of celebration, but a grotesque, uncontrolled flailing. His arms swung wildly, his legs kicked out at impossible angles, and his head lolled back, his mouth stretched in a silent, terrifying grin.

People stopped their bartering, their conversations, to stare. Children, initially amused, quickly fell silent, their laughter choked in their throats.

"Manzou, are you alright?" Baba Musa, the village elder, approached cautiously, his voice laced with concern.

Manzou didn't answer. He just kept dancing, his movements becoming more violent, more erratic. He bumped into stalls, sending baskets of millet and dried fish tumbling. He knocked over a water vendor, the clay pot shattering, water spreading like a dark stain on the dusty ground.

"Manzou, stop!" Baba Musa's voice rose in authority, but it was useless. Manzou's eyes were wide, unfocused, gleaming with a feverish light. He spun, lurched, and then, with terrifying strength, grabbed a wooden pestle from a nearby grain stall.

The joyous marketplace, moments before filled with the sounds of life and commerce, transformed into a scene of terror. Manzou, still dancing, began smashing the pestle against everything within reach. Stalls splintered, baskets disintegrated, and screams erupted as people scrambled back, fear twisting their faces.

Iman watched from the doorway of her hut, Nana Zariya's hand gripping her shoulder, nails digging into her skin.

The fear that had been a whisper now roared in her ears. This was not djinn, not angry gods. This was something far more terrible.

Other villagers began to exhibit the same bizarre behavior. First, it was just a twitch, an uncontrolled jerk of a limb. Then, the twitch grew into a spasm, the spasm into a dance. And the dance… the dance was always accompanied by violence.

Tools became weapons, laughter turned into shrieks, and the familiar comfort of their village dissolved into nightmarish pandemonium.

"We must leave," Nana Zariya said, her voice urgent, pulling Iman towards the back of their hut. "This is not our fight. We must find safety."

Iman wanted to argue, to stay and help. But the sight of her usually kind neighbor, Auntie Fatima, now spinning and smashing gourds against the walls of her home, her face contorted in a manic grin, silenced any protest. This was a madness that devoured reason, a plague of movement and destruction.

They fled into the encroaching dusk, Nana Zariya pulling Iman along, her old legs moving with surprising speed. They joined a stream of terrified villagers, all heading away from Birnin Gaouré, away from the dancing horror.

The air behind them was filled with the sounds of shattering wood, screams, and the relentless, unsettling rhythm of feet pounding the earth in unnatural dances.

They walked through the night, guided by the moon, the silence broken only by the soft weeping of children and the hurried whispers of adults. Iman looked back once, towards the distant glow of Birnin Gaouré, and saw flickering lights – fires. The dancers were not just destroying; they were burning.

They reached the next village, a smaller settlement nestled amongst baobab trees. Hope flickered in Iman's chest. Surely, here, they would be safe. But the hope died quickly. The same unsettling quiet hung in the air, the same sense of dread.

And then, Iman saw it – a figure near the village well, moving in that same jerky, horrifying way. Dancing.

The disease was faster than they were. It traveled with the wind, perhaps, or maybe it was carried in the very dust that coated their skin. There was no escape. No safety. Only the spreading dance of destruction.

Panic surged through the refugees from Birnin Gaouré. Some wanted to turn back, to face whatever awaited them in their ravaged village. Others wanted to run further, to the next village, and the next, in a futile search for a place untouched.

Nana Zariya held Iman close, her grip like iron. "We will not run blindly, child," she said, her voice firm amidst the rising fear. "We will think. We will find a way."

They stopped at the edge of the village, watching as the dancing madness began to take hold. It started slowly, tentatively, but soon, the same terrifying ballet of destruction erupted. The villagers, initially bewildered and scared, were quickly infected, their bodies taken over by the alien impulse to move, to destroy.

"It is in the air," Nana Zariya observed, her eyes narrowed, watching a woman collapse, convulsing for a moment, and then rise again, dancing. "It takes hold quickly. We must protect ourselves from the air."

"How, Nana?" Iman asked, her voice trembling. "How can we hide from the air?"

Nana Zariya looked around, her gaze sweeping over the landscape. Her eyes settled on a group of nomads nearby, their faces covered with layers of cloth to protect them from the desert wind. An idea sparked in her eyes.

"Cloth," she said. "We need cloth. To cover our faces, to filter the air we breathe."

It was a desperate idea, a fragile defense against an unknown terror, but it was all they had. They approached the nomads, begging for scraps of cloth, explaining their plight in frantic whispers.

The nomads, wary but compassionate, shared what little they had – worn scarves, torn robes, anything that could be used to cover their faces.

Iman tore her own dress, using the fabric to fashion a makeshift mask, tying it tightly around her mouth and nose. Nana Zariya did the same, her movements slow but determined.

They urged the other refugees to do likewise. Some listened, desperation overriding their skepticism. Others scoffed, clinging to disbelief until the twitching started in their own limbs.

Wearing their makeshift masks, they moved on, away from the second village, towards the vast, empty desert. The desert, usually a place of hardship, now seemed like their only refuge.

There was nothing here to destroy, no villages to infect, just sand and sky and the scorching sun.

Days blurred into nights. They walked, rested, walked again, their faces hidden behind cloth, the silence broken only by the crunch of sand under their feet and the occasional, fearful whisper.

They scavenged for food, shared what little water they found, their faces grim, their hearts heavy.

The masks offered some protection. Those who wore them seemed to resist the disease longer, their movements slower, their infection less complete.

But it was not a cure. It was merely a delay. One by one, even those who wore masks began to succumb. First, a slight tremor in the hand, then a jerky step, and finally, the full, horrifying dance.

Nana Zariya remained untouched. Her mask was thick, made of layers of woven cotton. She moved slowly, deliberately, her eyes constantly scanning the horizon. Iman, too, remained free from the dancing madness. Perhaps they were stronger, perhaps their masks were more effective, or perhaps it was just cruel chance.

They found a cave, a shallow hollow in a rocky outcrop, offering meager shade from the relentless sun. It became their refuge, their sanctuary. They huddled inside, the air heavy with dust and despair. Outside, the desert stretched endlessly, silent and indifferent to their plight.

One evening, Nana Zariya sat beside Iman, her face unusually still. The sun was setting, painting the sky in fiery hues, mirroring the burning villages they had left behind. Nana Zariya coughed, a dry, rattling sound that sent a shiver down Iman's spine.

"Child," Nana Zariya said, her voice weaker than Iman had ever heard it. "The air… it is in my lungs now."

Iman stared at her grandmother, her heart seizing with terror. Nana Zariya, the strong, the wise, the protector, was succumbing. She looked at Nana Zariya's face, at the telltale tremor in her hand, at the strange, distant light in her eyes. The dance was coming for her too.

"No, Nana," Iman whispered, tears welling in her eyes. "No, you can't…"

Nana Zariya smiled, a sad, gentle smile that tore at Iman's soul. "It is the way of things, child. Everything ends. Even stories."

She began to cough again, harder this time, her body shaking. The tremor in her hand intensified, spreading up her arm, to her shoulder. Iman watched, helpless, as the dance began to claim her grandmother.

"Iman," Nana Zariya gasped, her voice fading. "Remember… remember the stories… keep them alive…"

The dance took over completely then. Nana Zariya's body contorted, her limbs flailing, her head lolling back. But even in the midst of the horrifying dance, her eyes, when they briefly met Iman's, held no madness, only love, and a profound, heartbreaking sorrow.

Iman watched, frozen, as her grandmother danced herself to exhaustion, to collapse. The dance did not stop, even as Nana Zariya lay still, her limbs twitching, her breath shallow. It was a dance of death now, a final, agonizing performance.

When the sun rose, Nana Zariya was gone. Her body was still, cold, but the grotesque grin remained frozen on her face, a mockery of joy in death. Iman sat beside her grandmother's body, the desert wind whipping around her, the silence deafening. She was alone.

The dancing plague had taken everything. Her village, her family, her world. All that remained was dust, silence, and the haunting image of her grandmother dancing into demise.

Iman pulled Nana Zariya's cloth mask from her face, the last barrier between her and the infected air. She looked out at the endless expanse of the desert, the rising sun casting long, lonely shadows.

She did not dance. She did not scream. She simply sat there, a small figure amidst the vast desolation, the sole survivor of a silent, dancing apocalypse, holding the weight of memory in a world emptied of everything she had ever known.

Her brutal sadness was not in joining the dance, but in being left behind, utterly alone, to remember it all. The silence of the desert was now her only sound, and the unending expanse of sand, her only future.