“The Carved Ivory Tusk”

Chapter 1

The ivory felt cold beneath Abeni's fingertips, its smooth surface belying the violence of its acquisition. As she traced the natural contours of the tusk, she imagined the magnificent creature it once belonged to, roaming free across the land her ancestors had walked for generations...

Now, the tusk lay severed from its origin in her workshop, a fragment of a once-living giant; another sacrifice to colonial greed, waiting to be transformed by her reluctant hands into something European eyes would deem valuable.

The irony did not escape her; her gift, passed down through generations of her family, had become both her salvation and her burden in this new world where her people's treasures were stripped away, piece by piece, ivory tusk by ivory tusk.

Afternoon light filtered through the small window of her workshop, casting elongated shadows across the wooden floor strewn with ivory shavings. The air hung heavy with the scent of dust, mingling with the earthy fragrance of the raw materials that surrounded her. Her tools—passed down from her father—lay within arm's reach, each one an extension of herself, partners in her silent rebellion through art. With each careful incision, each delicate scrape, she breathed life into dead matter, transforming exploitation into artistic expression.

Abeni wiped the perspiration from her brow with the back of her hand, leaving a smudge of ivory dust across her dark skin. The contrast struck her as symbolic—the pale residue of colonial desire marring the rich brown of her flesh. She had been working since dawn, her fingers moving with practiced precision despite the heaviness in her heart. The commission was substantial, enough to support her family for months, yet the weight of complicity pressed upon her shoulders like a physical burden.

"Beauty from suffering," she whispered to herself, the words bitter on her tongue. "Is that not the way of our lives now?"

It had been three days since she learned the truth about this particular tusk. The knowledge came to her through whispered conversations between two colonial officers outside her home, their voices low but not low enough. They spoke of a recent hunt in the region near her ancestral village, of shots fired and blood spilled, of villagers who had attempted to protect the elephants being beaten into submission. One name had stood out—her cousin's—among those who had been struck down for interfering.

The revelation had nearly broken her. That night, she had contemplated refusing the commission, of taking a hammer to the tusk and shattering it into a thousand pieces. Instead, she had wept silently, her tears falling upon the ivory like an offering to the spirits of both the slain animal and her injured kin. Come morning, a cold resolve had replaced her anguish. She would complete this work, but she would infuse it with stories only her people could truly understand—patterns that spoke of resistance, symbols hidden within the European-pleasing designs.

The sound of boots on the pathway outside pulled Abeni from her thoughts. She straightened her back, schooling her features into a mask of professional detachment as the door to her workshop swung open. The man who entered ducked slightly to clear the low doorframe, his uniform marking him instantly as one of them—a French colonial officer.

"Mademoiselle Anzinga," he greeted her, removing his hat in a gesture of politeness that struck her as hollow. "I've come to check on the progress of my commission."

Marc Moreau stood before her, tall and lean, with an olive complexion that had darkened under the African sun. His light brown eyes held an intensity that many of his colleagues lacked, which was a quality that had unsettled her from their first meeting. Unlike the others, he looked at her—truly looked at her—as though trying to decipher something written in a language he desperately wanted to understand. But, she didn’t care.

"Officer Moreau," she acknowledged with a slight nod, her voice deliberately flat. "It progresses as expected, don’t worry. You need not concern yourself with daily inspections."

His gaze moved from her face to the tusk, which sat secured in a wooden frame that she had constructed specifically for this project. The preliminary markings were visible, the beginning patterns of what would become an intricate design.

Something in his expression shifted then, a subtle softening around the eyes that irritated her more than any dismissive glance could have.

"It's remarkable already," he said with praise, stepping closer, apparently oblivious to her desire for him to maintain his distance. "I had no idea the early stages could be so... revealing."

Abeni's fingers tightened around her carving tool. "Revealing of what, Officer Moreau?"

He looked up, meeting her eyes with surprising earnestness. "Of the artist's intention. I can already see how you're blending elements—the patterns seem to flow into one another in a way I hadn't anticipated."

"The design follows what was agreed upon," Abeni replied coolly, though her heart quickened at how accurately he had observed her work. Few Europeans bothered to look beyond the exotic appeal of her carvings to the technique and intention behind them...

"Yes, but there's something more," he persisted, crouching down to examine a section where she had just begun to define a spiral pattern that, to knowing eyes, represented continuity and resilience. "It's as though you're telling a story through these marks."

Abeni fought the urge to place herself between him and her work. Instead, she responded with deliberate sarcasm, "How perceptive of you to notice that my people's art might actually contain meaning beyond decorative appeal."

To her surprise, rather than taking offense, Marc's face colored slightly with what appeared to be genuine embarrassment. "I deserved that," he admitted quietly, standing up straight again. "I don't want to pretend to understand the depth of what you're creating, but I would like to learn, if you would permit it."

The sincerity in his voice gave her pause. It was a request she had never heard from a colonial officer before—an acknowledgment, however small, of his own ignorance. Still, she was not so easily swayed by polite words.