At night, when darkness settled in thick and deep, the village did not disappear.
Small flames appeared one by one. Lanterns were lit with petroleum, their glass bellies glowing warm and yellow. They hung inside huts or rested on wooden stands, pushing back the dark just enough for families to eat, talk, and pray.
But everyone knew the truth about fire.
Fire gave light.Fire gave warmth.Fire could also take everything.
That was why parents reminded their children every night:
Turn off the lantern before you sleep.
In a village where roofs were dry as breath and homes stood shoulder to shoulder, fire did not need permission to travel. One careless moment could move from hut to hut before a warning cry could reach the well.
Buckets were kept near doorways. Paths were left clear. Everyone knew what to do if smoke rose into the sky.
Still, no one believed it would happen again.
Not here.Not now.Not to them.
The healer once spoke to Koffi as they sat beneath a tree whose roots cracked the earth open.
"There are rules that protect the body," she said, crushing leaves between her fingers. "And rules that protect the soul. The lantern rule protects both."
Koffi listened, though his thoughts drifted.
He was young. Strong. Careful enough.
That evening, the village moved as it always did. Cooking fires dimmed. Lanterns flickered on. Voices softened. Children were called inside.
Koffi returned to his hut tired, muscles aching from honest labor. He lit the lantern and placed it where it always sat, close enough to push back the dark.
He lay down, staring into the glow.
Just for a moment, he told himself.
Outside, the village trusted the rule.
And the rule waited to be broken.