CHAPTER 4: THREADING THE FIRE

The city center was a maze of glass towers and steel nerves. Zaria walked its corridors of power, her steps steady despite the tremors in her chest. The public inquiry was being held in a hall framed by marble columns, where centuries of verdicts hung in the air like dust. Today, it would host a different kind of trial—one where truth and silence collided in front of cameras.

Kayode, Camille, and Amaka flanked her, their silent support tangible. Camille carried the sanctuary’s records—accounting books, apprenticeship logs, community service reports. Kayode carried nothing but a quiet resolve. Amaka carried fire.

The hall buzzed with reporters, skeptics, and the curious. At the center stood the inquiry panel: bureaucrats with tired eyes and sharpened questions.

A gavel struck. Silence fell.

"Zaria Anozie," the chairperson called. "Step forward."

She did, shoulders straight.

"You have been summoned to address allegations against the Quiet Thread: subversive activity, indoctrination of youth, and obstruction of governmental order. How do you plead?"

The question cut sharp and deep.

Zaria looked at the crowded room, cameras blinking like hungry insects. She drew a breath.

"We are weavers," she said simply. "Our only agenda is peace."

A murmur rippled through the crowd.

The panel leaned in. "And yet your silence has provoked unrest. Your gatherings inspire suspicion. How do you explain the widespread perception of threat?"

Zaria met their gaze, steady. "Fear distorts what it does not understand."

The chairperson’s expression hardened. "So you deny fostering an underground movement?"

"I deny that peace is subversion," Zaria answered.

A bureaucrat scowled. "Your former apprentice, Tolani, claims otherwise. She described Quiet Thread as an isolating regime."

"She described her pain," Zaria said softly. "I do not dismiss it. But one scar does not define the whole body."

The chairperson signaled for the evidence.

Camille stepped forward, handing over documents that detailed the sanctuary’s charitable works: food drives, art workshops, school programs.

The panel reviewed them, unimpressed.

"Documentation can be fabricated," one member muttered.

Amaka couldn't stay silent. "And accusations can be manufactured."

The panel ignored her, turning back to Zaria. "Tomorrow, we will release our findings. Should we uncover further evidence of dissent, Quiet Thread will be disbanded."

A final gavel strike ended the session.

Outside, the press swarmed like crows.

"Zaria, do you admit to leading a silent rebellion?"

"Is Quiet Thread the cultural insurgency the state fears?"

"Are your weavings coded messages to radicals?"

Zaria lifted her chin. "Our only code is compassion."

But her voice was drowned by shouts, flashes, and headlines already being written.

Back at the sanctuary, the apprentices awaited her return. Their faces were tight with worry.

"They’ll shut us down," Dayo whispered.

"Let them try," Amaka said fiercely.

"What do we do now?" another asked.

Zaria looked at them all—young, frightened, but burning with purpose. "We weave."

And so they did.

That night, the sanctuary glowed with the hum of looms. Threads danced between fingers. Patterns formed that spoke of resilience, unity, and hope.

But outside the walls, protests gathered. Some carried banners reading "Silence is Complicity." Others defended Quiet Thread as protectors of peace. The streets buzzed with arguments, both online and in person.

The sanctuary was becoming the eye of a storm.

The next morning, the government's findings were broadcast live.

"Following our inquiry," the chairperson announced, "we find insufficient evidence of subversion. However, due to ongoing public unrest, the Quiet Thread sanctuary is hereby placed under surveillance. Future gatherings will require official permits."

It was a warning wrapped in bureaucracy.

Relief and dread mingled in Zaria’s chest. They were not shut down—yet—but their every step now carried a shadow.

Kayode sighed. "They’ll watch until we slip."

"Then we won’t slip," Zaria said.

But vigilance carried its own exhaustion.

That afternoon, Ade Tade’s latest article went viral.

"Quiet Thread Escapes Shutdown: Government Complicity or Strategic Silence?"

He painted their release as a failure of justice. The comments section boiled with debate, some calling for Zaria’s arrest, others for her protection.

Camille turned to her. "We can’t win this online."

"Then we win it offline," Zaria said.

She called a meeting of the apprentices and supporters.

"Tomorrow, we hold our largest weaving demonstration yet. In the central plaza. No banners. No speeches. Just our looms, our threads, and our silence."

"They won’t permit it," Amaka warned.

"Let them try to stop it," Zaria said, fire in her voice.

The next day dawned sharp and bright. Quiet Thread members carried their looms into the heart of the city. Bystanders watched, confused and curious, as dozens of weavers set up in silent formation.

Threads stretched across the plaza like lines of invisible connection.

The police arrived within the hour, demanding permits. Zaria approached the commanding officer.

"This is public art," she said. "Not a protest."

The officer scowled but hesitated—the crowd had grown large, and cameras were rolling.

The weavers continued, undeterred.

Hours passed. Threads filled the plaza, creating a tapestry of quiet resistance. Tourists snapped photos. Journalists livestreamed.

And something unexpected happened.

The crowd, once divided, began to sit quietly among the weavers. Strangers helped stretch threads, pass shuttles, and tie knots. The plaza became a shared space, not a battleground.

For a brief moment, noise gave way to unity.

But in the shadows, not all approved.

That night, a masked group vandalized the sanctuary gates, spray-painting "LIARS" and "CULT" across the walls.

The apprentices awoke to the damage.

"They’re escalating," Kayode warned.

"Let them," Zaria said, wiping the paint away. "Their hate won’t stain our story."

But inside, she wondered how many more blows they could take.

As dusk fell, Naya found her by the loom.

"You are threading fire, child," the old woman said gently. "Handle it with care, or be burned."

Zaria met her gaze. "I’m ready."

But even as she spoke, doubt wove its way through her heart.