CHAPTER 3 : SCARS IN THE SPOTLIGHT
The morning began with tension thick as thread about to snap. Zaria stood before the loom, weaving patterns meant for peace, though her hands trembled from the chaos swelling beyond their sanctuary walls. The city's skyline stretched beyond the windows, bathed in the dull light of another day heavy with judgment.
Camille entered the courtyard, her face pale as she held her tablet up to Zaria. "You need to see this."
On the screen played a news clip. It showed former apprentice Tolani, face shadowed but voice sharp, sitting across from Ade Tade in a dimly lit studio. The title read: "Former Insider Reveals Quiet Thread’s Secrets."
"I spent two years there," Tolani said, bitterness tainting her voice. "They claim to teach peace, but they isolate you from your family, from the world. They say silence protects you, but really, it controls you."
The interviewer leaned in. "Are you saying it's a cult?"
Tolani hesitated, then nodded. "Yes. A cult hiding behind thread and art."
The video cut to scenes of Quiet Thread gatherings, their peaceful weaving reframed with eerie background music, casting an ominous shadow over their quiet work.
Silence fell over the sanctuary as the apprentices watched the footage. Some faces paled, others flushed with anger.
Amaka broke the quiet. "She lied. How could she?"
"Fear makes people do desperate things," Kayode said calmly.
"Desperation doesn't excuse betrayal," Amaka shot back.
Zaria’s stomach twisted, her mind spinning with conflicting emotions. Tolani had once sat beside her at the loom, laughing at crooked stitches, sharing silent prayers for peace. Now, she painted them as captors, not companions.
"The world believes what it sees," Camille said softly. "And right now, they’re seeing this."
The backlash was swift. Supporters of Quiet Thread were harassed online. Vendors who supplied the sanctuary with thread and fabric received threats. Even family members of the apprentices received warning letters from government offices, advising them to "counsel their children against involvement in subversive activities."
"They're isolating us," Zaria whispered. "Cutting our connections."
"Exactly what they accuse us of doing," Kayode replied.
Amaka slammed her palm against the courtyard wall. "I won’t let them destroy us from the outside and the inside. We need to respond. Publicly."
"If we speak, they’ll twist our words," Camille warned.
"If we stay silent, they’ll write our story for us," Amaka argued.
The debate raged late into the night, but no consensus emerged. The fracture in their unity widened, an invisible scar that no amount of thread could mend.
The next morning, Zaria met Naya in the weaving room. The old woman’s hands trembled slightly as she tied a new warp onto her loom.
"I taught you to let your work speak," Naya said without looking up. "But there comes a time when silence is mistaken for weakness."
"Amaka wants us to speak," Zaria confessed. "I’m afraid if we do, we’ll lose ourselves."
Naya paused, her fingers resting on the thread. "The challenge is to speak without becoming like them."
Her words sank deep into Zaria’s heart. How could she protect the Quiet Thread’s core—its peaceful essence—while defending it against relentless noise?
That afternoon, Zaria called a gathering in the sanctuary courtyard. Apprentices, mentors, and supporters filled the space, their faces shadowed by uncertainty.
"We've been accused," Zaria began, her voice clear but steady. "They call us a cult. A threat. They call our silence dangerous."
She paused, scanning the crowd.
"We have a choice," she continued. "We can speak out, defend ourselves in their language. Or we can stay silent and let our work continue to speak, as it always has."
Murmurs rippled through the crowd. Some nodded in agreement; others looked unconvinced.
Amaka stepped forward. "And what if our silence buries us? What if no one hears the truth beneath the noise?"
Zaria met her gaze. "Then we weave it into the fabric of tomorrow."
The courtyard fell silent, the decision unmade but the debate far from over.
That night, a new message appeared online. It was anonymous but claimed to be from a Quiet Thread insider:
"They silence dissent within their ranks. I tried to leave and they threatened my family. Don't believe their peaceful facade."
The apprentices gasped when they saw it. "That’s a lie!"
Camille shook her head. "It doesn’t matter. People believe what confirms their fears."
Zaria felt the weight of leadership pressing against her chest. She stepped outside, staring up at the starless sky.
How could they fight shadows with thread?
The next morning, a small group of government officials arrived at the sanctuary gates, flanked by uniformed officers. They held an official summons for Zaria to appear at a public inquiry the following week.
"You're being investigated for inciting social unrest," the lead officer declared.
Zaria took the document with steady hands, her heart pounding. "I will appear."
"We advise you to bring legal counsel," the officer added with a thin smile. "And perhaps reconsider your movement's silence."
As they left, Amaka turned to her, fire in her eyes. "Are you ready now to speak?"
Zaria said nothing, but the answer weighed heavily in her silence.
In the days that followed, the apprentices doubled their efforts. They prepared new tapestries, woven with ancient patterns and new meanings—symbols of unity, resilience, and silent defiance.
But public perception continued to fracture. Commentators debated Quiet Thread's intentions. Conspiracy theorists called them cultural anarchists. Supporters hailed them as guardians of peace.
And through it all, the question loomed:
Would silence save them or destroy them?
The night before the inquiry, Zaria stood alone in the courtyard. The unfinished tapestry swayed in the breeze, its patterns incomplete.
Naya approached quietly. "No thread we weave can escape wear and tear. But the story it tells? That endures."
Zaria turned to her. "What if no one wants to hear our story?"
Naya smiled gently. "Then we keep weaving until they do."
The next day, Zaria stepped beyond the sanctuary gates, walking alone toward the city center where the spotlight awaited.
And the scars of their struggle were laid bare before the world.