CHAPTER 5 : SMOKE AND SCISSORS
The days after the plaza demonstration unfolded like smoke—thick, choking, impossible to grasp. Though Quiet Thread’s silent performance had captivated many, the backlash arrived with equal ferocity. Social feeds filled with debates, both defending and condemning their actions. The sanctuary had become a battlefield of narratives, where words sliced sharper than scissors.
Zaria gathered her leaders in the sanctuary’s strategy room, where bolts of fabric hung like banners of war. Camille scrolled through data projections while Kayode outlined safety protocols. Amaka paced the room like a caged lion, her frustration barely contained.
"They’re planning something," Camille said, pointing to a spike in hostile chatter. "Rival groups, trolls, anonymous accounts—they’re calling for a march against Quiet Thread. This isn’t just hate speech anymore."
"It’s a coordinated attack," Kayode added. "One spark and the city burns."
Zaria stared at the threads hanging overhead. "Then we keep weaving."
Amaka slammed her fist on the table. "Stop saying that like it’s enough. Threads can’t stop fists."
"No," Zaria said quietly. "But they remind us why we’re standing in the first place."
That night, the threats materialized. A small faction of masked protesters lit fires outside the sanctuary gates. Smoke curled into the night sky, setting off alarms and panic. Apprentices scrambled to extinguish the flames while Camille activated emergency protocols.
Sirens wailed in the distance, too late to prevent the damage but fast enough to spotlight the violence.
Reporters arrived before the police, cameras capturing the smoldering ruins of what had been a peaceful courtyard.
Zaria stood amid the ash, her fingers still stained with thread.
"They want us afraid," Kayode said beside her.
"Then we give them courage instead," she replied.
In the aftermath, the government called for "dialogue" but offered no real protection. Officials visited the sanctuary, suggesting temporary relocation for safety.
"Leave our home?" Amaka challenged. "That’s surrender."
"It’s survival," the minister replied.
Zaria considered the offer, torn between pragmatism and principle.
"We’ll stay," she said finally. "But we welcome dialogue—on our terms."
The next day, Quiet Thread announced a public forum: "The Fabric of Peace." An open invitation to citizens, artists, and critics alike to discuss the role of art in resistance.
The announcement spread like wildfire. Some called it brave, others reckless. Ade Tade’s latest column mocked it as "a PR stunt from a fading movement."
But the people came.
Hundreds gathered in the sanctuary courtyard, where looms and microphones shared the stage. Scholars debated with activists. Survivors shared their stories. Apprentices wove silently as a backdrop to the noise.
Zaria opened the forum with words that cut through the tension like a thread through fabric.
"We are not here to convert you. We are here to listen. To share. And to remind you that peace is not the absence of conflict, but the courage to face it without violence."
The crowd quieted.
And for a moment, the sanctuary felt whole again.
But not everyone wanted peace.
That night, a shadow slipped past the sanctuary walls. A pair of scissors—stolen from the weaving room—was plunged into a tapestry still in progress, its threads slashed beyond repair.
A message was left behind, scrawled in red paint:
"CUT THE THREAD. OR WE WILL."
The sanctuary awoke to find the defaced tapestry, its ruin a scar on their hope.
Amaka found Zaria staring at the wreckage.
"It’s a warning," Amaka said.
"It’s a challenge," Zaria corrected, her voice calm but fierce.
Security was tightened. Apprentices took shifts guarding the sanctuary at night. But fear crept into the cracks of their unity.
"What if they come for us next?" one apprentice whispered.
"Then we face them together," Kayode promised.
Camille monitored online threats, filtering false alarms from real dangers. "Something bigger is coming," she warned.
And she was right.
A week later, the city announced an emergency bill: "The Artistic Integrity Act," requiring all public art demonstrations to be pre-approved by a government ethics committee.
"They're legalizing censorship," Amaka growled.
"They're weaponizing fear," Kayode said.
Zaria gathered her apprentices. "We will not apply for permission to exist."
"But if we don’t comply, they’ll shut us down," Camille warned.
Zaria met their worried gazes. "Then we weave anyway."
In secret, Quiet Thread planned their next move: a midnight tapestry drop, where their largest work yet would be unfurled from the city's tallest tower—visible to all, authorized by none.
It was bold. Illegal. Dangerous.
But it was necessary.
The night arrived, cold and clear. Apprentices scaled the tower under cover of darkness, the tapestry rolled tightly in their arms. At the stroke of midnight, they let it fall—a cascade of colors and patterns illuminating the night sky.
Cameras captured the moment. Social media exploded. For one breathless hour, the city was wrapped in a cloth of silent defiance.
And then the authorities arrived.
By dawn, the sanctuary was surrounded. Officers demanded Zaria’s arrest. Supporters formed a human shield around the gates.
Zaria stood at the threshold, calm as the morning light.
"If peace is a crime," she said, "then let me stand accused."
But before the officers could move, a new voice cut through the tension.
"Enough."
It was Minister Okon, flanked by journalists. "The world is watching. We cannot arrest hope."
The officers hesitated. The moment stretched taut.
And then, slowly, they lowered their weapons.
Zaria turned to her people, exhaustion and triumph mingling in her chest.
"The fire hasn’t burned us yet," she whispered.
But in the shadows, unseen scissors waited for their next cut.