Chapter 65: Faith in The Forge

After the party, Francisco returned to his family’s estate. He spent a day resting before turning his attention to the forge, eager to learn the steelmaking process from Ogundele. Makala wasn’t allowed to help—Ogundele was too strict to let him interfere—so the man had been sent to work at the alcohol factory, tending the stills.

Francisco rose early the next morning and climbed toward the forge. Ogundele was already there, sorting ingredients with slow, practiced hands, while his young apprentice Kokou waited silently behind him. The old man eased himself into a wooden chair, his movements stiff but deliberate.

The forge lay hidden deep in the mountains, beside a rough hut built by hand from clay and wood. Smoke darkened the walls, and the air carried the scent of charcoal and oil. To an outsider, it would look crude—primitive even—but the very existence of steel here defied that assumption. Francisco felt a shiver of excitement. How could something so simple produce what Europe guards as a treasure for their military?

When Francisco arrived, he greeted them, but Kokou quickly raised a hand.”Wait, señor. The master is about to begin the ritual. You can ask your questions when it’s finished.”

Francisco nodded and stepped back.

In front of them stood a tall clay furnace—no bellows, only two curved pipes feeding air inside. Ogundele wiped the ground clean with a damp cloth, then drew a spiral with ashes. At the center, he placed a small bowl filled with three cacao beans, a drop of aguardiente, a bit of palm oil, and a few drops of chicken blood.

Kokou knelt beside him in silence.

“The iron listens to those who know its name,” Ogundele murmured to his apprentice.

Then he poured aguardiente along the rim of the furnace and chanted:

“Ogun alágbède! Baba irin, oní ina!Mà je ká jà, mà je ká fọ́,Gba ọwọ́ wa, kí irin wà lógo!”

He traced three circles in the air and continued:

“Ogun, Olú iron!Kí irin yìí má bàjẹ́, kí ó gbóná, kí ó dùn!”

Finally, before lighting the fire, he declared,

“Àṣẹ Ogun, àṣẹ!”

Kokou echoed softly, “Àṣẹ.”

Ogundele struck the base of the furnace three times with an iron rod, and the fire roared to life.

Francisco quickly took out his pen, recording every movement. The rhythmic breath of the fire fascinated him—the way the heat seemed alive,

The fire grew stronger. Kokou kept a steady rhythm blowing air into the pipes while Ogundele watched the smoke, his eyes reflecting the flames. When the smoke turned a deep blue, he nodded.

“It’s ready. Add the ore.”

Kokou began layering iron ore and charcoal, one after the other. Francisco leaned closer, studying the method.

“So it must be filled completely, layer by layer” Francisco muttered. “But why not mix the charcoal and the ore together?”

Ogundele answered without turning. “Because if you add too much charcoal at the start, the fire won’t heat evenly. We must be patient—too much fire too soon and the metal burns instead of purifying.”

The process was slow. Hours passed. The furnace hissed and groaned like a living creature. Sweat rolled down Francisco’s face and soaked his notes; he had to change pages several times so the ink wouldn’t blur. Finally, when the furnace began to emit a deep, throaty rumble, Ogundele pointed to Kokou.

The young man broke the base open with an iron rod, and a glowing mass of metal rolled out. Sparks scattered across the dirt floor as Kokou struck it with his hammer. With every blow, flakes of black slag flew off, and the mass grew denser, brighter.

“This is iron,” Ogundele said, “but it’s not ready yet.”

Kokou reheated the lump, adding more charcoal.

“Now the iron absorbs fire,” Ogundele said. “Too little, and it stays weak. Too much, and it breaks. You must listen to the sound. When it changes—you stop.”

He struck the metal lightly with his hammer; it rang clear and sharp.”Did you hear that? That’s how you know it’s perfect.”

Francisco’s eyes widened. “So the heat and charcoal change the nature of the metal… that must be what gives it strength.” He could already imagine experiments—ways to reproduce and refine the process. If he succeeded, he could make steel in quantity.

When the final piece cooled, Kokou handed it to him. Smooth, silvery, and far stronger than common iron—it was true steel. Francisco could hardly believe that European nations paid fortunes for something made here, in a simple mountain forge.

“Tell me, Ogundele,” Francisco asked, “why do Europeans never think of learning from you?”

Ogundele shook his head. “Because they underestimate us. They think we are too primitive to make anything of value. You, young one—you’re different. You’re the first white man I’ve met who truly wants to learn.”

Francisco chuckled, embarrassed, but replied solemnly, “Thank you, Grandfather Ogundele. I’ll use this knowledge with care. May I ask Kokou to help me with my experiments? I want to understand the laws behind the process.”

Ogundele nodded. “You may—but make sure he always performs the ritual. If not for the gods, then for respect toward this old man.”

“I promise,” Francisco said. Then, curious, he added, “Why do you use cacao? I didn’t think it grew in Africa.”

Ogundele looked pleasantly surprised. “You’re right. In Africa, we use the kola nut. But since there’s none here, I replaced it with cacao. It’s close enough.”

Francisco smiled. “I’ll write down your ritual and your method. Who knows? Perhaps, a hundred years from now, your descendants will read it and remember the wisdom their ancestors carried.”

Ogundele smiled faintly. “Now, enough talk. Kokou, take me home. These bones need rest—and don’t forget flowers for Miss María.”

Kokou sighed. “Now, master? It’s almost dark.”

Francisco laughed and followed them down the mountain trail. He turned once to look back at the glowing forge, smoke rising into the dusk, and thought to himself how amazing the human mind could be—turning fire, earth, and faith into metal.

The three mounted their horses and descended the mountain—Francisco returning to the estate, Ogundele and Kokou to their modest home beside the forge.

That day, an African smith had given Francisco more than knowledge: he had handed him the seed of an industry that could reshape the future of New Granada.

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