TRIBAL

Kamau the King of the Mirima faces a new threat-the white man- who came bearing peace only to leave a wake of terror and death with every touch, he now has to gather his fellow tribesmen to fight a war he knows he can not win.

CHAPTER ONE: The Soil Beneath the Spear

The sun shone with hues of purple and yellow, casting a royal glow over the tall bending grass that danced to the rhythm of the wind. The air was fresh with the scent of harvest, as farmers brought home the season’s bounty to the village.

Kamau, the young King of the Mountain region, stood at the edge of the highlands. He was strong and proud, the last-born son of the late King Mirima. Around his neck hung a lion tooth necklace — a symbol of leadership passed down through generations. This relic, steeped in legend, granted him strength that defied logic and reason. Some believed it was a gift from the gods, an heirloom infused with the power of his ancestors. It gave him the agility of a cheetah, the wisdom of the elders, and the might of a lion.

Two years had passed since King Mirima’s death, and Kamau had since carried the weight of the mountain people on his shoulders. He greeted the farmers as they returned, watching them with the steady eyes of a guardian. Clad in red and yellow robes, a crown of antlers upon his head, and armed with a long spear and a polished shield, Kamau looked every bit the warrior king.

But peace was fleeting.

He had just returned from war with the Bukusu tribe, and now a new darkness crept into their land. Pale-skinned men rode on tall horses, bearing rifles that spat death like magic. They had first arrived bearing gifts — strange contraptions like a camera that captured movement, bottles that made fire, and books filled with alien symbols. At first, they smiled.

Now they hunted.

Kamau’s people had been forced into the mountain forests. Villages burned, women and children stolen, branded with scars to mark them as property. These invaders armed the Bukusu, feeding old rivalries with weapons and lies. They spoke of prophecy and brought with them a holy book, dividing the people. Many abandoned the old gods. More than half of Kamau’s tribe had already converted to the white man’s religion.

Still, Kamau stood firm, feet planted on ancestral soil, as the warm sun sank beneath the horizon like a golden disc swallowed by the night.

The wind blew indignant as he turned back toward his palace, where his council awaited him.

He walked like a king, the earth beneath him honoring each step. His throne, adorned with silver and gold, awaited. As he sat, Buntu, head of the council, stepped forward with urgency in his voice.

“What shall we do, our King?” Buntu asked. “The white men are killing us, stealing our livestock, and arming our enemies with weapons we cannot understand!”

“We cannot stay in hiding, waiting for them to return to their ships,” Buntu added, voice cracking with emotion.

“I will consult the Oracle,” Kamau said quietly.

“With all due respect,” Buntu replied, “we do not have time. And the witch on the hill is mad — deceitful and dangerous.”

“Silence,” Kamau said, his tone deep and commanding. “I am the King of the Mountain.”

He rose slowly. “Do you not remember who I am? Do you question my judgment?”

Silence fell like a shroud over the palace.

Without another word, Kamau raised his hand and left.

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The Hill

Kamau walked up the hill, weary and burdened. The night was pitch dark. In one hand, he held a blazing torch — his only weapon and guide. The path narrowed as he approached the cave. The air grew foul, heavy with the stench of death and sulfur. Strange symbols, etched in blood and ash, marked the rocks along the way.

Inside the cave, the flames cast ghostly shadows on the walls. The witch was hunched over a dying fire, her voice echoing in low, guttural chants. As Kamau stepped forward, his torch suddenly extinguished, as if snuffed out by unseen hands.

The witch’s skin was leathery and cracked, her robes stained with old blood. Her eyes were sewn shut with filthy threads, and the few teeth she had were black and rotting. She wore a tattered black robe that covered her like a shroud. Her long, claw-like nails scraped the wooden stool she sat on, her face faintly glowing in the dark with a strange and terrifying light.

“I’ve been expecting you, my child,” she whispered in a voice that slithered like a snake through the cave air.

Kamau knelt beside her, respectful despite his fear.

“I have come for your counsel,” he said, his voice low but firm.

“The white man will bring not one war, but three,” she hissed. “You will win the first. You will win the second. But the third shall break your back. The third shall take your crown and your breath.”

Kamau’s eyes widened. “Heresy!” he boomed.

The witch only grinned.

“Speak blasphemy if you must, but I have lived many lifetimes in this cave. I have seen kings rise and crumble like dust in the wind. You will fall, Kamau. And your people will fall with you.”

With a clenched jaw and a heavy heart, Kamau reached beneath his robe, pulled out a pouch of gold coins, and threw it into the fire.

He left without another word.

The wind screamed behind him.

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