TRIBAL
The dying light of the sun bathed
the warriors of the Mirima tribe, casting them
in a glow like fading stars. Spears clashed. War cries rang out, but many were
drowned by the screams of the dying. Men fought not for glory, but for
survival, their feet slipping on blood-soaked earth. The stench of torn flesh
and burning wood filled the air, thick and metallic. Dead bodies lay scattered
across the battlefield like broken bones in an ancient graveyard — silent
witnesses to the madness.
My people are weak, thought Kamau. My tribe, my blood...
He stood atop the hill, his lion-claw totem warm against his
chest, eyes wide with grief and disbelief. The pale-skinned men had scorched
everything sacred. Their firesticks roared like angry spirits,
tearing through the Mirima ranks. On the frontlines, the Bukusu charged, allies no more,
their eyes lit with frenzy, their bodies armored in betrayal. Their thunder
weapons hissed and spat, mowing down warriors with unnatural precision.
Why have the gods forsaken me? Why
have the gods forsaken us?
The sun sank low — swollen, red, and
tired — like a bloodshot eye bearing witness. Smoke devoured the stars. Kamau
heard the oracle’s words echo inside him: There will be three wars. You
will lose them all. And by the third, you will die.
Screams rang louder now. Steel bit
flesh. The ground trembled beneath the pounding of boots and hooves. Blood
flowed freely. The Bukusu tore through his people with pangas, spears, and fire.
My tribe... my people... my blood...
A soldier lunged. Kamau’s spear met
him mid-air, slicing through flesh with ease. The lion-claw pulsed against his
skin, ancestral fire flooding his limbs. Another attacker swung — blocked.
Kamau’s short sword drove deep into the man’s gut. He screamed and crumpled.
Kamau didn’t look back.
“Fall back to the mountain!” he
shouted, voice hoarse and hollow.
They ran. Behind them, their village
burned. The wind carried the cries of the dying. His people were butchered. His
blood spilled.
This is hell. I have failed
you, ancestors. May the earth swallow me whole, he thought, as he stood high above, watching smoke
desecrate the sacred land of his birth.
The Mountain
“The oracle was right! We will die!
The pale-skinned men will take our children, our livestock, and our land. What
are we to do, Great King?”
Buntu, advisor and councilman, rose to his
feet, voice echoing through the War Cave. Around him, elders, warriors, and
children huddled in shadows. Smoke curled from the central fire, flickering
across scarred faces. The wounded groaned in corners. Mothers wept softly.
Somewhere near the stone wall, babies cried — orphaned before they could speak.
“The Bukusu tribe has betrayed us,” Buntu
continued. “The accords are broken. They hunger for the white man’s magic — his potions, his
thunder. They want power equal to Kamau’s, and for that, they’ve sold their
souls.”
“And who would lead this coup? You,
Buntu?”
Pendo, her voice sharp as obsidian, stood
tall among the seated council.
“This is heresy!” someone cried.
“To usurp the King is treason,”
said Waithaka, the King’s chief advisor,
stepping forward. His robes were torn, but his voice was iron. “You speak of
betrayal as though Kamau has not bled for us. Have you forgotten the Bukusu
raids he repelled? The drought of Mzinga? The plague of Jasho?
He led when others trembled. We owe him our lives.”
Kamau sat in silence. His royal
garments — red and yellow — bore the dirt of battle. His bracelets glinted
faintly in the firelight. Upon his brow, the antlers of his crown sat heavy.
Finally, he rose.
“I must consult the ancestors.”
The cave stilled. Even the fire
seemed to quiet.
Later, Kamau climbed Mount Mirima —
sacred, windswept, merciless. Only kings dared its paths, carved by time and
prayer.
He sought answers from the ones
buried in its bones.
The journey drained him. The air
thinned. Frost clawed at his lungs. His heart pounded with each step. He fell
often. Once, he lay unmoving for hours, wrapped in a silence so deep it hurt.
But Kamau was not ordinary. His
blood burned with the gifts of old. His body healed fast. He survived on
snowmelt and rabbit meat, snared with trembling hands. Days passed. Nights
blurred.
At last, the summit.
White. Everything was white — trees,
stones, sky. Even his fingers were numb, grey with cold. He knelt at the sacred
altar and pulled out the heart-shaped herb, chewing slowly.
Sleep came instantly. Visions poured
like rain.
The Sandman's World
The sky was purple and black. Stars
cut through the heavens like silver blades. Kamau stood beneath a mighty mugumo tree — ancient, watching.
“Greetings, my son,” said a voice.
He turned. Mbingwa, his father, stood in white robes,
eyes clouded, face wise and wrinkled under the great tree.
“Why do you disturb my rest, child?”
“We are under attack,” Kamau said,
falling to his knees. “The oracle’s visions are coming true. Our people are
dying.”
Mbingwa’s expression darkened.
“The oracle is no longer our own.
She speaks for the enemy now. Her visions are touched by fear — and by poison.”
He stepped forward, placing a hand
on Kamau’s head.
“Trust your instincts, Kamau. You
carry more than blood. You carry memory. You carry spirit. The fight ahead will
not be won by strength alone.”
The mugumo tree swayed, though there
was no wind. The stars pulsed. The earth turned inside out.
Kamau woke with a gasp. The cold
stabbed his skin, but his heart blazed.
He knew what he had to do.
The war was not over. The ancestors
had spoken.
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