TRIBAL

CHAPTER THREE

Kamau sat upon a huge stone, as if it were his throne carved into the very bones of Mount Mirima. The sun kissed his dark skin like a lover, warming him after his long trance. He had spoken with the ancestors, and their words still struck within him like hammers upon iron. His father’s voice lingered: The witch is mad and corrupt. She serves only the white man.

The lion necklace around his chest glowed in the sunlight, as though the spirit of his lineage had returned to him, filling his heart with courage.

Before him, the three peaks of Mirima loomed — guardians of his people. The two smaller stood as the women, Wanjiru and Wangechi, proud wives of Baba, the towering peak between them. Cloaked in snow, they seemed alive, whispering wisdom into Kamau’s heart. To him, the mountain was more than stone — it was a mirror of his people’s polygamous tradition, a union of strength, fertility, and balance.

Clutching his spear, Kamau rose with renewed strength. He missed his father and grandfather, who now rested within Mlima wa Jua, the Mountain of the Sun, their voices echoing only in dreams. But their spirits walked with him still.

He descended.

The slopes of Mirima were steep and cruel, each step demanding his full caution. Wind howled against the ridges, almost knocking him down. When he stumbled, staining his kingly robe with mud, he muttered, A bad omen. The air thinned like a needle, pricking his lungs, but he pressed on.

From the horizon, the yellow sun rose higher, its rays piercing his skin with reassurance. This was no ordinary mountain — it was the womb of his people. Legends said that from its womb, the first of their tribe descended, multiplying across the valleys until they built a kingdom stretching to the horizon.

But Kamau was not alone.

Tracks marred the snow ahead — wide, heavy, clawed. He crouched, touched the earth, and brought the scent of dung to his nose. His heart stiffened. A black panther… hunting.

Tightening his robe, Kamau slung his shield across his back like a child carried by its mother. He clenched his spear. I must return before dusk, he thought. Night births the atrocities of dark magic.

Loneliness pressed in around him. The wind carried whispers that were not his own. Then came the rustle.

Kamau froze.

The sun dipped low, shadows deepened, and the bush ahead trembled. His stance shifted, spear angled, heart drumming against his ribs. Sweat trickled down his brow despite the cold. His body was weak — three days without food, two without rest — yet he steeled himself.

The creature emerged.

From the darkness, two red eyes blazed like dying embers. A roar split the silence, shaking the ground beneath his feet. The black panther prowled forward, its shoulders rolling like thunder, jaws dripping with hunger. It circled him, low, deadly, waiting for weakness.

“Murungu… give me strength,” Kamau whispered.

The beast lunged.

Kamau darted back, squeezing through a jagged gap in the rocks. The panther’s massive body crashed after him, snarling. For a heartbeat it wedged between stone, trapped. Kamau did not hesitate. With a cry that shook the mountain, he drove his spear into its mouth. The blade tore through skull and brain, bursting out the back.

The roar died into a choking gasp. Silence returned.

Kamau stood trembling, chest heaving, face spattered with blood. Slowly, he pulled his spear free. Then he skinned the beast, draping its hide across his shoulders. He severed its skull, wearing it like a crown.

“I am the chosen King,” Kamau whispered to the wind.

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The Kingdom

Inside the royal cave, Buntu addressed the Great Council. His voice cut through the chamber like a blade.

“Our king has abandoned us,” he thundered. “He kneels to dead gods while the white man marches with fiery snakes that spit thunder! Without a leader, we are lambs to slaughter.”

The council murmured, restless, uneasy.

“What do you propose?” asked Hekima.

“Make me king,” Buntu said, his eyes gleaming. “I will lead us to survival. Kamau is lost to shadows. I will give you land of milk and honey.”

Discord erupted in the chamber. Yet fear outweighed loyalty. And so, without ceremony, without rite, without blessing, the council granted his wish.

A crown of antlers was pressed onto his head. Robes of black and gold were draped across his shoulders, studded with rubies and white stones.

“All hail Buntu the Usurper!” the people chanted. Their voices shook the court, desperate for hope.

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The Return

At the foot of Mount Mirima, Kamau staggered, weary and bloodied, the panther’s hide across his shoulders, its skull heavy upon his brow. He thought of home, of song and drums awaiting him.

But when he entered the village, the people only stared. Faces pale, mouths agape. To them, Kamau had died upon the mountain, swallowed by gods and ghosts. No cheers rose, only silence.

Inside the council cave, the members trembled as his tall figure loomed before them, clad in blood, crowned in bone. He looked more spirit than man.

On the throne sat Buntu.

“Seize him!” Buntu barked. Guards surged forward, ropes binding Kamau’s wrists, spears pressing against his ribs.

“You betray me, brother?!” Kamau roared, his voice echoing with pain.

Buntu rose, his robe glimmering in firelight. “You abandoned us, Kamau. While you prayed to ghosts, I prepared for war. I will not let your madness destroy our people. From this day, I am king. And you—” he spat the words—“are nothing.”

Kamau’s eyes burned with fury and grief. His own people turned their gaze away, ashamed.

“I hereby sentence you to exile!” Buntu declared, his voice booming like thunder.

The guards dragged Kamau into the night, his spear and shield torn from him. He walked with head bowed, blood dripping from his hands, his heart pierced deeper than any blade.

My people… my blood… betray me.

As the desert wind swallowed him, Kamau wished the red earth would open wide and consume him whole.

And so began his exile.

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