Chapter 1: The Fire That Washed Away
Chapter One: The Fire That Washed Away
The drums of Jendua never beat in vain. Whether for war, harvest, or death, they spoke with purpose. That morning, their rhythm was slow and thunderous—each beat like a heartbeat of the land, heavy with warning.
Mbezi had barely rinsed the morning dust from her face when the first beat echoed through the village. She looked up from the water pot, sandals dangling from one hand, and saw Ndende running past the banana grove.
“Wait for me, Ndende! What’s happening? Why are they beating the drums?” she shouted, slipping her feet into the sandals as she ran.
“I don’t know for sure,” Ndende called back, breathless. “But I think… today is the day. The day those men are burned.”
Mbezi didn’t ask which men. Everyone knew.
The village had whispered for weeks about Mbagala and Aybo—two men caught in a love no one dared to name. A love that Jendua called cursed.
As the two friends neared the communal field, the crowd had already swelled. Children clung to their mothers’ wraps. Old men leaned on walking sticks. Traders abandoned their stalls. Everyone wanted to witness judgment.
Tied to a thick wooden post, their backs pressed together, were Mbagala and Aybo. Their limbs were bound. Their skin bore the story of beatings—purple, raw, swollen. Stripped of dignity, yet still holding each other’s hands.
The crowd buzzed. Some spat. Others whispered prayers of protection. But many just watched, faces twisted in condemnation.
Then, the Chief appeared.
Chief Indemba stepped forward in his long red robe, the ivory staff of rule in hand. He raised it high, and silence rippled through the crowd like a breeze through dry grass.
“People of Jendua,” he declared, “today you bear witness to our village standing firm against darkness. These two—Mbagala and Aybo—have chosen shame over honor. With all the beautiful women in our land, they chose each other.”
Disgusted murmurs circled the crowd.
“Our gods cannot bless a village that permits such filth. If we do not cleanse this place, we risk drought, death, ruin.” He paused. “And so, they shall burn.”
The people clapped in grim approval.
Mbagala leaned toward Aybo, whispering, “I’m sorry you had to go through this, my love. But even in hell, I’ll love you.”
Aybo, barely conscious, forced his eyes open. He caught a glimpse of his mother at the edge of the crowd, her face wet with silent tears.
“At least we’re together,” he whispered. “We’ll end it together.”
Villagers brought bundles of straw, dropping them at the base of the post. It felt like an offering—except this altar was made for hate.
But before the fire could be lit, one of the chief’s warriors came rushing through the crowd. He knelt and whispered into Chief Indemba’s ear.
The chief’s expression shifted—from solemn rage to bright surprise.
He turned to the crowd, voice rising.
“My people! The gods have spoken! My wife, Nze, has delivered me a son—a true heir to the throne of Jendua!”
Cheering erupted. Joy replaced fury. Even those holding torches dropped them in the dirt.
“In celebration,” the chief added, “let us show mercy. Throw these two into the ocean instead. Let the waters cleanse what fire would have destroyed. Perhaps the gods will find them fit for heaven.”
The warriors moved swiftly. Mbagala and Aybo were unbound and dragged through the crowd, their hands still clinging. No one stopped them. No one looked back.
Chief Indemba lifted his son above his head.
“I name him Simba Marara!” he shouted.
And Jendua roared—not with justice, but with celebration. Fire was forgotten. Love was cast into the sea.
Across the hills, in the quieter village of Ntemi, Chief Suku stood alone outside a thatched hut. Inside, the cries of labor had reached their peak.
He waited.
Moments later, a midwife emerged. “It’s a boy, Chief. Another heir.”
Chief Suku closed his eyes. He already had nine sons. He had prayed for a daughter.
Still, he stepped inside, took the newborn in his arms, and whispered, “Salah. For all my unanswered prayers.”
There were no drums. No feast.
Only silence.
