The Axe of Kondo

Morning arrives traditionally. Well, my new traditional fashion.

A low-level hum of human dissatisfaction, the delicate clink of mugs being mobilized for a team-building they did not sign up for, and the smell of coffee that could jump-start a golem.

“Lying through their teeth,” Konya’s muttering is a familiar soundtrack that accompanies my every morning, the same way a very foul taste sticks with you.

A deep thud follows the muttering. I reign in a groan. I know the man enough to confirm he’s thrown his unnecessarily large dumbbell to the wall—again.

Calling forth the will of my ancestors, I drag my half-sleepy ass out of my small bedroom and pad to the living room where the air of disdain curls heavy and thick like a living thing.

I’m welcomed by a stiff broad dark back (no surprise there). Ahead of the shirtless housemate, three separate holocams that look like possessed mirrors project the news…because well, one holocam just isn’t enough, I guess.

The headline glares at me: A third intersection of the Veins of Olokun malfunctioned last night.

He lets out a string of creative curses that could shame sailors. “They think we are stupid?” And mumbles, pointing his mug at the screens as though it’s an interactive video.

Today, as with every day, he wears nothing other than loose brown ankara pants. His dark, broad shoulders remain on display (of course), and his hair is shaggy in the sort of way that makes him look like a homeless madman more than a starving artist.

His rune tattoos cut in dark patterns across his entire body, inadvertently making him look clothed.

I pour myself a cup—keeping it strong enough to qualify as a personality trait. “Good morning,” and attempt civility.

The room floods with shades of gold as morning light barges in uninvited, like it’s late for something important and intends to make that everyone’s problem.

He doesn’t turn. “A malfunction,” he says gravely, as though announcing the end of civilization. “Can you believe this?”

That your exorcist level mumbles about the news has woken me up—again? “No,” I say instead, carefully injecting my voice with the bare minimum amount of enthusiasm required to pass as a functioning member of society. “I cannot.”

He doesn’t pick up on it. The holocams flutter furiously as he ping pongs through three more channels, each one conveying the same news in slightly different fonts, as if the real emergency was typographical.

I sip my very black coffee and watch the performance unfold, quietly marveling at how the world could be ending in the same way every morning, and yet somehow always manages to interrupt my morning routine.

The audacity.

I choose to participate then, paying attention to news anchors who look a little too cheery to be reporting bad news.

An intersection in the outskirts of the city of Nunya seems to have decided it needed a break, interrupting businesses and homes around the area in the same way Amina from Accounting does just before my site visit budgets are approved.

The Veins of Olokun grid is an intricate network of unlimited power, both technological and magical, that cuts across the entire underbelly of the Afrokan continent.

So, to support my earlier point, an intersection failing (more so, a third one) is not something to be reported with mechanical smiles that don’t reach the eyes.

“Any comment from the Kondo?” I ask about the Ruling House. I expected a sanitized press release by now.

He scoffs, the Kondo aren’t the most popular in this household. “They are waiting to assess the public’s reaction, before they feed us with bullshit they know we’ll eat up.” He shakes his head, disappointed.

My cup finds its way to the counter when a certain face flickers on the screen in a manner that suggests that the gods have chosen this exact moment to personally offend me or test my resilience—either way, my morning is appropriately instantly ruined.

My chest tightens with the heaviness of memories buried deep like a forgotten old bra. I try not to react. The headline shifts: Members of the Children of the Core (CoC) on-site.

Konya finally turns to me, his burly features somehow morphing into a softness that only serves to make me feel worse, “You’re okay?” he speaks with the level of patience of someone who deals with toddler tantrums daily.

“Why wouldn’t I be?” I speak with the rush of someone who sweeps feelings under a rug and pretends to forget about them, all the while cleaning their feet on the same rug. His throat works, but he doesn’t push.

I stare at the three holocams and into deep brown piercing eyes that once looked at me like the entire Afrokan revolved around me. The lips that vowed eternal love and made promises that involved defying gods, burning down galaxies, and ruling over our new world as equals—promises that were broken like carrot sticks.

The golden brown, annoyingly handsome face I once loved waking up next to now elicits emotions I stopped trying to name months ago. His image on three holocams, with the soft glow cast by the early morning sun isn’t helping.

Breathe, Asha. Breathe.

“If the CoC are on-site, isn’t that statement enough from the Kondo?” The CoC are essentially guard dogs for the Ruling House—the kind that have limitless resources and tend to live above the law.

Konya shakes his head. “Maybe, maybe not. But this is the third breakdown—it’s only a matter of time before they break the silence.” He takes a sip of his now-cold coffee.

As a soldier, he’s been on the front line of these ‘malfunctions’ and when people who rely entirely on mind magic (yes, even for mundane things like boiling water) suddenly lose that connection, things start to go wrong very quickly.

Riots. Thefts. Killings.

Civilization peels off like a roasted potato peel, and underneath it all, we’re revealed to be exactly what we were before the technology and magic—frightened, short-tempered creatures with too many instincts and not enough controls.

Konya eyes me pointedly. “I’m surprised the Anansi Weavers aren’t on board yet.”

Yes, I am part of a secret organization tasked with guarding Afrokan’s ancient knowledge, and yes, as the title insinuates, I am not supposed to tell anyone, but it’s Konya—I tell him everything. Mostly.

“I guess the Kondo think they have things under control.”

“For now, things are getting worse out there, Asha.” Lines form across his handsome face.

“People aren’t just losing access to the magic; it’s like the energy itself is unstable, which makes the magic unstable, corrupting people, even simple spells going wrong.” Concern envelops him.

“Hmmmmm, the side of the story that doesn’t make it to mainstream media,” I sip my own cold coffee.

If Konya is right (and Konya is always right), I suspect the Anansi will be looped in soon enough, you know, like when the police arrive after the bad guys have been caught by the heroes. Except, then we’ll be expected to clean up the entire mess.

It’s a delicate dance—the one the Children of the Core and the Anansi Weavers have been at for years. See, there is a very distinct difference between us.

The Anansi, unlike the CoC, do not rely on mind magic—our power comes from disciplined rune weaving. The way our magic was supposed to be used, or more accurately, the way the gods who gifted it to us instructed.

The Ruling House, like any self-entitled people, rejected this instruction, choosing to tap into the source of our magic directly, you know, like the cool kids who did things their own way without any thought of the consequences.

“The ruling House is too greedy and high on power to reveal anything that would affect them. Instead, they send their cleaners.” He points to the screen where Mangi’s face still sits, haunting me.

Reporter: I’m glad the CoC is here to help. But tell me, what do you think could have caused the malfunction?

His jaw works, and his brow twitches before a lazy smile tugs his full lips. I know him too well to confirm that whatever he says is a lie.