They built thick walls around their empire to safeguard their legacy. They used the breath of their enemies and anyone they deemed insignificant to lay its foundation; their bodies as blocks to hold it up, their blood as cement to keep it steady, their fear to keep it standing through the storms, and their vanity to make it a national treasure. They called it the Imperial Legacy. But what if the enemy was gnawing at the walls from within, one brick at a time?
Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
Burna Boy’s ‘Last Last’ blasted through the car as the Captain drove her black Jeep towards Club Mercury in Salama Park where she worked as the Club Manager. At 7 pm, the traffic leading to the club had already intensified. The Captain abandoned her lane and got onto the right one intended for cars heading in the opposite direction. She powered through the lane before oncoming vehicles came into sight and managed to make it to the gate reserved for staff without incident.
She turned down the volume on the radio and rolled down the window to speak to the uniformed armed guard who approached the car.
“Good evening madam,” the guard happily greeted her in a heavy Tonga accent.
“Good evening Mr Wilson,” she returned.
The guard handed her a gadget that looked like a digital signing pad and wished her luck as she waited for the automated gate to fully open.
“Have a good night Mr Wilson!” She waved at the man through the window as she drove off, the gate instantly closing behind her.
Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
“Innocence once lost cannot be regained. Darkness, once gazed upon, can never be lost.” –
John Milton.
Lusaka, Zambia; 2004
Trinah was thirteen years old when she moved to Lusaka. In more ways than one, she was like cinderella, but without the horse and the prince. Just like Bina Mwanza had said, the new family welcomed her with open arms and treated her like she was one of their own. Her new guardians instructed her to address them as Uncle Venon and Aunt Cathy. Their children, eighteen-year-old Mark, fifteen-year-old Chiza, and three-month-old Isaiah became her cousins.
On the first Sunday since her arrival, Trinah was paraded in front of a fully-packed United in Christ Assemblies Church to give testimony about how blessed she was to have been adopted by the pastor’s family. The reverence bestowed on the Chaile family could only rival that reserved for the gods.
Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
“Sometimes we are tested. Not to show our weaknesses, but to discover our strengths.”
Unknown
***
Kaleya, Mazabuka, Zambia; 2001 – 2004
Ten-year-old Trinah bolted up, awakened by the thunderous sound of the pouring rain that had, as usual, easily found its way through the unsuccessfully multi-surgically-enhanced roof of their one-room cottage. Sleeping next to her on the mat was her little brother, Enock. At five years old, the little monkey had somehow mastered the art of snoring like a drunken sailor. They say that if you live with pig’s vomit long enough, eventually, you stop smelling it. It was the case with little Enock’s snoring. Trinah was responsible for the boy’s nickname – ‘little monkey’ which she thought was quite fitting given his unusual obsession with bananas.
Lying on the other side of Enock was Petronella, their mother, her state of rest unwittingly bearing witness to the idiom about pig’s vomit. The peacefully sleeping woman looked nothing like a twenty-five old should. Trinah reached over to her and gently removed the silk headwrap that had moved halfway through her thinning pale hair. The years of toil she had experienced after becoming pregnant at the age of fifteen had surely taken their toll on her. It was a wonder how she was not the one prone to aggressive snoring. Perhaps she had transferred the stress onto her son during pregnancy when yet again, a man had disappointed her.
Annabel grabbed at her skirts, walked out of the room and onto the terrace overlooking the grounds where party revelers were gathered. She rested both hands over the rail and directed her gaze towards the oval-shaped balloon decorated entrance where a young man she knew to be thirty-one years old was standing.
He had managed to command for himself the attention of everyone present, including the two white fluffy dogs whose breed she could not tell because of the ghastly fusha-coloured garments they had been to wear, obviously against their will.
They called him Dexter. Just that. What else do you call a man known for his perfect splendor and insurmountable ambitious accolades except his given name? Dexter.
He never spoke of his father, and those who could did so in whispers. And for that they forgave him for having no last name. In fact, it was a gift born of the cruel circumstances surrounding his birth. Society owed it to him to expect no other name than the one he chose for himself. Dexter.
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