Mopodi, a land of wild, untamed beauty in the heart of Kibara, was our sanctuary. We lived in a village called "Kijani", a veritable haven of nature. The landscape was a mosaic of dense forests, winding rivers and majestic mountains. The lush green forests whispered the secrets of life, home to a myriad of animal and plant species. Clear, pure rivers, whose gentle murmur soothed the soul, meandered through the landscape, nourishing the earth and the life it sheltered. The imposing, majestic mountains stand like silent sentinels, watching over the land and its inhabitants.
It was in this quiet corner that I, Suraken Kamau, was born, the fruit of their love, the symbol of their desire for peace. I had inherited my father's ebony skin, but my eyes were a brilliant green, a unique blend of our two worlds. My deep black hair was often tousled from my adventures in the wild.
My little sister Anaya was born a year later, sealing our family in this haven of peace and love. Her skin was a lighter shade, a perfect blend of our mother's ivory and our father's ebony. Her deep brown eyes were full of curiosity and mischief, and her night-black hair fell in soft curls over her shoulders.
It was in this idyllic setting that I spent my childhood. At seven, I was a carefree boy, running through the lush forests of my village, climbing trees, diving into clear rivers and playing with Anaya. I remember once when Anaya and I discovered a bird's nest hidden in a tree, the little chirps of the chicks ringing in our ears, the sweet smell of moss and fresh leaves filling our nostrils.
With our friends, we spent our days exploring nature, discovering the hidden wonders of Kijani. We ran through the meadows, our laughter mingling with the birdsong. We climbed trees, our hands and feet covered in bark and sap. We plunged into rivers, the cool, clear water enveloping us in a refreshing embrace.
Every day was an adventure, every moment a precious treasure. We were free, we were happy. We were our parents' children, growing up under the benevolent gaze of nature.
This is how I spent my last years, in the innocence and joy of childhood, far from the horrors of war that had once torn the world apart. Life in Kijani was peaceful and full of learning for me.
My mother, Lien, was an accomplished blacksmith and passed on her knowledge to me. "Every metal has its soul, Suraken," she used to tell me, "and it's up to you to discover it." Every day, after chores, I'd join her in the forge. She would teach me to handle hammer and anvil, to understand metal and fire. Under her watchful eye, I learned to forge weapons, to understand the science behind metallurgy.
My father, Kamau, taught me the art of combat. "Strength is not in the weapon, but in the wielder," he explained. Every morning, before sunrise, we would go to the clearing near our house for our training. He taught me to be quick, precise and determined. He taught me how to anticipate my opponent's movements, how to use my strengths and compensate for my weaknesses.
One day, on the way back from one of our escapades in the forest, Anaya and I were confronted with a disturbing discovery. On our way back to the edge of the forest, a wounded and exhausted man lay dead. His face was marked by pain and fatigue, and his body bore the scars of a long journey. Even though we were young, Anaya and I immediately grasped the gravity of the situation. We ran as fast as our little legs would carry us to inform our parents of our discovery.
When we ran back to the village to tell our parents about the wounded man we had found, my father rushed to where we had discovered him. He immediately set aside what he was doing to see the man's condition with his own eyes. After carefully examining the battered body, he remained silent for a moment, his gaze lost in the horizon. Then, in an almost inaudible whisper, he said: "It seems to have come from Novea".
After hearing these words, a palpable tension settled in the air. Novea was a distant continent, and the war that had raged there was still fresh in everyone's memories. Yet, despite worries and fears, humanity and compassion prevailed.
My father, despite the wound that had never really left him, carried him with determination to a safer place. My mother, always ready to help, quickly gathered bandages and medicinal herbs.
Meanwhile, the whole village of Kijani had mobilized. News spreads quickly in a small community like ours, and soon everyone knew that an injured stranger had been found. The men and women of the village, despite their own fears and uncertainties, rallied to help. Some brought food and water, others blankets and warm clothes. Even the children helped as they could, bringing torches to light the way through the woods.
When we arrived at the place where we had left the man, a small crowd had already gathered. My father knelt beside the wounded man, examining his wounds with a serious look. My mother set to work immediately, cleaning and bandaging the man's wounds with calm efficiency.
Meanwhile, the rest of the village worked to set up a makeshift shelter for the man. They built a stretcher from branches and blankets, and carried the man back to the village. They deposited him in an empty hut where my mother continued to carefully dress his wounds.
This is how our village, Kijani, welcomed this stranger from Novea. Despite the fear and uncertainty, we chose to help, to show compassion to a man who desperately needed help. It was a reminder of what it really meant to be human, of what it really meant to live in peace.
When the man awoke, he was surrounded by the worried but caring faces of the Kijani villagers. He looked around, his eyes settling on each face, before finally settling on my father. His mouth parted, and despite his weak, husky voice, every word he uttered resonated in the solemn silence of the hut.
"My name is Jengo," he began, his voice trembling but determined. "I come from Novea. I fled... I fled the war."
He revealed his story, made up of battles and blood, death and despair. He spoke of how he had been forced to take up arms, to kill people he didn't know, for a cause he didn't really understand. He spoke of the guilt, the pain, the fear that had eaten away at him day after day, night after night.
"I couldn't take it anymore," he confessed, his hands hiding his tears. "I couldn't stand killing anymore. So I fled. I ran away from war, I ran away from death. I looked for a place where I could live in peace."
When he finished telling his story, a heavy silence fell over the hut. The villagers looked at each other, their eyes full of compassion and sadness for the man who had experienced so much suffering.
Finally, the village chief broke the silence. "Jengo," he said, his voice soft but firm. "You're welcome here. You can stay as long as you like. We'll help you build a home, start a new life. You don't have to run away anymore. You've found a place to live in peace."
And that's exactly what happened. The villagers of Kijani came together to help Jengo. They worked together to build a home for him, a cozy little hut on the edge of the village. Jengo, despite his injuries, helped as much as he could, enjoying every moment of peace and quiet.
In this way, Jengo became a full-fledged member of our village. He found the peace he was desperately seeking, and in return brought a new perspective to our village. He reminded us of the horrors of war, but also of the importance of peace, compassion and humanity.
A few months later, rumors began to buzz through the village of Kijani. Passing travelers, merchants from distant lands and messengers mounted on their fast horses brought tales of major upheavals in the outside world. The war, the open wound that had bled the six continents for decades, had finally come to an end.
The leaders of the six nations - Novea, Kibara, Kiyo, Zafar, Orenda and Maona - had gathered in an unprecedented assembly. Under a witnessing sky, they had signed a peace treaty, vowing not only to end the war, but also to work hand in hand to rebuild and heal their torn lands.
The news was greeted with a mixture of emotions in Kijani. In the central square, where the big tree took pride of place, the inhabitants gathered, forming discussion circles. The joyful laughter of some contrasted with the incredulous murmurs of others. Children, not fully comprehending the significance of the news, ran between the legs of the adults, adding to the general effervescence.
My father, Kamau, paused for a moment, his gaze fixed on the distant horizon. He looked up at the azure sky, a soft, melancholy smile lighting up his face. "Peace... at last," he murmured, his eyes filled with a glimmer of hope and gratitude.
My mother, Lien, approached him, enveloping my father in a warm embrace. "We've weathered the storm," she whispered in his ear, her voice vibrating with emotion. "And now the sun is shining again for us."
A week after the end of the war was announced, a tragic event shook our peaceful village. Mercenaries and slavers, attracted by the village's prosperity, decided to attack us. They had placed a mole in our midst, someone we trusted, someone we considered one of our own: Jengo.
Jengo, the man we had rescued, cared for and welcomed into our community, had betrayed our trust. He had attacked the strongest men in the village, spreading chaos and confusion. And among his victims was my father, Kamau.
I still remember that night, the terror and horror that descended on our village. I stood in the village square, watching helplessly as Jengo approached my father. Before I could react, he had plunged his sword into my father's body, leaving him lifeless on the ground.
The tragedy that took my father's life plunged me into a dark, blinding fury, my sole purpose transformed into an insatiable thirst for vengeance. Alas, the naivety of my youth betrayed me, and in no time at all, Jengo was able to exploit this weakness. His ruthless cruelty left me with a broken arm and flayed pride.
Soon I found myself a captive in what was once my sanctuary, my home, now tainted by Jengo and his henchmen. Pictures of horror seized me: my mother and sister were grappling with inhuman adversity. In an act of maternal bravery, my mother, with the strength of a lioness protecting her cub, managed to eliminate three of these monsters.
However, their numbers were overwhelming.
Then Jengo, cruel and calculating, made a decision that marked the turning point of that tragic night. Holding me hostage, an icy blade against my throat, he forced my mother to make a heartbreaking choice. In exchange for our survival, mine and my sister's, she had to accept their domination. I could see the distress in her eyes as she gave in, but also a fierce resolve. She stared at me intensely, and her words are engraved in me: "Be happy."
I can't describe what happened next. The screaming, the crying, the pleading... it was a symphony of terror that even the most sadistic mind couldn't imagine. All I can say is that that night, we all lost something more than our home and our father. We lost our innocence.
As this atrocity unfolded, I chose to engrave every detail of this inhuman scene in my mind. My eyes, filled with tears and rage, scrutinized the face of every man present, every wrinkle, every scar, every expression of unhealthy satisfaction. They had become the main actors in this drama, and I promised never to forget their faces. I recorded these horrible images, knowing that this suffering would be the essence of my revenge. Every look, every smile, every rictus of pleasure... everything was engraved in me like a seal of my determination to make them pay.
As we were led away in chains, destined for a life of slavery, a final vision of horror imprinted itself on my memory. Just before I crossed the threshold of the door to the outside world, a nightmarish scene unfolded in the room behind me. My mother, heroine to the end, was pierced by several mercenary blades, like predators finishing off their prey. She fell, but her courage and determination remained intact until her last breath.
After this horrible spectacle, I was thrown unceremoniously into a slave caravan, the door locking behind me with a mournful sound. Inside I saw several of my friends and other survivors from our village locked up too. Their faces were covered in dirt and tears, but they were alive.
The caravan started moving, and through the narrow slits in the door I could see our village in flames, many of the villagers who were defending themselves easily lost their lives to the mercenaries' onslaught. What had once been a place of joy and community was now a pile of ashes and ruins, a mournful memorial to what we had lost. Few of us had survived that night of terror, and those who had were now imprisoned like beasts, condemned to a fate of slavery.
That night, I lost everything that was dear to me. My father, my hero, had been killed before my very eyes. My mother and sister had been killed, by those cruel men. And our village, our peaceful Kijani, had been destroyed.
When the caravan finally left our burning village, my destiny took a new turn. I was bought by a couple of strangers who became my masters. This transaction, as if I were a mere commodity, tore me away from my friends, from those who shared my pain and understood my grief.
But most heartbreaking of all was the separation from my little sister. She was my last link with my family, a last ray of hope in this dark world. It was like having my heart ripped out, and this emptiness resonated within me every day for those six long years.
Serving my masters became my daily routine, each day a repetition of the last, each night a lonely reminder of all I'd lost. I remained resilient, however, keeping in mind the faces I had to avenge, especially that of my dear little sister.
And here I stand today, six years later, facing you, Zayn, carrying the echoes of that tumultuous past.
