Chapter 627

The dry Harmattan wind carried whispers of dust across the savanna, coating everything in a fine reddish powder.

Adama, eighteen years of age, adjusted the worn cloth over his nose and mouth as he walked towards the small market square in Ouagadougou. The sun beat down with its usual intensity, baking the earth and turning the air thick and heavy. It felt like any other day in Burkina Faso.

He passed stalls piled high with mangoes and shea nuts, the vendors calling out their prices in rapid French and More.

Children chased each other through the narrow pathways, their laughter echoing off the mud-brick walls of the buildings. Adama was on his way to meet his cousin, Fati, before they started their daily work at the textile workshop. Life was simple, demanding, but predictable.

Then the ground shuddered.

It was not a violent quake, just a deep, resonant rumble that vibrated through the soles of his feet and up into his bones.

People stopped talking, looked around in confusion. The vendors paused their sales pitches, their voices fading into silence. Even the children stopped their games, their eyes wide with uncertainty.

"Earthquake?" someone muttered in More.

Adama frowned. Earthquakes were rare here. He had only felt one other in his life, a minor tremor years ago that everyone had quickly dismissed. This felt different, deeper, more… ominous.

The trembling ceased after a moment, leaving behind an unsettling quiet. The vendors resumed their calls, the children started to play again, but a nervous tension hung in the air. Adama continued towards the market square, his steps a little faster now. He found Fati waiting near the well, her brow furrowed with concern.

"Did you feel that?" she asked, her normally bright eyes troubled.

"Yes," Adama replied. "What was it?"

Fati shook her head. "I do not know. But something does not feel correct."

They started walking towards the workshop, the unease between them growing with every step. As they turned a corner, they saw a group gathered around a radio in front of a small shop. The announcer's voice was agitated, speaking rapidly in French.

"...reports are coming in from across the globe… seismic disturbances… unusual volcanic activity… Mount Kilimanjaro… Mount Fuji… even dormant volcanoes… showing signs of eruption…"

The words tumbled out, disjointed and alarming. Adama and Fati pushed their way through the small crowd, straining to hear. Dormant volcanoes? That made no sense. Dormant meant sleeping, inactive.

"...scientists are baffled… no clear explanation… geological anomalies… widespread… unprecedented…"

The radio crackled, and the voice faded in and out. But the message was clear enough. Something was happening. Something big. Something bad.

They reached the workshop, a small, dusty building where they and other young people wove colorful fabrics on handlooms.

The usual cheerful chatter was absent. People were huddled together, listening to radios or speaking in worried whispers. The foreman, Moussa, a normally jovial man, looked grim.

"Have you heard?" he asked, his voice low. "The radios… they say the volcanoes are waking up. Everywhere."

Adama and Fati nodded, their hearts sinking. The tremor, the radio reports – it was all connected. The earth itself was stirring.

Days turned into nights, and the news worsened. Volcanoes around the world erupted, not with the controlled fury of typical eruptions, but with a raw, primal rage.

They spewed forth not just lava and ash, but molten rock, fire, and thick, choking smoke that blotted out the sun. Cities were buried under ashfalls, forests were incinerated, and the air grew thick with the acrid smell of sulfur.

In Burkina Faso, they were far from any active volcano, but the effects were still devastating. Ash rained down, turning the bright savanna into a grey wasteland.

The sky became a perpetual twilight, the sun a weak, blood-red disc struggling to break through the haze. Crops withered, water sources became contaminated, and a choking dust settled over everything.

The radio broadcasts became frantic, desperate. Governments were collapsing, communication networks were failing, and mass migrations were underway as people fled from the volcanic zones. There were rumors of firestorms, of entire islands vanishing into the sea, of the very climate changing in real-time.

Fear became the dominant emotion. Fear of the ash, fear of the unknown, fear of the earth itself turning against them. Adama and Fati continued to work at the workshop, but there was little work to do. People were not buying textiles anymore; they were struggling to survive.

One evening, as the sun, a dim ember in the ash-filled sky, began to set, a different kind of tremor shook the ground.

This time, it was stronger, more violent. Buildings groaned, mud walls cracked, and the air filled with the sound of shattering glass. People screamed and ran into the streets, their faces contorted with terror.

From the north, a deep rumble echoed, growing louder with terrifying speed. It was not the rumble of an earthquake, but something else, something deeper, more resonant, like the growl of a monstrous beast awakening from a long slumber.

Then, they saw it.

On the horizon, where the flat savanna met the grey sky, a column of fire erupted. It was not a volcano as they knew it, not a cone-shaped mountain spewing lava. It was a fissure in the earth itself, tearing open, belching out fire and molten rock as if the very bowels of the planet were being ripped apart.

The ground bucked and heaved. The air shimmered with heat. The rumble became a deafening roar, a sound that seemed to penetrate the very soul.

People fell to their knees, weeping and praying. Animals cried out in terror, their instincts screaming of imminent destruction.

Adama grabbed Fati's hand, his heart pounding in his chest. He had never felt such fear, such utter helplessness. This was not just a natural disaster; it was something far more profound, more terrifying. It felt like the end of the world.

"We have to run," he shouted over the roar, pulling Fati towards the south, away from the approaching firestorm. "We have to get away from here!"

They ran with the others, a panicked mass of humanity fleeing in terror. The sky behind them glowed an angry red, illuminated by the growing fissure in the earth. The air grew hotter, the ash thicker, and the smell of sulfur intensified, stinging their eyes and burning their throats.

As they ran, Adama looked back. The fissure was widening, spreading like a monstrous wound across the land.

Molten rock spewed out, forming rivers of fire that snaked across the savanna, incinerating everything in their path. The workshop, the market square, the homes – everything was being consumed.

He saw Moussa, the foreman, stumbling behind, his face ashen with fear. Adama tried to call out to him, but the roar of the earth drowned out his voice. He saw Moussa fall, engulfed by a wave of ash and smoke.

They ran for what felt like hours, stumbling through the ash-choked twilight. People fell behind, exhausted, injured, or simply giving up in despair. The landscape around them was transforming into a hellscape of fire and ash.

Trees were burning, the ground was cracking, and the air was thick with the stench of burning earth and sulfur.

Fati coughed, her breath ragged. "I… I cannot run anymore," she gasped, collapsing to her knees.

Adama knelt beside her, his own lungs burning. He looked at her face, streaked with ash and tears. Her eyes, once so bright, were dull with exhaustion and despair.

"We have to keep going," he said, his voice hoarse. "We cannot stop."

"Where are we going?" she whispered. "There is nowhere to go. It is everywhere."

He looked around. She was right. The firestorm was spreading, engulfing everything in its path. The sky was a swirling vortex of ash and smoke, lit by the infernal glow from below. There was no escape.

"Maybe…" he began, but his voice trailed off. What could he say? Maybe they would find safety? Maybe this would stop? He did not believe it. He felt it in his bones, a cold, dreadful certainty. This was the end.

"Adama…" Fati said, her voice barely audible. She reached out and took his hand, her grip weak. "Thank you… for everything."

Tears welled up in his eyes, mixing with the ash on his face. He squeezed her hand, unable to speak. What could he say at the end of the world? Words seemed meaningless, insignificant in the face of such colossal destruction.

They sat there, hand in hand, as the firestorm drew closer. The heat intensified, burning their skin. The roar of the earth became deafening, a symphony of destruction. The ash rained down like a shroud, burying everything.

Adama closed his eyes, waiting for the end. He thought of his village, of his family, of the life he had known. It was all gone, swallowed by the earth's rage. He felt a strange sense of calm descend over him, a resignation to the inevitable.

He opened his eyes one last time. Fati was still beside him, her eyes closed, her face peaceful. The firestorm was upon them, a wall of heat and light. He saw the molten rock flowing like rivers, the flames licking at the sky.

Then, everything went white.

The fire consumed them, reducing them to ash, to nothing. The earth rumbled on, indifferent to their passing, to the passing of humanity.

Volcanoes continued to erupt across the globe, tearing the planet apart. The world, once vibrant and teeming with life, was becoming a barren wasteland of fire and ash.

And in the heart of what was once Burkina Faso, where the dust devils used to dance in the Harmattan wind, there was now only silence, broken only by the ceaseless roar of the earth's fury.

Adama and Fati were gone, their story extinguished, along with countless others, in the planet's fiery rebirth. The world had ended not with a bang, but with the earth's agonizing scream. And in that scream, there was no redemption, no hope, only the cold, brutal finality of oblivion.

The earth reclaimed its own, and humanity was but a fleeting memory in the grand, indifferent expanse of time.