Before The Storm

In the year 1959, in Samfya District of Luapula Province, Zambia.

Ba Chola. Imfula ileisa. Tuleyeni,(The rains are coming. Let's go.)' Musonda whispered, his voice barely louder than the rumble of thunder rolling across the darkening sky.

Lightning split the heavens in jagged bursts of silver. The air smelt of wet earth and danger.

'Ba Musonda, relax.' Mr. Chola's said, his voice tight with tension. 'These colonial cockroaches are everywhere tonight.'

'Then fast, iwe(you). Before the rain unmasks us.'

Shadows swallowed them as they moved across the manicured grounds of the Samfya Waterfront Hotel, slipping between trees like ghosts. Tourists dined behind glass, unaware that history stirred just beyond their sight.

In Mr. Chola's hands were Nyakazi dolls. They were hand-carved talismans. A low hum came from the wood, making his palms tingle. It was the feeling of ancient Luapulan power.

Musonda gripped the Kapuyi. It was a relic wrapped in bark and bone. The air around them grew still and quiet. Scents of wet earth and rain vanished. It felt like they were standing inside a silent bubble. The relic was working.

This wasn't a random strike. It was the beginning of a province-wide operation, orchestrated by UNIP cadres to fracture colonial lines. As Mr. Chola and Musonda carried out their task, the rest of their group waited across the waters, hidden in the reeds of Chishi Island along lake Bangweulu, ready to converge when the sign was given.

Mr. Chola laid the final Nyakazi beneath a misshapen Mpundu tree. But just as his fingers left the soil, a ripple passed through the air. A tremor. Something shifted.

Musonda froze. 'Shit. The Kapuyi... it's weakening.'

Then Musonda noticed someone. 'Taonekela' (we've been exposed) he hissed.

Behind the tree stump, half-concealed in shadow, sat a white woman. Pale. Wide-eyed. Motionless. Her voice cracked the silence like glass shattering: 'Africans!'

Mr. Chola's eyes flared. 'Get to the lake!'

The skies opened as if on cue. Rain came down in a violent flow.

Then—gunfire.

Flashes lit the lawns as bullets ripped through the rain-filled darkness. The two men bolted, grass sliding beneath their feet as chaos exploded around them. Guests screamed, doors slammed shut, and from within the hotel, pale faces stared in disbelief as two black figures danced between gunshots like agitated rabbits.

Near the lake, Mr. Chola yanked a carved wooden bird charm from his pocket. The charm was hot in his hand, like a burning coal. He ignored the heat. He fastened it to his wrist and gripped Musonda's arm tight. Then he leapt.

Mid-air, his body shimmered. Musonda heard a sharp crack, like breaking bones. Then Mr. Chola's form twisted and burst outward into a large eagle.

Musonda clung to his talons as the bird-man soared into the storm.

'Witchcraft!' one of the colonial guards shouted, firing wildly. 'Bloody Africans!'

'Don't let them escape, Robert! Keep shooting!'

But it was too late. The bird-man and his counterpart vanished into the shroud of rain over Lake Bangweulu, lost to the night.

On the ground, Colonial guard, Robert, stared, drenched and panting. 'Phil... you saw that, right?

Colonial guard Phillip lit a cigarette with shaking hands. 'What the hell is this?'

Phillip knelt by the tree. He brushed away leaves. A single Nyakazi doll lay in the dirt. It was faintly glowing. As he reached for it, he felt a strange static in the air, making the hairs on his arm stand up. The doll itself was cold to the touch, despite the glow.

Later, at around 03:00a.m, just several hours after Mr Chola and Musonda left, the hotel buzzed as beepers and phones began to ring, one after another. Faces turned pale. Mouths fell open.

'My husband was in a what—'

'No, no, that's my sister's car!'

'All of them? Is this some kind of joke?'

By morning, fifty-three British settlers were confirmed dead, killed in separate but eerily similar road accidents between 11:00p.m and 03:00a.m. All of them had stayed at the Samfya Waterfront Hotel earlier but for unknown reasons, each left the hotel. No official link could be made, but whispers spread like fire in dry grass. Some said it was coincidence. Others weren't so sure.

Thirty Nyakazi dolls were found. The rest vanished—just like Mr. Chola.

A few Months later, Colonial officers started raiding African hide outs and home's. Through this, they came across Mr. Chola's home and during the raid , the colonial officers found the bird charm, locked away in a woven pouch. It was confiscated, cataloged, and later placed on display—not as proof, but as folklore. An artifact of superstition.

Present day, in the year 2024.

'Okay, class,' said Miss Banda, her voice echoing through the Lusaka National Museum's stone halls. 'That concludes our lesson on the Witchcraft Exhibit. Any questions?'

A hand shot up.

'Miss Banda! What about this one?' a schoolboy asked. He pointed to a relic in a dusty case. It was etched with strange symbols.

The class gathered close. Even through the thick glass, they could almost feel a strange pressure coming from it. It felt like the quiet of a storm about to break. Miss Banda hesitated, her eyes lingering on the charm.

'Ah. That one… well, that's another story.'

Far from Lusaka, the Monday morning sun rose steadily over Kafue Town, painting the bustling streets in a warm golden glow. It was the first month of the year, and vendors crowded the roadside, their voices mingling with the steady hum of passing traffic.

Ba Banda, his roughened hands neatly arranging the fruits on his cart, moved with the practiced ease of someone who had done this for years. He carefully positioned ripe mangoes, bananas, and pineapples, each piece of fruit placed with intention.

As he arranged the fruits, Ba Banda's gaze shifted across the street. He spotted a woman in a tight red dress walking past. The soft sway of her hips caught his attention. For a moment, he paused mid-arrangement, eyes glued to the sight. A small grin crept across his face.

He shook his head, a hint of embarrassment crossing his face as he realized how his thoughts had drifted. Refocusing on his stall, he caught sight of another woman passing by—a vibrant figure adorned in a colorful headscarf and a flowing skirt. Her elegant stride appeared to captivate every man nearby. Suddenly, a small rat scurried past her, heading toward the filling station next door. The woman let out a startled squeal upon noticing it, drawing laughter from some of the onlookers.

'Eish, aweh lelo kwakaba (Its hot today)' Ba Banda muttered to himself as he chased some flies. He adjusted a pineapple, as if the task had suddenly become far more important.

As he stepped back to admire his work, Patrick walked by and noticed him. 'Ba Banda, atshani, Namulila?' (how's it, have you eaten)

Ba Banda gave a short laugh. 'Kale mwiache (a long time ago). Patrick, look at those legs, the way she's shaking that bunda' He gave a wink toward the woman who had just passed.

Patrick, checking her out, responded, 'Last bakamba (too much big man)'

At the Total filling station, the hum of the pump and the chatter of workers filled the air, as a sleek black Toyota Mark X pulled into the station, tires crunching on the tar as it came to a stop beside one of the fuel pumps. The woman behind the wheel, dressed in a sharp blazer, rolled down her window and handed Patrick two crisp notes.

'Put for four hundred' she said with a cool, controlled voice, her eyes sharp and observant as she passed the money to him.

Patrick took the money and nodded, moving to connect the pump to the car. But just as he started, something caught his eye—a flash of movement near the car. The same rat from earlier darted across the pavement and disappeared beneath the vehicle.

Patrick froze, momentarily caught off guard. His fingers fumbled as he connected the pump, spilling a little fuel onto the ground.

'Iwe careful' the woman in the car said, raising an eyebrow. 'We don't need a fire on our hands.'

Patrick's face flushed. 'Yes, apologies madam.'

The woman leaned back in her seat, eyes narrowing. 'If I were you, I'd pay attention. These things can be dangerous.'

Patrick grinned sheepishly. 'Don't worry madam, it wont happen again.'

Suddenly, a loud screech of tires interrupted their conversation. Both turned to see a mustang cruising down Kafue road, speeding passed the filling station.

Inside the gas station convenience store, Michelle leaned against the register counter, bored and tapping her fingers idly. She glanced over at George, who was slouched in a chair, scrolling through his phone.

George didn't look up, a lazy smile on his face. 'Michelle, buy me some a drink'

Michelle rolled her eyes, clearly unimpressed.

Meanwhile, outside, the Toyota Mark X was still parked at the pump. The rat, now beneath the car, started gnawing at the exposed wiring. The woman in the car, lost in her own thoughts, didn't sense the danger as she absentmindedly tapped the steering wheel. Patrick, still cleaning up his earlier spill, remained unaware of the rat's destructive path.

And then it happened. A blinding flash. A deafening roar. The explosion came out of nowhere, ripping through the morning tranquility. The Toyota Mark X erupted in a burst of flames, the force of the blast shaking the ground beneath. Pedestrians next door screamed, vendors scattered, and fruit carts tipped over as people scrambled for safety.

Patrick was thrown back by the blast, his body slamming against the pavement. He was disoriented but still conscious, his face covered in blood. His hands shook as he tried to push himself up, but the world around him was spinning.

The Mark X continued to burn as chaos enveloped the area. Michelle and George stared at the destruction, jaws hanging open, as they navigated the shards of glass from the broken windows of the store

Michelle said, her voice filled with awe, 'life is short. Life is really fucking short'

George nodded, his face pale.

The emergency response teams arrived just moments later, a flurry of activity surrounding the scene. Firefighters quickly worked to control the blaze of the Mark X, while paramedics rushed to assist the injured.

Patrick, despite his disorientation, managed to stagger to his feet, his head spinning but still conscious.

One of the paramedics approached him, offering a steady hand. 'Take it easy, man. You're going to be alright.'

Patrick waved him off, clearly more shaken by the events than he let on. 'Chikala (dickhead) don't touch me.'

Michelle and George, now shaken, stood off to the side, still in shock from the explosion. 'This is insane,' Michelle muttered, trying to wrap her mind around everything. 'I mean, who could've predicted this? It all happened so fast!'

George, still wide-eyed, nodded. 'I need a drink... and maybe a whole new life plan.'

The paramedics and firefighters continued their work, making sure everyone was accounted for and the situation was under control. The smoke was clearing, the flames dying down, and slowly, things began to return to some form of normalcy. But only for some.