Nowhere To Run

It had been about an hour since the massacre at East Park Mall. The violence had finally stopped. What remained was a gruesome scene—blood-soaked floors, shattered walls, and a heavy stench of death hanging in the air.

Survivors, many wounded, sat or lay in stunned silence, trying to process what they had just lived through. The horror had thrown President Harambe into the global spotlight. The international community was now fully aware of the chaos unfolding in Zambia.

BBC and Al Jazeera began rolling out reports. On social media, hashtags like #CoupInZed and #WitchcraftInZambia were trending worldwide. People around the globe watched in disbelief as footage showed what looked like mass genocide. But the presence of severed crow and chicken heads left the world confused.

Whispers of witchcraft grew louder, especially within African communities. Still, there was no hard evidence—

But that was about to change.

Captain Beenzu Hamudula was preparing his next move. And the crisis was far from over.

At the University of Lusaka, Mass Media campus, dread hung in the air like smoke. Wind swept through empty corridors, rattling windows and tearing down old banners.

Near the main gate, soldiers stood in silence—armored, cold-eyed, unmoving. Their boots rested in blood pooled beside the bodies of fallen security guards. The ritual team was ready.

A faint fog rose from what was left of a lecturer in the courtyard. His limbs twisted unnaturally, mouth frozen in a silent scream. It wouldn't be the last.

All roads into the campus were sealed with Land Cruisers and barricades. Behind them, soldiers stood with fingers tight on triggers, scanning every shadow like it might attack.

Inside the buildings, panic had settled in deep. Students gathered in prayer circles. Some whispered nonstop, others sat frozen in shock. One girl fainted for the third time. Fear moved through the campus like a ghost—silent, cold, and everywhere.

But in Room 4, hidden at the back of the East Wing, the mood was completely different.

Five students lounged around the classroom like nothing was happening. Cigarette smoke drifted lazily toward the ceiling. Trap music buzzed from a Bluetooth speaker shoved into a cracked window frame.

The chalkboard still read:

"Managerial Accounting – Midterm Next Week."

No one cared.

Mulenga Virus Chileshe leaned dangerously far back in his chair, a half-empty bottle of Royal Circle whiskey dangling lazily in one hand. His shirt hung half open, and though his eyes were glassy, he was alert.

"These girls, man…" he muttered with a smirk. "Eesh… aweh. Even the way they walk, mwandi. Temptation every day—even if you're loyal. Hmm, shit."

Chilufya Katamba didn't even glance up. She sat hunched over her phone, adjusting her lashes in the front camera.

"Imwe naimwe(you also) ba Virus," she said flatly. "Loyal? You? Nah bro. You flirt with every girl who says hi."

Izukanji Black sat cross-legged on a desk, hoodie up, a blunt between his fingers. He watched the smoke coil like a cobra.

"Leave him. Umuntu ni consistency (a person should be consistent)."

Bobo Hunts Nundwe burst out laughing—loud, goofy, and contagious. He slapped his knee.

"Haaaaaah! Aweh(no) ba Izukanji, you're mad! Me, I just came here to pass time. If there's beef, we talk to the spirits. If there's stress, we drink. Simple."

Chileshe Ballaq Mulenga exhaled a thick cloud of sweet vape, his eyes drifting to the door just as a distant scream pierced the silence.

"Hmm, you ohns are wilding," he said in a deadpan tone.

Chilufya finally looked up, lips curling in annoyance.

"You guys—can't we just go raid the cafeteria? I'm fucking hungry."

Izukanji grinned, gold tooth flashing.

"Last. The munchies have hammered me here, a chi pap would slap."

The lights flickered. Outside, a building groaned like something alive. A deep, vibrating hum resonated through the floor, shaking the dust from the ceiling. It was the sound of stone and concrete under a terrible strain. Virus chuckled and took another swig. "Izu is the one who knows. Let's just dip. If these ohns try something, we'll fuck them up."

Chilufya shot him a smirk.

"Eh eh, okay big man. Icho one, Virus. Let's go mwandi—I've got your back."

Bobo moved to the window, scanning the dark campus.

"I'm also scrawl… but these ballys don't look like they came to fuck around. There's a yo at the gate with mad spiritual power. I don't think any of us can take him."

"Bobo's right," Ballaq added. "I've been sensing his presence for a while now."

"So ninshi—eating theliz no?" Chilufya asked.

"Time, time boi," Bobo said. "It's been over an hour since the banyazi hit East Park. I scheme these ohns are plotting their next move. From what I can see, they're about to perf."

"Walah, junkie iwe. Which perf iwe chikala? (No you junkie. Which perf you dickhead?)" Izukanji fired back.

"Ndani junkie iwe chikala? (Who are you calling a junkie you dickhead?)" Bobo snapped.

"Weh iwe chikala (You same one dickhead)" Izukanji muttered.

"Polo yako (Your balls)" Bobo shot back. "Ba biso is a junkie, umvela? Atase (Your father is a junkie, you hear me. Useless)"

"Eh, iwe chikala (Eh, you dickhead)" Izu said again, half-laughing.

"Six by six voxvonyolo chikala! (Six times your diseased ass dick, dickhead)" Bobo ranted, full steam now. "Burma Road pamunyelo! Mu stonyo stonyo—stonyo boroko chikala! Uimbwa nikweuko, umvela? Ukaziziba kukamba. Satanyoko! Atase (Burma Road on your asscrack! In your asshole. Your damaged asshole, dickhead! Dog behaviour should stay right where you are, you've heard? You should know how to talk. Fuck your mother! Useless)"

Virus and Chilufya burst into loud laughter, shaking as Bobo unleashed insult after insult. Izu just smiled in silence, unfazed.

Then—buzz. Buzz. Buzz.

Everyone's phones lit up at once.

A live broadcast had begun.

Captain Hamudula was back on screen—speaking to the nation. "People of Zambia. Members of Parliament. President Harambe," Captain Beenzu Hamudula began. "Blood has been shed. This nation has fallen to the dogs, and I cannot stand by and watch a beautiful country being used like a discarded piece of cloth. Mr. President, I will give you another choice. Step down, and there will be no more bloodshed. In about three minutes, the barriers that have been put on your precious military bases will be broken. I will allow you a chance to fight, if you please. But know this—if you choose to mobilize your troops, I will take that as your refusal to step down. At the end of this broadcast, you must go live on your socials and give a public resignation. The time right now is 11:21a.m At 11:25a.m, I will carry out the second phase of my takeover. People of Zambia, good luck. Your president has been warned."

Meanwhile back at Unilus, leopards hill campus.

Watson Kanyama was a first-year law student. He was also a wielder of the Ndembo of Chibolya. As he sat on the staircase, near the back of the hall, close to the cafeteria, a cigarette dangled from his fingers, a thin trail of smoke curling in the still air. He felt the familiar, faint buzz in his bones that his power gave him. It was a nervous energy, a feeling that the future was a tangled knot he could almost see, but not yet touch. He locked his phone and stared into nothing. "What the fuck am I gonna do now?" he muttered. "If I act now, it's too early. If I wait, I'm too late. Fuck."

He took a deep drag from the Gulf, then rubbed his hands down his face.

"Fuck," he said again—quieter this time, to no one but himself.

Inside the cafeteria lounge, Demetrius, Mandamus, Dante, Anne, Taonga, and Natasha had spent the last hour since the first broadcast planning. Plotting. Talking. Thinking.

"Okay," Demetrius said, his voice firm. "We're doing this. But we can't go in blind. Dante, what are we up against? What can they do?"

Dante knelt, drawing invisible lines on the dusty floor. "These aren't just random soldiers. They're trained in Ndembo, the fighting styles of Juju. There are five, each tied to a place."

He looked at them, his expression grim. "You've seen Misisi Ndembo already. Pure physical power. That was Boneface. But there are others. If you see someone using fire or walking through it unharmed, that's Chibolya. They're fast and resistant to poison. I actually know a guy."

He continued, his voice low. "From Ng'ombe come the shapeshifters. They can grow horns, change their bodies. They're brutally strong."

"Then there's Makululu. They are the most dangerous at night. They can manipulate time in small bursts, float, breathe underwater. And finally, there's my school, Soweto. We control shadows, move unseen."

Mandamus whistled. "So we got super soldiers, firebenders, and beast boys. Great."

"Know your enemy," Dante said, standing up. "Now we know what to look for. Let's make some charms. We're going to need them."

The girls were now fully briefed—on the witchcraft, the soldiers, the chaos at East Park. Everyone was shaken, but they hadn't wasted time. After sizing up the situation, they agreed: they had to help. Somehow. Protect their fellow students.

Dante had a plan. He'd taught them how to make basic charms—quick and dirty stuff, enough to defend themselves if needed. He laid out the components he'd gathered: small chicken bones, twine, and dried herbs from his pockets.

"These won't give you superpowers," he explained, his voice low and urgent. "But they will shield you from the madness-spell they're using. It will keep your minds clear. You have to weave your own will into it. Focus on one thought: 'I will not be controlled.' "

Taonga's hands trembled as she tried to wrap the twine around a brittle bone. "I can't do this," she whispered, tears welling in her eyes. "I'm not... I'm not whatever you guys are. This is insane."

"Taonga, look at me," Anne said, her own voice shaky but firm. She held up her own clumsily made charm. "Mine looks like a mess. But when I hold it... I feel, strong. I feel like we might actually survive all of this and I hate being hopeless you know. I'm still afraid, but girl it's my fear. Not theirs." She reached over and steadied Taonga's hands with her own. "Just focus. On us or better yet that guy that you like in the other semester. I bet if you like help him survive, you could get his number."

"Anne what the fuck?"

"Taonga, girl c'mon, we both know you're thinking it."

"Hmm. Okay fine. I'll do it."

Natasha, meanwhile, worked in silence, her brow furrowed in intense concentration. She pricked her finger on a sharp edge of bone, hissing in pain but not stopping. She wrapped the twine so tightly it was in danger of snapping. It was her anger, her terror, being channeled into a single, defiant object.

The guys trained. Bodies were pushed to their limits. Every drop of strength mattered.

But no plan was perfect. No one knew what the soldiers would do next… or how much power they truly held.

As the second broadcast ended, the group went straight back to their preparations. There were less than five minutes left before the soldiers would make their next move.

Demetrius stood, sweat rolling down his face. He'd just finished a thousand pushups. Mandamus was still going—deep in his third set of a thousand.

"This nigga," Demetrius muttered, shaking his head with a tired grin. He grabbed a joint from his pocket and walked out of the lounge, thinking, "hmm… where can I hit this? The staircase ai."

He headed that way—and spotted someone already on the highest step.

"Ah ah, Watson came for class. Blown. Watson exe!" he called up.

"Ah ah, Meech exe! Ya laka?" Watson responded.

"Ya about exe? What's the story?"

"Stula, exe. With what's cutting, we need this shit."

"Last, exe. You've controlled—you just don't know. Climb asap, chikala."

"I'm landing, relax."

Demetrius climbed the steps, noting something off in Watson's face. He saw it in the eyes—like everything had just caught up to him.

He sat beside him and sparked the joint. They passed it quietly for a while, watching the clouds drift above Lusaka's skyline.

"You watched the second one?" Demetrius asked.

Watson exhaled through his nose.

"Yeah. That man's not bluffing, Meech."

Demetrius leaned back.

"You think the President's gonna step down?"

"No," Watson said simply.

"But he'll fight back—and that's gonna cost us."

There was a pause. Then Demetrius chuckled.

"This shit's like a bad joke—and we're the punchline."

Watson gave him a side-eye.

"It is. What's your plan? Something tells me you're not going down without a fight." He glanced at the wound on Demetrius's arm.

Demetrius took a hit, then held his arm.

"I guess you saw the fight too, huh? Cat's out the bag. I don't fully understand it yet… but I know I'm different."

"I saw it. But honestly… I've always known," Watson said.

"From the day we met. I could see it in your aura. I just didn't want to notice. Maybe that was a mistake."

Demetrius laughed a bit.

"Wait—Watson, what exactly do you know? How?"

Watson stood, ashed the joint on the wall, and stretched like he was shaking something off.

Demetrius raised an eyebrow.

"Well?"

"Meech, I know a lot. And by the way, I can sense Dante's presence… and a few others. One of them's very strong."

"Yeah, I'm with them in the lounge. The strong one's name is Mandamus or Skiide. Wait, you know Dante too?"

"Yeah. Small world. I need to talk to him. He might have the answers I've been looking for."

Demetrius nodded slowly.

"Alright. But tell me one thing, man… are you strong?"

Watson smiled.

"Give me your arm."

"Uhm… alright, but what are—"

Before Demetrius could finish, Watson placed a hand on the wound. Demetrius felt a sudden, intense warmth spread through his arm. It was not a burning heat, but a soothing, clean warmth, like stepping into sunlight. The pain vanished. The wound knitted itself shut. It healed instantly. Demetrius stared, wide-eyed.

Watson met his gaze. "There's your answer."

They began walking back to the cafeteria lounge—step by step, their footsteps heavy, growing louder with purpose.

Two minutes left until everything changed.