Commence Phase One

40 years ago, in the year 1984, in Siavonga district, Southern province...

A baby's cry rang out across the hills of Siavonga, loud and sharp, breaking the quiet of the day. The midwife held up the tiny baby, its body wriggling in her hands, and said, "It's a boy." But there was no celebration. The mother lay still on the mat, lifeless. The elders stood nearby, whispering among themselves, their faces heavy with worry.

Benzu Hamudula was born on a scorching day in the rocky hills of Siavonga, though his arrival brought no joy. His mother died giving birth to him, leaving his father a bitter and abusive man to raise a child he neither wanted nor loved. From Benzu's earliest memories, his father's anger filled every corner of their isolated home.

"You'll never amount to anything," his father would sneer, his words as sharp as the blows that often followed. Their house, hidden deep within the crags far from the rest of the village, felt less like a home and more like a prison.

Benzu belonged nowhere. The village children mocked him mercilessly, jeering at his hearing impairment and his bald head, stripped bare by alopecia at such a young age. "Godego! (mad person)" they would shout, their laughter echoing across the hills like a cruel chorus. At home, things were no better. His father forced him to do all the chores and sent him away whenever he brought women home. "Unka uka sobane! (Go and play)," he would bark, though there was little for Benzu to find joy in.

At the age of six, Benzu's life took a darker turn. One drunken night, his father stumbled on the rocky path and fell. His skull shattered against the jagged stones, leaving Benzu completely alone.

For a fleeting moment, Benzu thought his father's death might bring him freedom, but it brought only despair. Hunger drove him to the streets, where he begged for scraps, though few spared him a glance. Desperation soon led him to theft, though his attempts were clumsy and easily thwarted. It wasn't long before he stole from the wrong person. A group of boys caught him in the act, their fists raining down until he collapsed in the dirt, bloodied and barely breathing. They left him there, discarded beneath the cold stars.

But fate wasn't finished with Benzu.

An elderly woman found him that night, her frail frame belying the strength with which she carried his broken body to her secluded home atop the mountain. When Benzu awoke, the scent of herbs and cooking filled the air. The woman tended to his wounds with hands weathered by time, her silence speaking volumes.

Over the following weeks, Benzu learned who she was—a witch, feared and reviled by the villagers below. Yet she treated him with nothing but kindness. She healed him, fed him, and, to his astonishment, taught him. Her lessons were a strange and wondrous blend of herbal lore and something deeper, something powerful. She taught him that Juju wasn't evil; it was a tool, a piece of Zambia's soul that the new world, with its politics and religion, was trying to forget. "They fear what they don't understand," she would say, her voice a low rasp. "They call it primitive because they have forgotten its power. A nation that forgets its own soul is already dead."

Under her care, Benzu began to see possibilities he had never imagined. The woman even secured a government scholarship for him, allowing him to attend school for the first time in his life. Hope began to take root, fragile but growing.

For eight years, she was his guardian, mentor, and savior. Benzu thrived under her guidance, excelling in his studies and growing stronger each day. But happiness, he would learn, was always fleeting.

One afternoon, Benzu returned from school to find black smoke rising above the mountain. Panic gripped him as he sprinted up the familiar path. When he arrived, the scene before him shattered what little hope he had left. The villagers had come for her. They accused her of sorcery, blaming her for every misfortune in the village. They set her house ablaze and dragged her into the flames. Benzu screamed, begged, and fought to reach her, but the mob held him back, their faces twisted with fear and hatred. She was gone. The woman who had saved him, who had given him a chance at life, was reduced to ash before his eyes.

Grief and rage consumed Benzu. He returned to his father's old house, now little more than a crumbling ruin. Brick by brick, he rebuilt it, as he began to rebuild himself. He finished school, surviving however he could, all the while honing the skills his mentor had taught him. Her voice lingered in his mind, a faint echo guiding him through the darkness.

At seventeen, Benzu enlisted in the Zambia Army. The rigorous training reshaped him, forging his body and mind into something stronger, something dangerous. He was a model soldier, disciplined and ruthlessly efficient. He saw the army not as a patriotic duty, but as the ultimate tool. It was a system of power, and he would master it.

He rose through the ranks with unnatural speed. He saw the nation from the inside—the corruption of the politicians in Lusaka, the incompetence of the officers who got promotions based on tribe instead of merit, the weakness of a system that paid lip service to tradition while chasing foreign approval. He saw a country that was sick, just like his village had been. They were afraid of their own strength, their own soul. They had forgotten the power that ran in their blood, the very Juju they now called "witchcraft."

This nation, he realized, was just a larger version of the mob that had killed the only person who ever showed him kindness. They were weak, superstitious, and led by fools. They needed a leader who was not afraid of power. A leader who understood that true strength didn't come from speeches and elections, but from the old ways. From Juju.

His personal revenge was no longer enough. To truly honor his mentor's memory, he couldn't just punish a village; he had to cure the nation. He had to purge the weakness and fear. He had to take control and force Zambia to remember its own soul, even if it meant burning the whole rotten system to the ground. His rage had found a new, grander purpose.

One moonless night, Benzu, now a respected Lieutenant, returned to his village. This time, he was no longer the helpless boy they had scorned. Moving like a shadow, he unleashed everything he had learned.

The village burned. Flames tore through the thatched houses, destroying homes while livestock ran wild into the bush. Screams filled the night, and by dawn, nothing was left but ash and ruin. Some villagers escaped. Others didn't.

In the middle of the chaos, Benzu went back to his father's house. He set it on fire too, watching as the last piece of his past turned to smoke. With his charms in hand, he disappeared back to Lusaka. The one thing that had pushed him for the past six years was finally done. Now, he was ready to start a new and better life by building a new and better nation.

The memories of that night stayed with him, burned deep in his mind, but Benzu moved forward. From the ashes of his past, he built a new life and promised himself he would never return to the hills of Siavonga. Peace might always be hard to find, but for the first time, his life truly belonged to him. And soon, the nation would belong to him too.

10:00a.m, the present day...

In a dimly lit room somewhere in the heart of Lusaka, Benzu sat alone in a black single-decker sofa, staring at the ceiling. The only sound in the room was the soft crackle of a brown cigarette burning between his fingers, the smoke curling lazily into the air. His thoughts drifted through his past. The life he had started and the one he put behind him.

Suddenly, his phone rang, breaking the silence. He picked it up from the small wooden table next to him and flicked the ash into the tray before answering.

"It's time, Commander! Everything is in place. We're waiting for your signal, Sir!" the voice on the other end said, urgent and clear.

Benzu closed his eyes, taking a deep breath. He exhaled slowly, letting the calm settle in before speaking in a quiet, steady voice. "Commence phase one."