How it all started....
13,000 years ago, in the land of Azania, a 14-year-old boy found himself caught in a torrential downpour. Seeking shelter, he climbed a sturdy tree, but the rain showed no signs of abating. As the hours passed, the boy watched in horror as the land became flooded, the water rising above the ground. Smaller trees and rocks were submerged, and animals and people struggled to stay afloat.
The boy's tree eventually succumbed to the floodwaters, leaving him no choice but to resign himself to his fate. But he refused to give up without a fight. He swam through the churning waters, grabbing onto anything that floated. As his energy waned, a black Labrador with a distinctive white patch on its neck and belly swam towards him, pulling him onto a log.
The boy would later name the dog Chakandiwana, meaning "That which found me." Together, they rode out the flood, surviving on wild fruits and berries that floated on the water. The dog occasionally caught a dead bird or animal to sustain itself. As the days passed, the boy lost track of time, unsure of where he was or where the floodwaters would take him.
Eventually, the rain ceased, and the waters began to recede. The boy and Chakandiwana watched as the mountain peaks reemerged, followed by the trees and finally the land. When the log finally came to rest on dry ground, the boy stepped off, carrying Chakandiwana in his arms. As they reached the shore, they came across a flat rock, which unexpectedly turned molten beneath their feet. The boy and Chakandiwana left their footprints in the rock, a testament to their survival.
As they stood there, a ripple disturbed the calm ocean, and the boy turned to see the log that had saved his life transform into a massive snake. The boy bowed his head in reverence, asking the snake for its name. The snake replied that it was Botemupote, meaning "too long, and no one can measure my length." Botemupote told the boy that he had been saved for a reason and that his journey was only just beginning.
And so, the boy, now imbued with elemental powers, including the ability to heal and teleport, set out on an unforgettable journey with Chakandiwana by his side. Together, they would gather the few survivors of the Great Flood of Ruwe and forge a new path forward. The boy's name would become synonymous with bravery and strength: Mutungagore, the Azania Warrior.
Jacob Gambiza strode through the arched corridors of Southern Azania University, his polished leather shoes clicking against the marble floor. The morning sun cast long shadows through the grand colonial windows, illuminating the framed portraits of past deans, all pale-skinned men with stiff collars and piercing eyes. Their presence was a reminder that the university's foundations were not his own, though he walked its halls as if they were.
He adjusted his tie, glancing at his reflection in the glass. Crisp, professional, composed. Just as his father had always expected. "A man is measured by how well he assimilates," his father used to say. "Speak their tongue, wear their suits, and you will rise."
Jacob had done just that. His English was flawless, his manner refined. He had spent his youth watching his father, Dr. Johan Gambiza, charm foreign diplomats and rub shoulders with the elite. Unlike most of their kinsmen, who clung to the old ways, the Gambiza family had ascended. They were not farmers, laborers, or market sellers. They were educated men. Civilized. And yet, despite their prestige, they remained outliers.
Southern Azania University had only three black lecturers, Jacob included. The student body, too, was mostly pale-skinned, with only a handful of black students, their scholarships granted more for optics than opportunity. Jacob knew this, but he had long since learned to suppress resentment. He had what others only dreamed of: a position of respect in a world that had never been built for men like him.
As he entered his lecture hall, he cast a glance at the students. A few black faces sat toward the back, silent and observant. The rest, mostly young men and women of European descent, slouched in their seats, some whispering, others sneaking glances at their pocket watches. Jacob smirked inwardly. "They see me, but they do not believe I belong."
He straightened his posture, his presence commanding attention. He was not just another black lecturer. He was Jacob Gambiza, a man who had conquered their world with intellect alone. If only his kinsmen could see him now.
Clearing his throat, Jacob began his lecture. "As I was saying," he said, his voice smooth, calculated, "the arrival of European settlers in Azania marked a turning point in our history. While their influence brought certain advancements..." The words caught in his throat.
A sudden heaviness gripped his chest. The ceiling fans whirred above, yet the room felt stifling, the air suffocating like unspoken truths. His vision swam at the edges. Steady yourself, Jacob.
He tried again. "As I was saying..." The sound that left his lips was not his own. It was guttural, ancient, more growl than speech.
The students shifted in their seats. A few exchanged glances. "Sir?" A voice from the front row. Jacob shook his head, gripping the chalk in his hand. Focus. Just a lapse. Nothing more. But the lapse didn't pass.
The air shimmered. The walls of the lecture hall bent, distorting like a mirage. The scent of chalk and polished wood vanished, replaced by something primal, earth, rain, blood. Jacob blinked. And suddenly, he was no longer in the lecture hall. He stood in the heart of an endless savannah.
Golden grass stretched for miles, rippling like an ocean beneath a sky painted in deep purples and fiery reds. Towering indigenous Musasa, Mutondo, and Muunze trees loomed in the distance. A warm wind swept past him, carrying whispers. Voices speaking in a tongue both foreign and familiar.
His heart pounded. Then, there was a sudden movement. A lion emerged from the horizon, its mane shimmering like molten gold, its amber eyes fixed on him.
"Mtungagore..."
The name slipped from his lips unbidden, spoken in a language he didn't recognize, yet understood. It echoed across the savannah, carried by the wind like a chant. The lion roared, the sound shaking the ground beneath his feet.
Jacob gasped and snapped back to reality. He stood before the blackboard, his students staring at him with wide, confused eyes. "Sir, are you okay?" Jacob opened his mouth, but what came out was not English.
The same ancient, rhythmic tongue poured from his lips, deep and commanding. The words vibrated in the air, thick with power. The students recoiled. Some clutched their desks. Others whispered anxiously. One girl's voice trembled, "What language is that?" Jacob didn't know. But something inside him did.
His hand moved of its own accord, fingers curling around the chalk. Before he could stop himself, he began writing. The symbols formed in sharp, deliberate strokes, etching themselves onto the board, jagged, ancient hieroglyphics pulsing with unseen energy.
The room fell deathly silent. "That looks like the carvings on the sacred mountain," one student muttered. "Don't be ridiculous," another hissed.
Jacob's fingers trembled. The chalk snapped in his grip. He stumbled back, staring at the foreign script he had written. "What... is this?" he whispered.
The murmurs among the students grew louder. One bold voice called out, "Is this some kind of joke?" Jacob shook his head. "No... I... I don't know..." The bell rang, shattering the tension.
Students hurried out, their whispers like buzzing insects. Jacob remained, frozen in place. His head pounded. Not with pain, but with voices. Ancient. Primal. Calling his name.
Jacob barely noticed when his colleague, Mr. McCarthy, entered. "Jacob?" McCarthy's voice was cautious. "Are you alright?"
Jacob turned to him, his mind still reeling. "I think..." He faltered, swallowing hard. "I don't know what's happening to me." McCarthy's gaze flickered to the blackboard. His brows furrowed. "What is all this?"
Jacob's breath was shallow. "I didn't write it... at least, not consciously." McCarthy's face darkened. "Go home, Jacob. Rest. The heat's been getting to everyone."
Jacob nodded absently, gathering his things. But as he stepped into the fading afternoon light, the whispers followed.
At first, they were no more than a distant hum, rising and falling like the wind. But with each step, they grew clearer. Voices. Calling him by name.
He stopped in the middle of the dirt road. The trees rustled, their leaves whispering in harmony with the unseen voices. "Who's there?" His voice cracked.
The only answer was a low, rumbling growl. Jacob's breath caught. Slowly, he turned...And froze. A lion stood a few paces away. Its golden eyes locked onto his, peering into his very soul.
Jacob's legs trembled. The lion didn't move. It simply watched. Waiting. Then, as suddenly as it had appeared, the lion turned and vanished into the trees. Leaving Jacob alone with the whispers.