TRIBAL

CHAPTER ONE

"Boy! Did you tend to the farm?" asked Hekima. "Yes i did father!" said Buntu the son of Hekima. "Make sure you tend to the cattle too" said Hekima. "Yes father!" Buntu said instantly.

Hekima goes to the kitchen. " My rib, how are you now?" said Beatrice his one and only love. "I am good my queen. " How is the little one!" "Fatima. How are you?" "Dada" said Fatima. He holds his baby up putting her legs on his shoulders. The baby laughing in great amusement.

"Buntu! Time for supper!" Buntu's mother shouted for him. But Buntu was too busy to hear her. " The boy will come, no need to rush" said Hekima.

" He has come a long way that one, from being top of his class and now working on a science project" said his father. " He has made me proud." said Hekima

Buntu comes from the farm, very unkempt. "Go wash up!" said his mother. Beatrice was a hard working mother her beauty radiated in every room she walked into, her strong melanin was a testament to her beauty.

Hekima had met her as she was selling food as a vendor...Hekima fell in love with her and asked for dowry and had a traditional wedding within a week and the rest was history. A year later she gave birth to Buntu, the light of the family.

Hekima was a farmer and a small business owner who loved his children very much. And would do anything to ensure their safety. Even when now the post genocide war that lead them to flee the country until it was safe.

Although they had almost lost everything and had to come back after the war. Even while rebel groups decided to hold the country hostage.

The family was always together a one unit of strength and amicable character. His father always said "before you love yourself love your family first". This always stuck with Buntu and the rest of his family.

Hekima was ready to die for his family even when the rebel groups tried to commit arson on his house. He pleaded and was ready to die for his family equipped with a machete.

The rebel group leader admired his bravery and decided to let the family live. Now those days are gone and the country is seeing peace for the first time in a long while.

Buntu a gifted child has been blessed with the gift of innovation but his journey is filled with obstacles...

 

CHAPTER TWO

"Buntu! What do you have for us today?" asked Faith his science teacher. "Today I have the first solar powered phone. That does not need any electricity. It uses the screen as a solar panel hence the convenience. One has not to charge his or her phone for a life time!" said Buntu excitedly

"Wow Buntu you're work is amazing!" said Faith. This deserves to be celebrated . "I will talk with the Daily News to feature you, in one of the articles. "Keep up the good work Buntu!" said Faith. Buntu smiled wanely his hard work was now bearing fruits as his mother always told him "Whatever you sow is whatever you get!" He told himself under his breath.

"And the winner for the science state contest is Buntu from Jesus Fellowship High School!" Faith said over the microphone. The audience gave Buntu a standing ovation where he gave a speech and accredited his success to his family and especially his mother.

Moments later

 

He arrived at his home later that day in the evening with purple hues in the sky and the breeze of the ocean. How delighted he was to give the good news to his family. He approached his mother and bent over near her ear and whispered he won the science fair while she was making jollof rice his favorite meal.

Beatrice leapt in great amazement and sang sweet lullabies and hymns. "Wow my son is a blessing!" she said politely. "They will be doing an article in the Daily News gazette about me and my invention!" He said smiling.

Hekima, father to Buntu arrives at the house, looking distraught. "What is it my rib? "said Beatrice. " I lost my job my love" said Hekima. He broke down into tears as his wife soothed him with a warm hug. The news came to a shock to the family.

"Does this mean I cannot go to school?" asked Buntu. "We need to all work very hard here at the the farm to sustain our living" admitted Hekima candidly.

Disappointed, Buntu ran to his room. "Ah Ah did i say something wrong?" asked Hekima. "No you did not my love" said Beatrice.

Buntu was on his bed crying. He had a high liking to school, he loved to learn new things and discover new ways to help his neighborhood and community through his inventions. Now that he will not be in school he pondered on how he will make it. His favorite subject was science and his teacher Faith was very good to him. And now everything is lost.

He remunerated...

Buntu a child protege makes inventions from scratch that light up the world and those around him...

 

 CHAPTER THREE

It had been a month now without Buntu going to school and militia we're having another uprising. Since he was not in school he had more time to work on his inventions. Especially one which had seemed to be working fantastic. He invented a contraption where plants would produce electricity that powered half the house.

Word was getting around that Buntu was practicing magic and people had given them the reputation of a witch for his science inventions surpassed logic and human understanding. One day a group of his mother fellow church members stormed inside the house and destroyed all his inventions while they were tending to the farm.

Hekima armored with a machete had to chop off one of the church members hands with a swift blow and left him disarmed for life. Buntu cried for it was never his wish to be a witch or a warlock but the society had labelled him as such. It was a sad day for the family.

Beatrice his mother felt nothing but shock and awe protecting her youngest child as she cried. This left the whole family desolate and with pangs of fear and disappointment. Meanwhile back in his school his favorite teacher, sister Faith, looked for Buntu everywhere and showed up at his home unannounced at the Hekima residence.

She later learnt that Hekima, Buntu's father, had lost his taxi job and was now living on peanuts trying to provide for the family with whatever proceeds he could get from his farm. He was antagonized by the fact that Faith the teacher was there in his house without a cordial invitation.

But sister Faith had other plans for his student. She brought good news that Buntu was offered a scholarship in a prestigious school in the city. Hekima his father quickly denied the offer and said that Buntu's priorities was the farm and his children were not to continue with academics and focus on the farm work.

Buntu was discontent and tired of his father's rules. "Buntu one day you will understand the family is more important than school" he always said to his son. His father was harsh and unapologetic which also made Buntu feel unwanted and unloved.

After the church members tried to burn down Hekima's home. He protected his family and did not want to leave Buntu and his daughter out of his sight. Every opportunity that Buntu got to work on his inventions he would perfect his craft day and night with ideas in his head like colorful butterflies.

Faith would always leave science books with him to help him study while his parents were asleep. Buntu loved science and was always eager to use his knowledge to improve the quality of his family. Sadly, his father always made him feel that his work were a waste of time and resources. Buntu felt unappreciated and melancholic.

He told himself that one day his life will change for the better. Sadly his feelings seemed to get the best of him and felt discouraged. His mother however always showed him love and benevolence. But this fell short of his charisma and was weighing him down day by day.

CHAPTER FOUR

When the Light Fades

Buntu’s father, Hekima, had grown frail and pale, a ghost of the man he once was. A rare and vicious parasite had invaded his lungs, rendering him unable to eat, speak, or even rise from his own bed. Once a man of great resilience and wisdom, he now lay still, his breaths shallow and labored. Buntu watched helplessly, heart aching, as the man he had always admired—despite their frequent disagreements—slowly withered before his eyes.

The local church doubled as a small hospital, and it was the only place they could afford to seek help. Beatrice, Buntu’s mother, had drained their savings—every last coin and note—hoping for a cure. But no medicine came close. No prayer, no treatment, could turn the tide.

Now Hekima lay motionless, eyes sunken and hope gone. Beatrice cried herself to sleep most nights, the weight of grief suffocating her spirit. The baby’s cries echoed through the house, unrelenting and mournful. And in those dark hours, it was Buntu who would rise quietly, rocking the infant in tired arms, trying to give his mother moments of rest from her quiet suffering.

His once-vibrant mind now dulled, Buntu lost faith in his inventions. The tools that once gave him joy gathered dust in a corner. The gears in his imagination jammed, as if his father’s illness had sapped every spark of creativity from his soul.

Word spread through the village. Hekima—the rock, the counselor, the peacemaker—was dying. Neighbors trickled in, bearing gifts and warm food. Some came with prayers, others with tears. All left with solemn goodbyes: “Mpaka tupatane tena.” Until we meet again.

A few days later, Hekima drew his final breath. He left behind a widow, two children, and a void too vast for words.

The funeral procession moved like a solemn river through the village paths. Dust rose, incense burned, and songs of farewell filled the sky. Among the mourners was Sister Faith, Buntu’s beloved science teacher, her presence calm and dignified in her white tunic and purple rosary.

"Buntu," she said softly, placing a hand on his shoulder, "it's hard seeing you and your family like this. Come see me when you're ready."

Her words lingered like a riddle in Buntu’s mind.

"See me when you're ready..."
What did she mean?
Was there hope?
A secret?
A new beginning?

Days passed. Buntu barely spoke. He sat outside for hours, staring into the fields as though the answers lay hidden in the tall grass. His mother often found him lost in thought.

“Stop thinking too much,” she would say. “You’ll grow old before your time.”

Eventually, the question burning inside him became unbearable. He dusted off his shirt, combed his hair, and walked the long road back to the school gates he hadn’t crossed in weeks.

The sight of Sister Faith standing there brought a strange comfort. Her smile was warm, but her eyes carried a hidden weight.

“Buntu!” she said, arms open in welcome.

“Yes, Sister... I’m here. What was it you wanted to tell me?”

She hesitated, her voice faltering for a moment.

“I re-applied for your scholarship... to St. Bridget’s School for the Gifted. But—” her lips trembled, “they turned it down. There are no funds left. I’m so, so sorry, Buntu.”

A single tear slid down her cheek, catching the sunlight like a jewel.

The world shifted beneath him. The air turned heavy. It felt like the very earth wanted to split open and swallow him whole.

He nodded silently, too numb to speak, and began the long walk home. He didn't lift his head once.

When Beatrice saw him, her heart sank. “What is it, my son?” she asked, voice already cracking.

He told her everything.

She said nothing, only pulled him into her arms and held him tight. The world disappeared as she hummed a lullaby through her sobs, a melody soft and ancient—one his father used to sing when the nights grew cold.

---

After the loss of Buntu’s father Hekima, the rebel leaders get closer to his village only to leave a wake of terror on Buntu’s path.

 

CHAPTER FIVE

Buntu’s small village was under attack by the M23 rebel groups that seized power as the government went into civil unrest. Bodies were piled high; businesses were closed and the people we’re taken hostage. The sound of gun shots lingered in the air day and night making it impossible for Buntu and his family to sleep. The loss of his father left sharp pangs of pain in Buntu’s heart. The air smelt foul of dead bodies and gasoline. The sun rarely shown its glory and smoke billowed the once blue clear skies.

Farming had to be suspended for the rebel groups would come in the night and loot their house. His mother Beatrice would arm herself with a shoka to protect her family. But all they would do is let out war cries and shoot in the air as they laid a wake of terror in the neighborhood. Buntu was scared stiff from all this and missed his father Hekima dearly.

On this day the rain poured from the heavens, a blessing thought Buntu, little did he not know he would curse the day he was born on this particular day. The rebels had taken advantage of the rain to come into Buntu’s home. They stole their animals and destroyed their crops causing havoc as his baby sister would wail through the night.

One of the rebel leaders found their way into their home and found Buntu and his family hiding within the closet.

“Are you affiliates of the rogue government?” asked the rebel leader. He wore a torn army uniform, dirt covered all over his clothes with blood stains that he wore like an armor of honor.

He spat on the ground.

“No! Mheshimiwa we are just farmers making an honest living” said Beatrice her voice cracking like the same thunder that was ravaging their homes.

“We found, contraptions of some kind in one of the rooms general!” said one of the cadets seemingly his inferior as he handed a radio like gizmo to the tall well-built African man.

“Then what is this?!” said the rebel leader as he dropped the radio to the ground with a thud.

“You are working for the government! No?!” he shouted.

He cocked his gun.

“Our mission is to destroy all the government mules with immediate effect” he commanded with his booming voice.

“Now you will tell me, what this gadget is?! Now or I kill your mother and sister…” said the leader known as Simba, Buntu learnt as one of his cadets referred to him as that.

“It is a radio yes but it is also a communication device like a telephone” said Buntu.

The rain poured as a soft silence came over the trio. Leaving the rain to grace its drops on the iron built home. Deafening. Thought Buntu.

“So, you are communicating with the government!” said Simba, his wrath showing on his face with great rage and fury.

He grabbed his mother by the collar of her night dress and dragged her to the center.

“Mama! Noooo!” cried Buntu.

The rebel leader aimed his gun at her and shot his mother with no remorse. Dropping her sister to the ground. Buntu quickly rushed to protect his baby sister as his mother laid lifeless on the ground a pool of blood formed around the body.

Her beautiful white gown was now blood stricken and she was no more.

“Buntu take care of your sister…” she whispered as she drifted into the hands of death.

Buntu cried completely broken. The rebel leader smiled in coquetry showing his yellow stained teeth in moonlight. He lit a cigar and smoked it slowly savoring its flavor. “Now my son you will join me in this crusade…” he said as he puffed on the cigar that looked like a trumpet in the darkness of the night.

Tears rolled down Buntu’s cheeks like a fountain.

He looked up and said “How dare you kill my family; revenge will be mine. I will be the last thing you see!” cried Buntu as one of the cadets knocked him out with his rifle rendering him unconscious.

The next day

Buntu woke up to the smell of smoke and blood. My mother he thought as he couldn’t believe what had happened and would only wish that it was a nightmare. There beside him lay his mothers’ lifeless body. On the opposite direction was Simba staring at him with discreet eyes sharp as steel.

He motioned to one of his children soldiers that were now more visible through the daylight. They handed him a pair of uniform. He looked left and right for his baby sister but there she lay lifeless too devoid of hope. The cold weather had sent a chill up her spine and the kiss of death took her too.

Buntu locked eyes with Simba rage building up inside him like an infernal fire.

Not today…not now thought Buntu

I will have my revenge.

 

After the tragic loss of his family, Buntu and his fellow cadets flee into the jungle to become initiated into the rogue rebel group known as the M23…

CHAPTER SIX

Somewhere in the Jungle

The air grew thinner with every step as Buntu and his fellow cadets trekked through the ridges of Karura jungle. Each breath stung his chest, the climb endless, the forest closing in like a living cage. Around them, danger prowled in every shadow—creatures small enough to slip into their blood and beasts large enough to swallow them whole.

Buntu remembered the time a mosquito’s sting reduced him to delirium, leaving him feverish and raving like a madman. The jungle seemed determined to test them in every way. Ancient trees loomed overhead, towering like watchful sentinels. Their vast canopies locked together so tightly they blotted out the sun, trapping the boys in perpetual twilight. The branches caught the rain, dripping it down in slow, mocking rhythms. It felt less like protection and more like imprisonment.

Death was constant here. One boy screamed in the night when a snake’s fangs struck deep; his body stiffened, then grew cold within hours. Another, bitten by a spider in his sleep, woke to find his skin erupting in boils that oozed foul pus. He was gone by morning. Hunger drove them to hunt wild goats, pigs, even stray cattle—but on the days when the forest yielded nothing, they turned to berries and fruits. One cadet, careless and hungry, plucked a red berry and ate it as though it were a sweet. By nightfall he was convulsing; by dawn, he was a corpse.

The sky was almost always gray, the rain endless. Rarely did the sun break through. The gloom settled into Buntu’s soul like rot. He had lost everything—his parents, his sister—and the man who had taken them was the same man who now commanded his fate. Simba.

The name itself carried terror. Once a decorated officer, Simba had returned to the battlefield under the guise of patriotism, claiming to fight for the nation’s freedom. In truth, he was a madman who brought nothing but ruin. He torched villages, butchered families, raped women, and pressed children into war. Those who defied him were erased—fathers, mothers, children alike.

Simba wore his past like armor. His old military uniform, frayed but proudly adorned with medals, was his second skin. His body was massive, his muscles sculpted by years of violence. His bald head gleamed under his patrol cap, and a cigar often smoldered between his teeth. He carried himself with unshakable confidence, a tyrant who demanded obedience not just with words but with his very presence. He drilled the cadets relentlessly—rifle training, hand-to-hand combat, survival drills—and between battles he filled their mouths with war songs until they echoed the jungle with his madness.

Buntu’s initiation was unlike anything he had imagined. They came for him at night, rough hands dragging him from his cot, a cloth bag over his head. He was taken to a hidden camp where the stench of burned rubber mingled with the iron tang of blood. There, with two other boys, he was stripped naked before a mchawi, a witch-doctor who muttered incantations in a language older than the trees.

Boiling leaves were dipped into steaming pots and lashed across their skin, the sting biting deeper than whips. They were circumcised under chants they could not understand, pigs’ blood smeared across their chests in dripping streaks. Bitter brews of roots and bile were forced down their throats, and smoke from sacred leaves filled their lungs until they coughed and gagged. For three days it continued—pain, blood, delirium. One of the boys broke under the ordeal, coughing blood until his life slipped away.

When it ended, the survivors were rewarded not with comfort, but with weapons. An AK-47 was thrust into Buntu’s hands like a crown. He was no longer a boy—he was now a soldier of the M23 rebels.

But a soldier’s oath required blood.

Days later, Simba paraded hostages into camp—villagers blindfolded and trembling, their hands bound. They looked nothing like soldiers, nothing like the “government spies” Simba ranted about. They were fathers, farmers, teachers. Human beings.

“Now, Buntu,” Simba thundered, his voice rolling like distant drums. “Your final test. Kill these traitors, sent by the government to destroy us.”

Buntu felt the rifle’s weight in his hands, heavier than any metal should be. His heart hammered in his chest. He saw the faces beneath the blindfolds—ordinary men, terrified, pleading without words.

“Do it!” Simba roared. “Prove you are one of us!”

Buntu raised the rifle. His breath caught. His finger hovered over the trigger as his mind screamed, I am Buntu the inventor, not a murderer…

But the eyes of Simba burned into him. Around him, cadets watched. There was no escape.

The shot rang out.

A man crumpled to the ground, lifeless.

Buntu did not flinch. He did not weep. He did not feel.

Buntu had become a monster.

And this was only the beginning.

 CHAPTER SEVEN

Karura jungle

Deep in the heart of the jungle lay Buntu on his back on top a straw carpet, licking his wounds as puss and blood came out. He had survived the initiation that left him traumatized and hurt beyond repair. As the rest of his comrades were asleep, he was awake as day.

His whole body was in excruciating in pain. Bruises filled his body like tattoos. Great pangs of pain pierced his stomach so much he became quite delirious. The night was dark and filled with a gray mist. Some of the child soldiers would say that the spirit of Ozeba lingered in the air as they made a camp near a graveyard site.

Buntu was shook and afraid he could not help but reminisce about his home and his family. His mother making fresh jollof rice with jerk chicken, a tantalizing memory. But that was the past, he was brooding in soliloquy when one of the child soldiers passed him non chalantly coming from the Night Watch without noticing Buntu.

Simba the Lieutenant was the only man with a tent among them. He would always play loud reggaeton music from his tent with an old beaten down radio courtesy of Buntu and his great inventions. He would also listen to football commentaries from all over the world. He could be heard from a far cheering from a distance the winning team as he puffed on his Cuban cigars.

“Buntu!” said the corporal in a loud commanding voice.

Buntu rushed to his steed.

“I want you to scout the area for any insurgents,” said Simba.

Buntu gave him a sharp salute and armed with a rifle he sped off into the thick bush into a clearing. Buntu had become second in command ordering his subordinates with mundane army tasks. He was obedient and fierce he became what he could not recognize, he became what he feared most, a murderer.

The village was empty from what Buntu could decipher. Families left in a rush; the abandoned homes felt like a ghost town. Clothes were thrown haphazardly; windows were broken and there was no sign of life. The expensive electronics were looted and valuable items too; it was a ghastly sight. In one of the homes there was a small fire in the kitchen and footsteps engraved within the small mud house. Aimed with his rifle he scouted the small home.

To his amazement he saw a mother and child around her teens hiding inside a dusty closet, he pointed the rifle and sprayed them with bullets that rent the air. Blood oozing from the bodies of his victims. Buntu without remorse shot them again as the bodies danced from the bullets impact. This is who I have become, this is me? He said to himself.

He went back into the jungle to give back the report.

Simba sat on his chair like a King on his throne puffing his cigar.

“The coast is clear, no civilians or insurgents” said Buntu with great conviction and precision.

Buntu was becoming more of an esteemed soldier in Simba’s eyes. He held Buntu with great reverence and honor despite his horrendous act of killing his family. But this was all part of Buntu’s plan to gain great favor from the monster and with the slightest chance while weak he would strike.

They marched on.

The rain showered them with great downpour while lightning stricked the villages causing small wild fires. Buntu was not scared. How could he? After all he had been through, he was tough as steel never showing weakness or cowardice.

They formed a base in one of the abandoned homes with great speed. Wires tangled all over the sitting room as a small satellite was erected within minutes on top of the roof. There Simba would sit and listen for any enemy attack being radioed towards them in great concentration and focus.

As the night fell the squadron slept after spending hours scavenging for precious loot. Tired, they all feel into a deep dreamless sleep. But not Buntu, he would not sleep he had much work to do on this cursed night. He had picked some herbs from the forest that once burnt, his victims would fall into a great paralytic slumber.

He smoked the herbs into a small fire. One by one the child soldiers would fall into deep sleep even the commander himself was not immune to this concoction. Buntu covered his mouth and nose with a cloth he had torn from his shirt as he went dousing the smoke through the camp. Finally, when all the members were asleep, he went to the master bedroom where Simba and only Simba retired.

He crept slowly and surely like a thief in the night. This is my only chance he said under his breathe.

Armed with a dagger he stood over Simba’s body lying comfortably on the bed. Does he dream about his victims? The countless lives he had taken? Even his mothers’? All these questions rang in his head like a tolling church bell. He shall pay for all he has done…he said under his breathe. But how will I be different from him and his cult following of children soldiers.

He unsheathed his fathers’ dagger and knelt down to get closer to his body. Then taking his jagged dagger pierced his neck with a great thrust. Simba shrieked in pain and anguish as blood oozed out of his thick neck. Attempting to stop the bleeding with his hand. Buntu slashed his left wrist such that his wrist was left dangling like a piece of meat, dismaimed.

“How could you?!” said Simba in a soft voice blood oozing out of his mouth.

“I just did” said Buntu with great disdain and disgust in each and every word slow and painful like the wound on Simba’s neck.

Finally, revenge was a dish best served cold.