Chapter One: When the Sky Forgot Its Chains

  The sky didn’t look different that morning—but it felt different.

  Not in the obvious, thunder-claps-and-heavenly-music kind of way. Nah. The clouds still wandered lazily across Mount Kenya’s shoulders. Birds still chirped like gossiping aunties. And that weird goat with one horn still tried to hump everything that moved.

  But the air... it was thick. Not heavy like rain, but aware. As if it was watching. As if it knew something none of us did.

  That’s when the boy arrived.

  Not born. Not summoned. Just… appeared. In the middle of K?rug? Village, by the banana grove, standing like a question mark carved out of moonlight. Naked as truth. Quiet as regret.

  And me? I was the first to see him.

  I’m Wambui wa Mathenge, daughter of a seer, second-best runner in the village, and professional bringer of tea when things go wrong. And brother, this morning? Wrong was doing jumping jacks.

  I had just finished arguing with Nyina about letting me wear trousers (again), when I spotted him. Pale skin like river clay. Hair like dried ash. Eyes—brother, his eyes were like someone had swallowed lightning but hadn’t finished digesting it.

  “He’s a m?rogi!” shouted Njoroge wa Kuria, bolting back into the bush like he owed someone money.

  The boy blinked slowly. Confused. Maybe lost.

  Then he smiled. “...Where am I?”

  Now, you have to understand something about our village: we don’t just welcome strangers.

  Not because we’re mean. It’s just... this ain’t your average world.

  You see, in this world, the gods never stopped walking. The rivers still whisper names. Trees talk back when you insult them. And the wind? The wind carries stories from one kingdom to another like it’s an old lady with tea to spill.

  We thrived. Uncolonized. Undivided.

  From Nok to Mero?, from Buganda to Zulu, we’re not just nations—we’re worlds stitched together by truth and myth.

  So when a foreigner with no spirit signature and no ancestral tether just pops into our world?

  Yeah. People panic.

  “He could be a shade. Or a trickster sent by the Bakongo.”

  That’s Mzee Baraka, whose beard is older than most calendars.

  “Or maybe... he's just a traveler,” Mama Gathoni offered gently, pouring tea like it was a calming spell. She’s the closest thing we have to a walking hug.

  The boy—he sat still, quietly observing. Not rude. Just... taking it all in like someone seeing color for the first time.

  “My name is... I think it’s Zuberi,” he said.

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  He didn’t sound sure.

  And right then, I noticed it. That flicker in his eye.

  That tiny war between belonging and not-belonging. Like he was from here yet he did not belong here. It was a bit confusing from where I was standing.

  In our village, we don’t trust words alone. You could be a smooth liar with a dimple and still be a djinn. So, the Elders invoked Roho ya Ukweli—the Spirit of Truth.

  It’s not a fancy ritual. You just sit under the M?gumo tree and let the spirit decide whether you lie. If your tongue burns? You’re fake. If the tree grows a new leaf as you speak? You’re good.

  Zuberi sat. Calm. Like he’d done this before in some dream.

  “Why are you here?” I asked him. Not the Elders. Me.

  “I don’t know.”

  The tree shivered. And a fresh green leaf burst out like a newborn idea.

  “Do you mean us harm?” Mzee Baraka pressed.

  “No. I couldn’t, even if I wanted to.”

  Another leaf.

  “Do you have family?” Mama Gathoni asked, voice soft as clouds.

  “…I think I used to. But they forgot me. Or maybe I forgot them first.”

  The wind blew gently. No leaf. No burn.

  Silence.

  He wasn’t lying.

  He just... didn’t know.

  Now here’s the thing. Every child born in this world awakens to a Nguzo—a Pillar. These are ancient forces tied to the spirit, body, mind, heart, and shadow.

  Roho (Spirit) .People of vision, dreamwalkers, speakers of ancestors.

  Mwili (Body) . Warriors, shapeshifters, strength incarnate.

  Akili (Mind). Strategists, memory seers, masters of time perception.

  Moyo (Heart). Healers, empaths, those who feel the unspoken.

  Kivuli (Shadow). The Forbidden. The lost. The broken.

  Zuberi had none.

  The Spirit Readers saw no thread. Not even a dormant one.

  It was like he didn’t exist in the world’s weave.

  And yet… he stood here. Breathing. Watching.

  Learning.

  That night, the stars hung low like they were eavesdropping.

  I found Zuberi by the river, skipping stones.

  “You should probably be scared,” I told him.

  “Of what?”

  I shrugged. “Everything. The trees. The goats. Me.”

  He grinned. “You’re not scary.”

  “You don’t know me yet.”

  He nodded. “Fair. But you’re the first face I saw here. I think that means something.”

  “Maybe,” I said, trying not to smile. “Or maybe the universe just has bad taste.”

  He laughed. Genuinely. Not forced like before.

  “Do you ever feel like… you’re meant to be somewhere, but you don’t know where that is?” he asked.

  “Every day,” I replied. “It’s called being a teenager.”

  That night, he dreamed.

  Not of home.

  But of a place with no name. Of voices calling him something he didn’t understand.

  They whispered in forgotten dialects.

  They said: “Fifth.”

  “Kivuli.”

  “We remember you.”

  Author’s Musings (by the firelight):

  What if you arrived in a world where everyone belonged but you—yet somehow, that world still called you like an old lullaby?