Not in the dramatic, "You ruined my life!" kind of way. No. More like, “Welcome to the neighborhood—catch these hands.”

  It was just after the council let him go, after Mama Gathoni made everyone drink calming tea thick enough to qualify as porridge. They said, “Let him stay. For now.” Which, in village-speak, meant “We’re watching you harder than a jealous ex.”

  So, naturally, Wanjira wa Gathee introduced herself with a knuckle to the chest.

  “Ow—what the hell?!” Zuberi coughed, staggering back.

  She grinned. “That’s for appearing out of nowhere and stealing my spotlight.”

  “Your what now?”

  She sized him up like she was measuring meat. “Don’t act brand-new, moon-boy. You drop out the sky, naked, stealing everyone’s attention. Now the aunties are all ‘oh, poor him, he must be scared.’ Meanwhile, I wrestled a corrupted Njiru last week and no one offered me a damn banana.”

  Zuberi blinked. “A… what now?”

  “Njiru. A dream-twisted baboon. Got into the fermented honey stores and started trying to propose to my cousin. Thing stank of regret and armpit.” She stretched, cracking her neck. “Name’s Wanjira. I beat things up and occasionally save villages. You?”

  He hesitated. “Zuberi, I guess. I don’t really—”

  “No clan name. Yeah, I heard. Mzee Baraka was ranting like a chicken on chili about it.”

  She was bold, fast-talking, and dangerously charming. The kind of person who’d make you laugh, then challenge your grandmother to a wrestling match out of boredom.

  Wanjira flicked his forehead. “Let’s go.”

  “Go where?”

  “To the drum circle, duh. You’ve been poked, prodded, and tea’d half to death. Time to do something. You got legs, don’t you?”

  “Barely.”

  “Then you’ll fit right in.”

  Later in the day

  The Kikuyu training grounds were not what Zuberi expected.

  There were no fancy arenas. No shiny weapons or uniforms. Just open earth, ancient stones, and sound. So much sound.

  Drums. Dozens of them.

  Big ones. Tiny ones. Ones shaped like antelope horns. Some painted with sacred patterns, others carved with stories so old even the elders whispered their names.

  And in the center—her.

  Wanjira was a whirlwind. She pounded her drum, the Ngoma ya Moyo, with the precision of a poet and the fury of a storm. Each beat cracked through the air like a heartbeat dipped in fire. Her body shimmered with movement—fists, elbows, knees—every strike flowing with the rhythm. The drum was the fight. The rhythm was the power.

  You might be reading a pirated copy. Look for the official release to support the author.

  Zuberi stood there, mouth half-open, utterly unsure if he was witnessing martial arts, magic, or a possessed cousin having a musical episode.

  Then she stopped.

  And pointed at him.

  “Your turn.”

  “Me? I don’t even know how to—”

  Wanjira tossed him a small practice drum.

  He caught it. Barely. “I’ve never touched one of these before.”

  She stepped closer. “Good. That means you don’t have bad habits yet.”

  “I don’t even know your rules!”

  “No rules. Just rhythm.”

  Zuberi looked around. Eyes on him. Sweat forming. He hadn’t felt this out of place since… well, since waking up butt-naked in banana leaves.

  He tapped the drum.

  Silence.

  Another tap.

  A snort from a kid in the crowd.

  Third tap.

  Nothing.

  Wanjira tilted her head. “You hitting that thing or making love to it?”

  He blushed. “I—I—”

  “Shhh.” She placed a firm hand on his chest. “Close your eyes. Listen. Don’t think like a visitor. Think like the ground.”

  “That doesn’t make sense.”

  “Exactly.”

  He tried again. This time, not thinking.

  He tapped. Paused. Thumped. A softer beat. Then two in a row.

  Something clicked.

  He didn’t know what rhythm he was making. It wasn’t perfect. Hell, it probably wasn’t even good.

  But it was his.

  The drum responded.

  Something in the soil trembled.

  Wanjira grinned. “There he is.”

  They sat side by side, watching fireflies blink like forgotten stars.

  “So,” she said, chewing on sugarcane, “you really don’t remember anything from your old world?”

  “Bits,” Zuberi murmured. “Not enough. I remember noise. Crowds. Buildings without breath. A lot of waiting. A lot of… not-feeling.”

  He looked at the sky, then down at the fireflies. “But here… everything’s loud. Not just sound. Living loud. It’s terrifying.”

  Wanjira nodded. “We call that ‘being alive.’”

  He chuckled, then grew quiet. “Does it ever stop feeling like you’re trespassing in your own skin?”

  She didn’t answer right away.

  Then she whispered, “Every time I look at my drum, I see my mother’s shawl. She patched it before the raid. The night before. I play it like I’m trying to remind her I’m still here. Still trying.”

  Zuberi’s voice cracked. “I don’t even know who I’m trying to remind.”

  A pause.

  Then Wanjira leaned over, touched the broken necklace around his neck. “Start with you. The rest will come.”

  The wind shifted.

  A strange stillness rolled across the village.

  The birds stopped. Even the insects held their breath.

  Zuberi sat up.

  The sky above the Mugumo tree shimmered—like reality holding back a sneeze.

  Wanjira stood. “...Did you feel that?”

  Before he could reply, a soft hum filled the air.

  Not music. Not words.

  A name.

  One no one had spoken in centuries.

  It came from the forest.

  Then everything went dark.

  The stars blinked out.

  And a voice older than the first whisper said:

  “You do not belong here.”

  Zuberi stood frozen.

  And from behind him, a second voice—familiar, breathless, and sharp with warning—Wambui, the seer’s daughter, panting:

  “They’re coming.”