In the year 1959, in Samfya District of Luapula Province, Zambia.
Ba Chola. Imfula ileisa. Tuleyeni,(The rains are coming. Let's go.)" Musonda whispered, his voice barely louder than the rumble of thunder rolling across the darkening sky.
Lightning split the heavens in jagged bursts of silver. The air smelt of wet earth and danger.
"Ba Musonda, relax." Mr. Chola's said, his voice tight with tension. "These colonial cockroaches are everywhere tonight."
"Then fast, iwe(you). Before the rain unmasks us."
Shadows swallowed them as they moved across the manicured grounds of the Samfya Waterfront Hotel, slipping between trees like ghosts. Tourists dined behind glass, unaware that history stirred just beyond their sight.
In Mr. Chola's hands were Nyakazi dolls, which were hand-carved talismans humming with ancient Luapulan power. They had been bound with a powerful spell. He tucked them into hollows and shrubs with practised precision. Every doll was a piece of utmost evil.
Musonda gripped the Kapuyi, a relic wrapped in bark and bone, said to bend light and cloak presence. Tonight, it shielded them from more than just eyes—it muffled their breath, masked their scent.
This wasn't a random strike. It was the beginning of a province-wide operation, orchestrated by UNIP cadres to fracture colonial lines. As Mr. Chola and Musonda carried out their task, the rest of their group waited across the waters, hidden in the reeds of Chishi Island along lake Bangweulu, ready to converge when the sign was given.
Mr. Chola laid the final Nyakazi beneath a misshapen Mpundu tree. But just as his fingers left the soil, a ripple passed through the air. A tremor. Something shifted.
Musonda froze. "Shit. The Kapuyi... it's weakening."
Then Musonda noticed someone. "Taonekela" (we've been exposed) he hissed.
Behind the tree stump, half-concealed in shadow, sat a white woman. Pale. Wide-eyed. Motionless. Her voice cracked the silence like glass shattering: "Africans!"
Mr. Chola's eyes flared. "Get to the lake!"
The skies opened as if on cue. Rain came down in a violent flow.
Then—gunfire.
Flashes lit the lawns as bullets ripped through the rain-filled darkness. The two men bolted, grass sliding beneath their feet as chaos exploded around them. Guests screamed, doors slammed shut, and from within the hotel, pale faces stared in disbelief as two black figures danced between gunshots like agitated rabbits.
Near the lake, Mr Chola yanked a carved wooden bird charm from his pocket. It surged with heat even in the cold rain. Without breaking stride, he fastened it to his wrist and gripped Musonda's arm tight and he leapt.
Mid-air, his body shimmered, twisted, and then burst outward into a large eagle like bird. Musonda clung to his talons as the bird-man soared into the storm.
"Witchcraft!" one of the colonial guards shouted, firing wildly. "Bloody Africans!"
"Don't let them escape, Robert! Keep shooting!"
But it was too late. The bird-man and his counterpart vanished into the shroud of rain over Lake Bangweulu, lost to the night.
On the ground, Colonial guard, Robert, stared, drenched and panting. "Phil... you saw that, right?
Colonial guard Phillip lit a cigarette with shaking hands. "What the hell is this?"
Phillip knelt by the tree, brushing away leaves to reveal a single Nyakazi doll, faintly glowing.
Later, at around 03:00a.m, just several hours after Mr Chola and Musonda left, the hotel buzzed as beepers and phones began to ring, one after another. Faces turned pale. Mouths fell open.
"My husband was in a what—"
"No, no, that's my sister's car!"
"All of them? Is this some kind of joke?"
By morning, fifty-three British settlers were confirmed dead, killed in separate but eerily similar road accidents between 11:00p.m and 03:00a.m. All of them had stayed at the Samfya Waterfront Hotel earlier but for unknown reasons, each left the hotel. No official link could be made, but whispers spread like fire in dry grass. Some said it was coincidence. Others weren't so sure.
Thirty Nyakazi dolls were found. The rest vanished—just like Mr. Chola.
A few Months later, Colonial officers started raiding African hide outs and home's. Through this, they came across Mr. Chola's home and during the raid , the colonial officers found the bird charm, locked away in a woven pouch. It was confiscated, cataloged, and later placed on display—not as proof, but as folklore. An artifact of superstition.
Present day, in the year 2024.
"Okay, class," said Miss Banda, her voice echoing through the Lusaka National Museum's stone halls. "That concludes our lesson on the Witchcraft Exhibit. Any questions?"
A hand shot up.
"Miss Banda! What about this one?" a schoolboy asked, pointing to another relic in a dusty case, etched with strange symbols.
The class gathered close.
Miss Banda hesitated, eyes lingering on the charm.
"Ah. That one… well, that's another story."
The morning sun bathed Lusaka in a golden glow, casting long shadows across the bustling streets. The city was awake and alive, its pulse quickened by the usual chaos of a weekday morning. Vendors were already calling out their wares at street corners, and commuters shuffled along impatiently as taxis honked, their drivers leaning out to shout for passengers. It was just another day—or so it seemed.
09:30 a.m. Mass Media, Lusaka.
"Michelle, relax chikala. I know we're both drunk, but just chill." Serah said, leaning on Michelle's shoulder, her eyes fixed on her face. "Do you want to hear the story or not?"
"Okay, okay, Serah. Chill. I'm drunk, but not that drunk, you know? Alright, let me focus." Michelle replied with a laugh, also steadying herself against Serah.
"Exeh, hold up. Let me call this guy. Maybe he can get us some more booze." Serah said, pulling her phone out and dialing.
"Yah, man. Exeh, you've seen those cops? You think they know we have weed?" Michelle asked, glancing toward the ZNBC gate, where three guards stood watch, armed with AK47's.
"How exeh?" Serah said as the phone rang next to her ear.
"I don't know exeh that's why I'm asking ah," Michelle responded.
"Last exeh…" Serah began before answering the call. "Hello—George, exeh! Hi, man! It's Serah, exeh!" she said as they walked past the ZNBC gate.
As the two drunk girls strolled by, the guards glanced at their behinds and smiled in satisfaction.
The Zambia National Broadcasting Corporation (ZNBC) Building stood tall and unyielding, its towering walls a silent witness to countless stories over the years. It was a symbol of communication, a bridge between the government and the people. But today, it would become a stage for something far more sinister.
A sudden wail of a siren pierced the air, its sound rising above the morning hum like a knife through fabric. Heads turned instinctively, eyes narrowing to locate the source. A Toyota Land Cruiser ambulance appeared, its white body glinting under the sun as it sped down Alick Nkhata Road. The vehicle weaved through traffic with calculated urgency, its siren commanding obedience as cars and pedestrians moved aside.
As it approached the Thabo Mbeki Road intersection, the traffic lights stayed green, an unusual coincidence that seemed almost deliberate. The ambulance hurtled past, its driver honking aggressively to clear the way. Inside the vehicle, figures moved, their outlines obscured by frosted glass, adding to the growing unease.
The gates of ZNBC loomed ahead, manned by the three unsuspecting guards exchanging small talk. The ambulance swerved sharply, its tires screeching as it turned into the compound. The guards barely had time to react before the vehicle came to a sudden jarring stop, just meters inside. Dust rose around it, swirling in the still air.
"Nanga iyi motoka?"(What's with this car). One guard asked his partner.
"Kaya."(I don't know). The other guard responded.
"Kapena pali problem mukati" (maybe theirs a problem inside) the third guard added.
The back doors of the ambulance burst open, revealing soldiers clad in dark combat gear. The ZNBC guards barely had time to grab a hold of their guns properly, when one of the soldiers, a tall, broad-shouldered man, held up two severed chicken heads and threw them onto the ground with loud thuds.
The guards' faces shifted from confusion to horror. One stumbled back, clutching his chest and dropping his gun. Then, as though possessed, all three guards turned and sprinted headfirst into the compound's fence. The sickening sound of bone meeting concrete echoed across the compound.
Two other soldiers jumped down from the ambulance, their expressions cold and detached. Without hesitation, they dragged the guards' lifeless bodies into the vehicle. The back doors slammed shut, and the ambulance rolled further into the compound, stopping again about a hundred meters away.
Meanwhile, the streets outside seemed oblivious to the unfolding drama. Bystanders walked past the high ZNBC walls, unaware of the dark events taking place just beyond their view. Somehow no one outside the fence had noticed the guards committing unintentional suicide.
Back inside, the silence was broken by the growl of engines. Four identical Land Cruisers, followed the path of the ambulance, entering the compound in quick succession. One by one, heavily armed soldiers stepped out, their faces obscured by masks, their wrists adorned with crude bracelets made of bone. They moved with purpose, their boots thudding against the pavement.
The soldiers fanned out, their sharp eyes scanning every corner.
Suddenly, a strange fog began to creep in, curling around their feet and rising steadily until it cloaked the compound. The bystanders and staff inside froze, watching as the fog thickened. It wasn't natural. The air felt heavy, almost suffocating. Then, as quickly as it had appeared, it dissolved, leaving behind an eerie stillness.
In the minutes this unknown mist lasted for, the Soldiers had seized control.
Staff and bystanders were rounded up, herded toward the front of the X building, hands on their heads, like sheep to a pen. Many whispered prayers under their breath as soldiers barked orders.
Just then, a new sound cut through the tension. The smooth hum of an approaching engine.
A sleek black Toyota Land Cruiser SUV rolled through the gates, number plate BH5, its glossy surface reflecting the chaos around it. The vehicle came to a slow stop near the gathered crowd, its presence commanding silence.
The driver's door opened, and a man stepped out. He was short and buff, his head shiny and bald, his face hidden behind dark sunglasses. His combat gear was spotless, almost ceremonial, contrasting sharply with the dusty boots of his soldiers. He moved with measured steps, exuding authority with every stride.
As he approached the broadcasting studio, his soldiers stood at attention. The man's gaze swept over the crowd, lingering for a moment on the terrified faces of the hostages. He nodded to one of the soldiers, who immediately barked an order to secure the perimeter.
Moments later, TV screens across the nation flickered to life. The bald man stood front and center, his figure filling the screen. His voice was calm but carried the weight of unshakable authority.
"Citizens of Zambia," the bald man began, his words hanging in the air. "President Harambe Harambe has failed to lead this nation. I have taken control of ZNBC, Police Headquarters, and Central Police Station, as well as the Leopards Hill and Longacres University of Lusaka campuses."
He paused, allowing his words to sink in. The silence in homes and workplaces across the country was deafening.
"President Harambe," he continued, "after this broadcast, a timer and a phone number will appear on your screens. You have ten minutes to call that number and resign. If you don't, there will be consequences. Consequences you cannot undo. The choice is yours. It's either you or the nation."
The screen cut to a countdown.
Outside, the bald man—Captain Benzu Hamudula—returned to his car. The vehicle rolled away, leaving the compound as soldiers tightened their grip on their positions.
Across Zambia, families huddled around their televisions, their faces pale with fear. Mothers gripped their children's hands. People exchanged worried glances. The countdown ticked on, each second stretching unbearably long.
What would happen when the timer hit zero? No one knew. But in that moment, one thing was certain—Zambia would never be the same again.
One month before the coup attempt...
10:25a.m, Kafue Town.
The sun was climbing higher over Kafue Town, casting a warm yellow hue over the busy town. Vendors filled the streets, their calls blending with the hum of passing cars.
Ba Banda, his roughened hands neatly arranging the fruits on his cart, moved with the practiced ease of someone who had done this for years. He carefully positioned ripe mangoes, bananas, and pineapples, each piece of fruit placed with intention.
As he arranged the fruits, Ba Banda's gaze shifted across the street. He spotted a woman in a tight red dress walking past. The soft sway of her hips caught his attention. For a moment, he paused mid-arrangement, eyes glued to the sight. A small grin crept across his face.
He shook his head, a hint of embarrassment crossing his face as he realized how his thoughts had drifted. Refocusing on his stall, he caught sight of another woman passing by—a vibrant figure adorned in a colorful headscarf and a flowing skirt. Her elegant stride appeared to captivate every man nearby. Suddenly, a small rat scurried past her, heading toward the filling station next door. The woman let out a startled squeal upon noticing it, drawing laughter from some of the onlookers.
"Eish, aweh lelo kwakaba (Its hot today)" Ba Banda muttered to himself as he chased some flies. He adjusted a pineapple, as if the task had suddenly become far more important.
As he stepped back to admire his work, Patrick walked by and noticed him. "Ba Banda, atshani, Namulila?" (how's it, have you eaten)
Ba Banda gave a short laugh. "Kale mwiache (a long time ago). Patrick, look at those legs, the way she's shaking that bunda" He gave a wink toward the woman who had just passed.
Patrick, checking her out, responded, "Last bakamba (too much big man)"
At the Total filling station, the hum of the pump and the chatter of workers filled the air, as a sleek black Toyota Mark X pulled into the station, tires crunching on the tar as it came to a stop beside one of the fuel pumps. The woman behind the wheel, dressed in a sharp blazer, rolled down her window and handed Patrick two crisp notes.
"Put for four hundred" she said with a cool, controlled voice, her eyes sharp and observant as she passed the money to him.
Patrick took the money and nodded, moving to connect the pump to the car. But just as he started, something caught his eye—a flash of movement near the car. The same rat from earlier darted across the pavement and disappeared beneath the vehicle.
Patrick froze, momentarily caught off guard. His fingers fumbled as he connected the pump, spilling a little fuel onto the ground.
"Iwe careful" the woman in the car said, raising an eyebrow. "We don't need a fire on our hands."
Patrick's face flushed. "Yes, apologies madam."
The woman leaned back in her seat, eyes narrowing. "If I were you, I'd pay attention. These things can be dangerous."
Patrick grinned sheepishly. "Don't worry madam, it wont happen again."
Suddenly, a loud screech of tires interrupted their conversation. Both turned to see a mustang cruising down Kafue road, speeding passed the filling station.
Inside the gas station convenience store, Michelle leaned against the register counter, bored and tapping her fingers idly. She glanced over at George, who was slouched in a chair, scrolling through his phone.
George didn't look up, a lazy smile on his face. "Michelle, buy me some a drink"
Michelle rolled her eyes, clearly unimpressed.
Meanwhile, outside, the Toyota Mark X was still parked at the pump. The rat, now beneath the car, started gnawing at the exposed wiring. The woman in the car, lost in her own thoughts, didn't sense the danger as she absentmindedly tapped the steering wheel. Patrick, still cleaning up his earlier spill, remained unaware of the rat's destructive path.
About two minutes earlier, across the Kafue Road from the filling station, Demetrius stepped out of Transformation Gym, wiping the sweat from his brow. The ache in his muscles was a satisfying reminder of the grueling three-hour workout he'd just completed. The crisp morning air greeted him, cool against his heated skin, and he paused for a moment, savoring the quiet simplicity of the moment.
Today wasn't a day for heroics. It didn't need to be. All Demetrius wanted was to go home, enjoy a bowl of fruit, and let the world spin without him. The chaos of the city was someone else responsibility for now.
He crossed the gym's threshold onto the bustling sidewalk, blending seamlessly with the morning crowd. Life buzzed around him—vendors shouting, vehicles honking, pedestrians weaving through the maze of people and cars. He glanced up, instinctively scanning the street ahead. Everything looked normal, just another busy morning in Kafue Town. But something chewed at him. Maybe it was the lingering tension from his workout, or maybe it was nothing at all.
"Stop overthinking Meech," he told himself with a small chuckle.
Demetrius turned toward home, his mind already drifting to the fresh fruit waiting for him in the fridge. And then it happened. A blinding flash. A deafening roar. The explosion came out of nowhere, ripping through the morning tranquility. The ground shook violently, the sound reverberating in his chest as the force of the blast knocked him back. Screams erupted, and the once-orderly street descended into chaos.
Demetrius hit the pavement hard, his ears ringing as smoke and debris filled the air. Disoriented and stunned, he pushed himself up, coughing as the sharp stench of gasoline and fire stung his lungs. His mind reeled. He hadn't seen it coming. No one had.
The Toyota Mark X erupted in a burst of flames, the force of the blast shaking the ground beneath. Pedestrians next door screamed, vendors scattered, and fruit carts tipped over as people scrambled for safety.
Patrick was thrown back by the blast, his body slamming against the pavement. He was disoriented but still conscious, his face covered in blood. His hands shook as he tried to push himself up, but the world around him was spinning.
Among the speeding traffic, a minibus that had been passing by, was now veering wildly out of control. Inside, the passengers screamed in panic as the driver fought to regain control. The vehicle was headed straight for a young child who stood frozen in the middle of the road.
Demetrius saw it all in an instant. His heart skipped a beat. Without thinking, he sprang into action. His legs pushed forward with incredible speed, his body moving faster than humanly possible. He reached the child just as the minibus closed in, grabbing the boy and hurling them both out of the way. They rolled to safety just as the bus sped past them, its front end missing them by inches. Demetrius stood up, panting, his heart racing. He stared at the child in his arms, a sense of disbelief flooding over him.
Back at the station, the Toyota Mark X continued to burn as chaos enveloped the area. Michelle and George stared at the destruction, jaws hanging open, as they navigated the shards of glass from the broken windows of the store
Michelle said, her voice filled with awe, "life is short. Life is really fucking short"
George nodded, his face pale.
Meanwhile, Demetrius, still standing by the side of the road, checked the boy he'd saved, ensuring the child was unharmed. The kid's wide eyes filled with tears as he clutched Demetrius's arm.
"You're safe now my guy," Demetrius said, trying to offer some comfort, though his pulse was still racing. His body was trembling slightly from the sheer adrenaline coursing through him. He let the kid go.
As the paramedics arrived, their sirens wailing in the distance, the boy's parents rushed over to him, grabbing the kid and running.
Demetrius, still catching his breath, stared
The emergency response teams arrived just moments later, a flurry of activity surrounding the scene. Firefighters quickly worked to control the blaze of the Toyota Mark X, while paramedics rushed to assist the injured.
Patrick, despite his disorientation, managed to stagger to his feet, his head spinning but still conscious.
One of the paramedics approached him, offering a steady hand. "Take it easy, man. You're going to be alright."
Patrick waved him off, clearly more shaken by the events than he let on. "Chikala (dickhead) don't touch me."
Michelle and George, now shaken, stood off to the side, still in shock from the explosion. "This is insane," Michelle muttered, trying to wrap her mind around everything. "I mean, who could've predicted this? It all happened so fast!"
George, still wide-eyed, nodded. "I need a drink... and maybe a whole new life plan."
Back on the other side of the road, Demetrius stood frozen for a moment, processing what had just happened. He couldn't quite believe the speed at which his life had shifted. He'd saved a kid. He hadn't thought about it, he just acted.
The boy, now reunited with his parents, kept glancing back at Demetrius with wide eyes, still not fully understanding what had happened.
"Shit... did I really just do that?" Demetrius thought. His pulse was still pounding in his ears. His mind raced, but he didn't feel anything yet. Was he in shock? Or was it just the rush? He couldn't remember the last time he'd done something that felt this powerful, this immediate. He'd been running purely on instinct, not stopping to think about the consequences, the speed, the risk. But it had worked. He had saved that kid. He stood there a moment longer, his chest still heaving with the remnants of adrenaline. Then, shaking his head, he let out a breath, and finally began to turn away from the scene. A slight ache in his legs reminded him that his body wasn't invincible, but the rush... the rush was something else. Something he hadn't ever experienced. He'd moved faster than he thought possible.
The paramedics and firefighters continued their work, making sure everyone was accounted for and the situation was under control. The smoke was clearing, the flames dying down, and slowly, things began to return to some form of normalcy. But for Demetrius, the day had shifted on its axis. Whatever happened next, he would never be the same.