In the shadowed villages of Kilimanjaro, where history lived not in ink but in breath and bone, an old mancal healer arrived.
No drum announced him. No horn welcomed him. Yet before he reached the village, dogs whimpered and refused to bark, birds fled the trees, and children stopped playing as if an invisible hand had pressed silence into the air. Elders would later say they felt him before they saw him—like the sudden chill that creeps across the skin before the mountain rains fall.
He wore a red rubega, its cloth faded and darkened like blood long dried beneath the sun. It clung to his frail body as if it had grown from his flesh rather than been worn. Around his right leg was bound a small red charm, its beads cracked and polished smooth by decades of ritual walking. Around his left leg rested a heavier black charm, dull and dense, humming faintly whenever it brushed the ground—as if answering something beneath the soil.
At his waist hung a massive charm—half black, half red—wrapped like a warrior's belt. It was layered with feathers of night birds, small animal bones, carved gourds, and symbols belonging to no single tribe, but to an older unity remembered only by spirits.
He was seventy-five years old.
Yet age bowed before him.
Not because he was strong—but because the ancestors walked beside him, whispering into the hollow places of his soul.
A pale white scar curved from the bridge of his nose to beneath his left eye—Kivuli cha Kusikia, is Swahili word which mean the Mark of Listening—carved only into those who had survived hearing the voices of the dead and returned unchanged. Six dark dots were etched across his forehead in a precise line, mihuri ya vizazi, which mean the seals of generations—each one representing a life-cycle witnessed, judged, and sealed by the spirits.
Razor scars marked his cheeks, his hands, and his chest. Each incision came in groups of five, a sacred number among the old tribes: ancestors, the living, the unborn, the spirits, and death. The scars across his chest were the oldest—wide, deep, uneven—marks given only to those who had been cut open during possession and lived. They had not bled in decades, but they remembered.
His teeth were yellowed by age and bitter ritual herbs. And when he spoke, his voice scratched and growled, as if something else borrowed his throat—something ancient, impatient, and awake.
This man did not predict the future.
He listened to it.
The village gathered beneath a massive baobab tree, its trunk thick and scarred, its roots twisted and exposed like ancient fingers gripping the earth, refusing to release the secrets buried below. The tree had stood longer than any living soul present. It had watched generations rise, fall, and return to dust. It had heard promises, confessions, curses—and it remembered them all.
"Listen!" the healer shouted, slamming his staff into the soil.
The ground trembled faintly.
"The spirits of our ancestors have chosen to speak!"
A ripple of unease spread through the crowd.
"Again?"
"What now?"
"Hasn't enough been said already?"
The old man raised his staff slowly. His eyes clouded, no longer seeing the villagers, the tree, or the sky above—only what waited beyond.
"A few days… or years from now," he said, his voice trembling as though dragged from another realm, "twin boys will be born."
The wind shifted.
"One will carry the mark of wings upon his back—not carved, not burned, but born. One wing will bear the shadow of night. The other, the memory of light."
The air thickened. Breaths shortened. Even the birds fell silent.
"These children," he continued, his voice heavy with dread, "will carry Msingi wa Ulimwengu—the balance of the world itself. Where they walk, blood will follow. Kingdoms will tremble. The old order will crack, and what was buried will rise."
Fear crept into every heart like slow poison.
"So what do we do?" the Chief demanded, stepping forward. His voice was firm, but tension tightened his jaw. "What path protects our people?"
The healer did not hesitate.
"We kill them at birth," he said coldly. "A small price for survival."
Gasps tore through the crowd.
"That's cruel."
"That's murder."
"That's beyond cruelty."
"Or," the healer added calmly, unmoved, "we cast them away—into the wilderness where spirits lose their names. Or from the high cliffs, where the earth swallows what it does not want."
Silence fell.
Heavy. Suffocating.
"What do you say, Chief?" a villager asked.
The Chief exhaled deeply, the weight of generations pressing on his shoulders.
"It is life versus the future of this village," he said slowly. "And I choose the future. But what do the ancestors command?"
"They offered no mercy," the healer replied. "Only a warning."
"So… are they born already?" someone whispered.
"No," the healer said. "But soon."
The Chief straightened, his voice carrying across the gathering.
"All midwives in my land," he declared, "if you deliver a child bearing these signs—these alama za mizimu—report it immediately. For the safety of our kingdom. Am I clear?"
"Yes, Chief!" the villagers answered in unison.
Fear settled like smoke over the land.
From that day forward, pregnant women slept with restless hearts, hands pressed tightly to their bellies, terrified of giving birth to a curse.
All except one.
Her name was Zawadi.
She sat quietly beneath the baobab tree, hands resting gently on her swollen belly, calm where others trembled. She did not fear the prophecy. She believed her children would be warriors, not monsters—born of balance, not destruction—just like their father, the greatest general the Chief's army had ever known.
Her skin glowed like dark chocolate beneath the sun. She was of average height, her figure flowing like water shaped by patience and endurance. Her hair was white—rare among her people—her eyes a piercing blue that reflected both wisdom and defiance. Round scar marks rested gently on her cheeks, alama za uzao, carved during her passage into womanhood—symbols of fertility, lineage, and continuity. They marked her as a bearer of generations.
She waited.
"Sorry for keeping you waiting, my wife."
The voice was calm. Strong.
Bahati stood before her—six feet tall, broad-chested, muscles hardened by countless battles. Old scars crossed his chest, trophies of wars fought and survived. His dark hair framed a face both gentle and deadly. He was a master swordsman and a wielder of ice magic, feared by enemies and respected by all.
"No, my love," Zawadi said softly. "For you, I would wait all day."
He embraced her carefully, mindful of her condition.
"With your state? Never," he smiled. "Let's go home."
As they walked, Zawadi spoke again, her voice hesitant.
"May I ask you something?"
"Anything."
"If I give birth to a child marked by the spirits…" She paused. "Would you report me?"
Bahati froze.
For a heartbeat, the warrior vanished—replaced by a man torn between duty and blood.
"No," he said quickly, forcing a smile. "Of course not. Why would you ask?"
"Just curious," she replied, smiling back—pretending she hadn't seen the fracture in his eyes.
At their home, a man stood waiting.
"Good evening, Bahati's family."
He was their neighbor—around forty, quiet, kind, and carefully unnoticed. No one knew his past. Only the Chief and a few elders knew the truth.
He was a mage.
A powerful one.
Neighboring kingdoms whispered that he was a living spirit, a man whose magic had crossed into legend.
"Shikamoo, jirani," Bahati and Zawadi greeted.
"Marahaba," he replied warmly.
"A message from the Chief?" Bahati asked.
"Yes."
They sat together as Zawadi brought out vigoda.
"In three months," the mage said, "you, the Chief, and I will visit neighboring lands. Peace talks."
Bahati frowned.
"Is this the Chief… or his son?"
The mage smiled knowingly.
"The son. He wants to be useful."
That evening passed in warmth—stories of war, shared food, laughter that tried to push fear away.
Then three months passed.
The day came.
Only days remained before Zawadi would give birth.
"My love," Bahati said, holding her hands tightly, "if I return late… name the children yourself. Bless them. I will bring them gifts when I return."
She hugged him tightly.
"Go safely."
He walked away with the old mage.
Unaware—
That destiny had already begun to move.