The morning sun rose over Kinamis with a kind of rare brilliance, casting long golden rays over the roofs of the town. Kinamis was not a place known for haste. Life here unfolded in slow rhythms, sunrise to sunset, market to riverbank, prayer to sleep. But on this day, something changed. A different kind of hum threaded the air, rumbling engines, foreign voices barking in clipped accents. It was the sound of promise, of transformation. It was the sound of a contract come alive.
The townspeople had gathered along the dusty roadside like it was a festival. And in some ways, it was. Children ran barefoot, their laughter weaving through the air like birdsong. Women appeared in colorful outfits. Drummers had already begun tapping their rhythms, the boom and rattle echoing from the belly of carved talking drums. Banners displayed in the breeze: PROJECT OPENING CEREMONY NEW KINAMIS EXPRESSWAY.
All of this had been made possible by the town's king, His Majesty King Marcus, a stout man with sharp eyes and a voice that could command both silence and song. A former civil engineer turned monarch, King Marcus had long promised the people of Kinamis that their town would not be left behind. He had walked the corridors of state power, leveraged every connection, and now, at last, his efforts had borne fruit.
He had signed a multimillion dollars contract with Andar Holdings, a foreign construction company with sleek brochures and confident, suit-wearing executives who smiled too much. They had come with promises of roads that would not crack in the first rainy season, of machines that could clear a hill in hours, of jobs and light and progress. And today was the beginning.
The ceremonial tent was already full. The council members, politicians and well-wishers packed into the seats covered with white fabric. At the center sat King Marcus, his deep blue outfit embroidered with golden thread, a beaded crown on his head. A microphone was being adjusted for him as he rose to speak.
"My people," he began, his voice firm and warm, "this is a new dawn for Kinamis." Applause rippled through the crowd.
"For too long we have been forgotten, neglected. But no more. This road, this expressway is our gateway to the future. It will bring trade, jobs, security. It will connect us not just to the outside world, but to our destiny."
Cheers rang out. Some people howl, others simply clapped, tears shining in their eyes. There was something deeply hopeful in the moment, an expectation that the sorrows of the past might finally be paved over by the machinery of progress.
The sun had barely settled into its morning position when the community women began to arrive. One by one at first, then in clusters, and finally in a tide of colours and voices. They came in numbers, their footsteps stirring dust and anticipation alike, their faces painted with joy and pride. Some wore matching outfits in bright yellows and greens, others tied their headscarves in towering folds, their beads clinking with each graceful movement. It was not just a ceremony, it was a celebration of identity, of resilience, and of hope long deferred.
They sang as they walked, the harmony rising like incense into the blue Kinamis sky. Their songs were praises, not just for the guests and the foreigners who had brought their machines, but chiefly for their king. King Marcus, their son, their leader, the one who had remembered them. They sang with his name, some of them composing praises on the spot.
"King Marcus! The roadmaker! The one who speaks and the ground listens! The hand that open doors no man can shut!"
As the women passed the tents and approached the clearing where the king was seated, they broke into howling and joyful chants. A few danced forward, their feet kicking up rhythm in perfect time with the talking drums. Others raised small calabashes filled with scented water and fresh leaves, performing gestures of blessing and peace. They circled near the king and his chiefs, creating a ring of femininity around the ceremony's epicenter.
The king, dressedl in his embroidered blue outfit, rose slightly and bowed his head in acknowledgment. His smile was one of deep satisfaction; he knew the power of the women, the heartbeat they brought to the town. Their presence was not just symbolic, it was foundational. If Kinamis had a soul, it danced in their songs. Then came the youths.
If the women brought warmth and tradition, the youth brought fire and direction. They emerged from the northern edge of the square in disciplined formation, the sound of whistles and chants preceding them. Dressed in coordinated T-shirts bearing the town's emblem and phrases like "Kinamis Rises" and "Youth for Progress," they marched with a rhythm that merged activism with celebration. The leadership was clear, Rost Joks, tall and articulate, led the group at the front, walking shoulder-to-shoulder with Molly, known across the town for her fearless voice and organizational prowess.
The crowd parted slightly as the youths approached, not out of fear, but out of recognition. Here were the town's heartbeat and future, walking in unity. They didn't come to spectate, they came to own the moment. And they did, breaking formation only when they reached the ceremonial space, where they formed a semi-circle and raised their voices in a chant of solidarity:
"Who owns Kinamis? We do! Who builds Kinamis? We will! Who protects the road? We must!"
Their presence electrified the ceremony. Council members nodded in appreciation, women clapped, and the construction visitors raised their brows in admiration. The entire gathering was alive, not just with celebration, but with promise.
Rost Joks stepped forward briefly to greet the king, dropping to one knee as custom demanded, before standing again to raise a single fist in the air, a symbol of unity, not defiance. Molly followed with a nod of respect to the Council Members. Their message was clear: the youth were not just present, they were prepared.
Stephen Brandt, the site manager of Andar Holdings, tall, sunburnt, and with a trimmed beard, stepped forward with a respectful nod to King Marcus and addressed the crowd. "Your Majesty, and the good people of Kinamis, thank you for your warm welcome and trust," he began. "At Andar Holdings, we don't just build roads, we build lasting partnerships. What we see here is a community with vision, and we're honored to walk this journey with you. I assure you, our team will work with respect, dedication, and excellence. We will deliver a road that serves generations and stands as a symbol of progress." The crowd applauded warmly.
From a short distance, Stephen Brandt watched with a mild smirk. He had overseen dozens of such ceremonies across the continent. They all looked the same: local royalty, eager crowds, politicians angling for photo ops. But beneath the show, he respected what this meant. Roads brought change, sometimes for the better, sometimes not.
Brandt walked back toward the equipment staging area where the machines gleamed in the morning sun, bulldozers, excavators, graders, and a mammoth drilling rig that looked like it could burrow through the world's crust. He passed his crew, mostly a mix of foreigners and locals. One of them, Fotter, a brawny man from the East, spat into the dirt and nodded.
"Are you ready to crack this earth?" Brandt asked, adjusting his cap. Fotter grinned. "Let's crack it, sir."
The ribbon was cut. The drums swelled. The engines roared to life. Earth was broken.
Later that evening, as the sun dipped low and Kinamis fell into its warm twilight hush, the machines had already cleared a stretch of bushland half a kilometer long. The scent of diesel mingled with crushed leaves and warm soil. Trees that had stood for decades lay fallen, their roots writhing in the open like the fingers of drowned giants.
King Marcus stood at the edge of the clearing, flanked by two chiefs. He watched as the land yielded to iron.
"Your Highness," said , a wiry man with an ever-skeptical face, "I hope we haven't woken something better left sleeping."
Marcus chuckled softly. "Progress, and progress only, there is no room for superstition."
"But every land has memory," said the other council member, an old man whose name everyone simply knew as Pa George. "And every memory has guardians."
The king was silent for a moment, staring into the fading light.
"Then let the guardians bear witness," he said, turning away. "We are building the future. Let no one say Kinamis slept while the world moved."
But even as he spoke, beneath the ground, something stirred. It was faint, no more than a shiver. But it was there.
Far below the surface, in a chamber that had not known light for centuries, a crack formed along the side of a great black stone.
And in the absolute silence of that buried darkness, a whisper coiled like smoke: a voice without breath, a name without language.
Osungho. Not yet awake. But watching. Waiting. The contract had been signed. The road had begun. The god had heard.