Yesterday heralded the release of Dieselfunk!, the follow up anthology to the groundbreaking Steamfunk! anthology. The idea for Dieselfunk! came almost simultaneously with Steamfunk. Balogun and I had discussed the anthology at length; as a matter of fact he coined the term around the same time as we adopted the term Steamfunk to describe Steampunk rooted in the African/African Diaspora experience. Many of you are familiar with the aftermath of the release of Steamfunk; it’s was my top selling anthology until the release of Dark Universe and has been taught in a number of colleges and universities including Georgia Tech.
Although Steampunk is relatively well known among speculative fiction enthusiasts, Dieselpunk is a bit more obscure. So what exactly is Dieselpunk, and why does it deserved to be funkdafied? Let’s start with the definition. Wikipedia defines Dieselpunk as a genre similar to that of its more well-known cousin “steampunk” that combines the aesthetics of the diesel-based technology of the interwar period (World War I and World War II) through to the 1950s with retro-futuristic technology and postmodern sensibilities. Balogun Ojetade defines Dieselfunk as ‘a type of fiction, film and fashion that combines the style and mood of the period between World War I and the early 1950s with Afrofuturistic inspiration. Dieselfunk tells the exciting untold stories of people of African descent during the Jazz Age. Think the Harlem Renaissance meets Science Fiction…think Chalky White (from “Boardwalk Empire”) doing battle with robots run amok in his territory…that is Dieselfunk!’
It makes sense that Dieselpunk would be of interest to people of African Descent, particularly African Americans. This was a volatile time in America. The country was 50 years away
from the Civil War and Jim Crow ruled the South. The Negro of the early 20th century was significantly different from the 19th century; black people were educated, restless and becoming more and more vocal against the inequality of America. Many sought to prove themselves by joining the armed forces to fight against the Germany and its allies. What they found when they reached Europe was an attitude that while not perfect, was significantly better than the racism in America. Black soldiers and pilots distinguished themselves in battle; Eugene Bullard became the first Black American fighter pilot, while the 369th ‘Harlem Hellfighters’ earned a ferocious reputation among allies and enemies alike while at the same time enduring the insults and discrimination of their countrymen.
When these soldiers returned home they found an America even more hostile to them than when they left despite their service. The Ku Klux Klan experienced a resurgence due to the fear of thousands of black men returning from war and the shameless propaganda of the movie ‘Birth of A Nation. Still, black people continued to strive and achieve, building communities such as Harlem, New York and Greenwood, Tulsa, also known as Black Wall Street. When World War II arrived Black men and woman once again answered the call. The push for equal rights at home and overseas resulted in the integration of the arm forces and changes which eventually led to the Civil Rights movement in the ’50s and ’60s.
So as you can see, the time in which Dieselpunk rests its hat is fertile ground for a unique perspective. In other words, Dieselpunk was begging to be funkdafied. While both Steampunk and Dieselpunk stories can be written without mention of the racial dynamics of the time, it is telling that most of the writers of Dieselfunk! chose to incorporate the history within their stories, resulting in stories that in my opinion raises the Dieselfunk! anthology to a level beyond it’s sister anthology.
Balogun Ojetade’s story, ‘SOAR: Wild Blue Yonder‘, sets the pace with an action-packed adventure which includes the 555th Parachute Infantry Battalion, the first all-black paratrooper unit and the Tuskegee Airmen joining forces to carry out a secret mission.
Day Al-Mohamed’s ‘Powerplay‘ centers around the real life story of mob-buster Eunice Carter with a special twist that qualifies her story for pages of the anthology.
S.A. Cosby’s ‘The Girl With The Iron Heart‘ takes us on an inter-dimensional journey where the main character finds himself invisible to the system, which has its advantages and disadvantages.
Then there’s ‘Into the Breach‘ by Malon Edwards, an imaginative patios ladened story that takes place in a Chicago like you never
Angel’s Flight by Joe Hilliard tells the story of a boy pursuing his dream and the legacy that fuels his life.
Ronald T. Jones ‘Unusual Threats and Circumstances‘ takes us back to Chicago, specifically to the city section known as Bronzeville, where Jericho Aldrige’s terror filled night becomes the beginning of an amazing adventure.
Carole McDonnell gives us rocket men and the personal trials of the Jim Crow South in her story ‘Bonregard and the Three Ninnies;’ and in my story ‘Down South,’ Roscoe Tanner travels back to the South against his better judgement to help a woman retrieve something of great value.
The Dieselfunk! Anthology ends with ‘Big Joe and the Electro-Men‘ by James A. Staten a perfect blend of science fiction, espionage and undercover brothers and sisters.
Though significantly shorter than the Steamfunk! anthology, Dieselfunk! packs a punch. The weight of history and the imaginative storytelling makes it an anthology I’m very proud of. I hope you enjoy it as much as I do.
To get your copy of Dieselfunk!, visit http://www.mvmediaatl.com/.
Moses hesitated. He turned then stared into the eyes of Amanda Berkowitz. Her dirty gray hair fell off her head in disarray, blood splattered on her blouse, apron and skirt. She pressed her small hands against her chest, the village posture for prayer.
“Come on Amanda, don’t do this,” Moses said. “You let this bastard go and he’ll be back with friends.”
“I won’t! I swear to God I won’t!” the man said. Tears escaped his wide brown eyes.
“We’ve had enough of your brand of salvation today,” Amanda said. “Let him go.”
Moses lowered his gun. ‘I don’t understand you people.”
He raised his gun again, smashing the barrel against the slaver’s head. The man fell to all fours as he moaned.
“Get the fuck out of here,” Moses said. “If you’re smart you won’t come back.”
The man scramble to his feet then ran for the lead truck, the only one untouched by Moses’ attack. Moses raised his gun, firing off a round that struck the ground before the man’s right foot.
“No, buddy. You’re walking out of here.”
The man sprinted by the truck , through the other burning vehicles then down the main road.
Moses holstered his guns then strode to Amanda.
“You’ll be seeing him again,” he said.
“Maybe not,” Amanda replied. Villagers emerged from their hiding places to care for the wounded and collect the dead. Amanda trudged to the crowd that surrounded Christopher’s body. Together they prayed, their voices barely louder than a whisper. When they were done Amanda stepped away.
“Let’s get him buried,” she said. “No use staring any longer. Chris is gone to Glory.”
“When are you people going to listen to reason,” Moses shouted. “As long as you stay Outside this is going to happen. You’ll all be gone to Glory before the year’s out!”
“Mr. Pritchard!” Amanda strode them, standing so close their noses almost touched.
“I will not let you use this tragedy to further Newlanta’s agenda! It’s not your place to do so!”
“You’re correct Amanda. It’s not his place. It’s mine.”
Thomas Dern stepped between Moses and Amanda, his wide white smile in contrast to his umber skin. He wore his usual khakis and books, although the uniform looked more like that of a zoo guide than a soldier. Moses had been so distracted he didn’t hear the Extractors arrive.
Thomas was a tall, attractive man, the perfect eye candy for retrieval duty. He shared a sympathetic smile with Amanda as he took her hand.
“My team will tend to the burials and your wounded,” he said.
“We can take care of our own,” Amanda replied, the harshness gone from her voice.
“I know, but we wish to help,” Thomas said. “It’s the least we can do.”
Amanda kissed Thomas’s cheek. “Thank you, Thomas. God bless you.”
She glared at Moses before walking away.
Thomas held onto his smile until Amanda was gone from view before snapping his head around to face Moses.
“God damn it Moses! What were you trying to do?”
Moses shrugged then folded his arms. “You’ve been trying to sweet talk these assholes into Newlanta for three years. Thought I’d try some tough love. I’m tired of saving people that don’t want to be saved.”
“It’s your job,” Thomas retorted. “If you have a problem, complain to the mayor…or leave.”
“Maybe I’ll do both,” Moses said. He sauntered to one of the dead slavers, knelt beside him then searched his pockets until he found keys. He climbed into the damaged truck the pressed the start button. The truck bucked then rumbled to life.
“What are you doing?” Thomas asked.
“I blew up my bike, so I’m taking the truck back,” Moses said.
“The trucks belong to the village now,” Thomas said.
“Not this one. I’ll see you back at the ranch.”
“I’m filing a report!” Thomas said.
“Can’t wait to read it.” Moses back up the truck then steered it around.
“See you later, Tommy Boy!”
Thomas’s shook a fist at Moses as he drove away.
“I told you not to call me that!”
The trucks sped down the main road of the village, stopping in the center of town. Christopher Talbert, the village elder, emerged from the wooden town center building and strolled to the trucks. He raised his hands in the customary village greeting. Armed men sprang from the truck, firing automatic weapons into the air.
“Slavers!” Moses shouted. He clambered down the tree, dropping the last few feet and landing on his booted feet. He sprinted to his bike.
“Back up is on the way,” the voice said.
“Won’t get here in time,” Moses said. He jumped on his bike then kick started the engine to life.
“I got this,” he said.
Moses sped down the narrow trail then merged onto the main highway. In minutes he was at the town’s outskirts, streaking by villagers fleeing the intruders. With his left hand he pulled out his magnum from the hostler nestled under his right arm, blasting two slavers chasing the villagers. He downed two more slavers on his way to the town center. Fiver slavers lay dead by the time he jumped from the bike. The bike crashed into the rear of the truck then both vehicles caught fire. Moses scrambled to his feet then ran for cover. Minutes later the truck exploded, killing those slavers too foolish to seek cover.
“Moses?” the voice said. “Are you okay? What’s going on?”
Moses weaved through the remaining trucks as bullets whizzed by his head.
“I’m in town center,” he said as he ducked behind a burning truck. “Five slavers are down, about ten wounded. I figure ten, maybe fifteen still standing but not for long.”
“Moses, disengage!” the voice commanded. “Our team is almost there!”
A slaver jumped around the truck facing Moses, an automatic pressed into his gut. Moses sidestepped as the man fired then shot him in the chest, blowing him from behind the truck.
“Moses! Get out of there now!”
“Shut the fuck up!” Moses said. He shut off his head set.
He was taking fire from all sides, pinned between two trucks.
“Divide and conquer, homeboy,” he whispered. He took out his second magnum.
“Let’s do this!”
Moses sprinted to his right, guns in both hands. Three slavers stepped out to cut him off and Moses shot them down, one shot for each man. Before the other slavers could pursue he disappeared behind the nearest building. He holstered his magnums then took his rifle from his back.
“Time to go hunting,” he said. He worked his way between the buildings and vehicles, hunting down the slavers with methodical precision. One shot, one man. The last slaver cowered behind a small jeep, his head exposed. Moses raised his rifle then took aim. The man seemed to sense his predicament; he stood, his shaking hands raised over his head.
“I give up! I give up!”
Moses’s finger tightened on his trigger.
“It’s a little late for that,” he said.
Moses sat cross-legged in the tree stand overlooking Crim Valley, watching the village below. For three days he observed the villagers going about their daily routine and he was getting aggravated. This was retriever work. But orders were orders, so he calmed down and waited for further commands.
He blinked, answering his headset.
“Yeah, go ahead.”
“Sanchez spotted a truck convoy heading in your direction two days ago.”
“Don’t know. There were no armored cars, just trucks. They seemed to be travelling light, moving fast.”
“Coming from the south?”
Moses puts down his binoculars then leaned against the long leafed pine as he massaged his forehead.
“I’m tired of going in circles with these villagers. Just send in the damned retrievers and bring them in already.”
“You know the rules,” the voice said. “Assimilation must be voluntary. Otherwise we’re no better than slavers.”
“Yeah, yeah. If it was up to me I’d dragged their assess behind the Perimeter kicking and screaming. They’d thank me later.”
“That’s why it’s not up to you.”
The rumble of heavy vehicles stole Moses’ attention. He lifted the binoculars, looking to they ragged highway snaking through the dense pines.
“The trucks are here,” he commented.
“What do you see?”
The vehicles sped down the highway then veered onto the two-lane leading into the village. They continued into the central square, filling the roundabout before stopping and blocking traffic. Christopher Tolbert, the village elder, emerged from the elders’ compound covered in his rank robe, his gray beaded braids bouncing off his narrow shoulders. He strolled to the trucks, his hands opened in the traditional village greeting. A dozen armed men leapt from the truck. One of them leveled his automatic at Christopher then emptied his clip into the man’s chest.
“Slavers!” Moses shouted. He clambered down the tree then sprinted to his bike.
“Back up is on the way,” the voice said. “Hold your position until they arrive.”
“Not enough time,” Moses said. “I’m going in.”
“Moses wait! You can’t…”
Moses checked his weapons then started the bike.
“Yes I can. I’m a neutralizer, remember?”
I must admit my publishing is a totally selfish project. I chose to do so to sell my books and to have the opportunity to own my own business again. The majority of the books I publish are written by me; my anthologies are edited by me and a few friends and contain stories I’ve written. I do publish a few books not written by me and I plan to publish a few more, but even that effort is focused totally on what I do or do not like. I’m not a publisher that happens to be a writer; I’m a writer who happens to be a publisher.
That being said I’ve always believed that the only way we will see true diversity in publishing is when new publishing companies are established that have diversity in their DNA; companies that are created to serve the increasingly diverse readership and writing in speculative fiction. Only a company that lives and dies by diversity will bring the change we want to see in this industry.
Enter Bill Campbell and Rosarium Publishing. I met Bill at the Octavia E. Butler Celebration of the Fantastic Arts at Spelman College in 2013. Since that day I’ve watched him build Rosarium Publishing to the publisher I imagined, a publisher that not only offers wide diversity in writers but also a diversity in subject matter and format.
Bill has accomplished much in three short years, and as a fellow publisher I’m more than impressed. Publishing ain’t easy. Now he’s attempting to take Rosarium Publishing to the next level, graduating from print on demand to offset printing. What does that mean? It means that Rosarium will be able to print larger runs, thereby offering better pricing to distributors who in turn supply his books to bookstores, libraries and other outlets. Which means more opportunities to purchase their great titles for you and I.
Crowdfunding is one of the best things that has happened to publishing. Writers and publishers can now go directly to the fans of their work and raise the money to create what the readers want to read. Rosarium Publishing has done the same, hoping to raise the money to raise their company to the next level. Here’s our opportunity to practice what we preach and support a publisher dedicated to giving us what we want. Join me in supporting Rosarium, and do so now. Crowdfunding campaigns have a short window of opportunity so the sooner you contribute the better. Let’s take an active part in making the future what we want it to be.
You can show your support for Rosarium Publishing by contributing to their Indigogo campaign;
Science Fiction is a genre in which all future possibilities can be and should be considered. But publishing, just like any other business, is iinfluenced by the opinions of those who controlled the industry and the perceived desires of the purchasing demographics. These opinions have greatly influenced what we see from black speculative writers via large publishers. Over the years it seems that science fiction from black writers has been delegated to those issues publishers believe their demographic will respond to. If you look at most published works by black writers, they deal with social issues particular to the ‘black experience’, i.e. racism. These stories usually deal with the black protagonist as the underdog struggling against an oppressive system or dealing with racism in a different form. Very few science fiction novels display black characters as people in powerful positions, and when they do the characters are not the main characters. And action/adventure science fiction, filled withe heroic characters accomplishing major world or galaxy changing events, is a virtual desert for black main characters.
Which is one of the reasons why Dark Universe exists. The concept began as a thread titled ‘A Dark Story. I posted a snippet of a deposed emperor being led to to stand trial before those who had overthrown him. The emperor was black and was the last of a line of emperors who had controlled a galactic empire for 1000 years. The thread expanded when other writers joined the mix, most notably Gene Peterson and Ronald Jones. As the thread continued I realized what usually happens when such threads begin: this needs to be an anthology.
And thus the work began. I felt that if we were going to have an anthology centered on a galactic empire founded and ruled by people of color we would need a sound foundation. Gene Peterson and I created a manifesto for the anthology, with Gene keeping the efforts alive as I meandered to different projects. It just so happened that the Dark Universe (DU) concept dovetailed perfectly into a project Gene was working on, a story centered around the space mercenary Pack Loren. Gene tweaked his concept, resulting in Pack becoming a major character in the evolving space opera.
It was important to both of us that this space opera have a distinct Afrocentric feel. All empires reflect the culture of its founders, and the Cassad Empire is no different. Although the seed of the empire was corporate in origin, its founders were a family whose ideas and centered around building a better and fairer world for people of the African Diaspora. That idea intensified after the collapse of the previous economic bloc centered galactic network due to the Dark Age, a time in which most technology is lost due to a mysterious EMP (electromagnetic pulse event) that crippled the settled planets. Cassidy, now known as Cassad, emerged from this cataclysm first lead by Ziara Cassad, from whom the planet was eventually renamed. It is here where the Empire begins and the culture takes on a distinctively Afrocentric tone. The inspiration of the Cassad’s 1000 year reign came from the Sayfawa dynasty of Kanem-Bornu, one of the longest ruling dynasties in the world.
As the project progressed we selected our writers. The DU anthology was not an open submission. We were building the foundation of what we hope will be a long running concept, so we chose writers were felt would bring the fire. These were writers we admired and respected for their science fiction writing skills. Ronald Jones, DaVaun Sanders, Balogun Ojetade, K. Ceres Wright and Penelope Flynn answered the call. We created a forum where we shared ideas and filled in the details of the empire to make sure our separate stories followed a general timeline yet retained their individual voices.
Finally, after three years of work, Dark Universe was released in December of 2o15. The timing was deliberate; we wanted to take advantage of the Star Wars movie release and the excitement it would generate. The results have been as we hoped. Dark Universe is an example how Afrocentric history can be meshed with science fiction futures without focusing on those issues that many publishers try to regulate their black writers. Dark Universe is exciting space opera science fiction that lays the foundation for future anthologies and novels that take place in this unique and amazing universe. We have many more stories to tell and we hope you join us on this fantastic journey. The e-book is available now; the paperback is coming soon. Welcome to the Dark Universe.
Changa entered the outskirts of Kilwa Milikiya under a noonday sun. The abandoned city was quiet, but Changa knew his men still lived. He’d seen signs along the way of felled trees and animal remains which meant they were following his orders. His feelings were confirmed as he neared the mosque; Yusef and the others emerged single file.
“I thought I told you to build a dhow, Yusef!” Changa shouted.
The big man jerked around so fast he almost fell.
“Kibwana! You’re alive!”
The baharia cheered as they ran to him. They lifted him off his feet, parading around the mosque three times before finally placing him down and smothering him with hugs. Yusef was the last to greet him.
“We thought you were dead!” he said. “We were sure Sayidana killed you.”
“As you can see that’s not the case.”
Yusef frowned. “Where is she?”
“She’s gone home as we should,” Changa said. “How are the dhow repairs coming?”
“There was no need for that,” a familiar voice said.
Niko walked up to Changa.
“My conscience would not let me rest,” he said. “I had to be with my brothers. I gathered a skeleton crew then set out a week after you. I see that it was more than guilt.”
Changa hugged Niko. “It’s good to see you.”
“Now we can leave this damned city!” Yusef said.
“Not yet,” Changa said. “You forgot why we came.”
Yusef raised his hands. “There is nothing here, bwana. They took everything with them!”
“Not quite,” Changa said. He looked about to get his bearing then set off at a trot. When he arrived at the third compound he entered the overgrown courtyard then walked up to the veranda.
“Does anyone have a shovel?” Changa asked.
Moments later a baharia arrived with a makeshift shovel. Changa dug through the sand and shell mix until he struck something hard. The others immediately set about digging, revealing a large mahogany box. It took the entire crew another hour to dig out the container. Changa broke the rusted lock with his sword hilt then opened the box. The container was filled with ivory and bags of gold dust.
“We are saved!” Yusef shouted.
The baharia broke out into a celebration dance. Changa sat and exhaled. He’d found what he came for. His business was spared. He looked up into the cloud stained sky then closed his eyes.
“Thank you, Belay for your teaching and wisdom. Thank you Sayidana for your gift.”
He opened his eyes, jumped to his feet, then danced with his men.
I hope you enjoyed Changa’s adventure. The Gate is one of many stories included in the prequel anthology ‘Before the Safari’ by yours truly. It’s available now in e-book format, so get yourself a copy and read about Changa, Panya, The Tuareg, Mikaili and Amir Zakee before they became crew mates. You’ll be glad you did.
Changa remained awake long after Sayidana slept, worry and guilt refusing him rest. His decision to come the tainted island revealed his inexperience. Maybe if he had studied his situation long he could have found another way to redeem his losses. But he had chosen what he thought would be a quick way to alieve his debts. His life and the lives of his crew were in danger now. Belay’s sons were right; he was not fit to be a merchant. When…if they returned to Mombasa he would sell the business to the sons then hire himself out. A man should know his place, the saying goes. Changa had discovered his.
He finally slept. A warm breeze rustled the coconut canopies, the occasional call of an animal in the distance breaking the silence. Changa was awakened by a gentle touch to his cheek. He opened his eyes to Sayidana hovering over him. She straddled him, her nude body almost touching him.
“It has been so long since a man has touched me,” she said, her voice echoing in his head. “You can have me, if you wish.”
She wrapped her arms around his neck, pressing her body against his. Changa reacted instinctively, his arms embracing her waist and pulling her close. She nuzzled against his neck, nipping his skin with her teeth.
The shrill cry pierced his ears. It was Sayidana’s voice screaming from a distance, yet she lay atop him.
“Changa! It’s not me! Free yourself!”
The gentle grip around his neck became a painful hold. He felt pain as the thing pretending to be Sayidana bit into his neck with a snarl. Changa gripped the thing’s neck then forced its head away. He rolled until he was on top, pushing it further away. It thrashed under him, its face transforming into that of a bird-like visage. With a cry it shoved Changa away. Changa scrambled to his feet, ready to defend himself. The being continued to transform into a giant bird, resembling the money eagles of the interior. It jumped upward then with a snap of its wings ascended into the dark sky. It let out another blood chilling cry as it flew north.
Changa’s neck wound burned like fire as he swayed then fell to the ground. The real Sayidana rushed to him.
“What…what was that?” Changa said, his energy waning with each second.
“It was the inpundulu,” Sayidana said. She squatted beside Changa, her hands working furiously.
“When the inpundulu is weak it must feed,” Sayidana said. “If its master cannot feed it, it fends for itself. It prefers human blood.”
Changa fell to his back, the burning more intense.
“Yes,” Sayidana replied.
Something cool pressed against his wound and the burning subsided.
“You are lucky. The inpundulu wasn’t able to inject a full dose of venom. This poultice will take most of it away. I’m afraid some had entered your system. You’ll be weak for some time. We’ll stay here until you’ll ready to travel.”
Changa could only nod. He closed his eyes and let the darkness take him.
When Changa awoke his energy had returned. Sayidana sat beside him preparing a meal of coconuts and bananas. It was noon, the warm sun shining from overhead, its heat coaxing the moisture from the forest which gathered on his skin. He grunted as he sat up; Sayidana turned toward him then smiled.
“Good,” she said. “I was beginning to worry.”
“How long did I sleep?” Changa asked.
“Two days,” she replied. “One more day and I would have had to continue without you.”
She handed Changa the fruit and he ate voraciously.
“I thought you said you could not do it alone.”
“I can’t,” Sayidana replied. “I was going back to the city. Your big friend seems a worthy companion.”
“Yusef? He’s good enough. Not as good as me, but he’ll do.”
“You are a man with pride,” Sayidana commented.
“You must be to be a merchant,” he replied.
“And a warrior,” Sayidana said.
“Pride can kill the best warrior,” Changa replied.
Sayidana smiled. “Then I chose the right person. Come, we must be on our way.”
They finished their meals then continued their trek. They worked their way down into the valley then crossed the broad yet shallow river. The climb up the opposite slopes was taxing but they continued without rest. As they emerged from the vale a large compound rose over the trees a short distance away.
“That’s the gate,” Sayidana said. “We must hurry to reach it before dark.”
“Why before dark?” Changa asked.
“If we are not within those walls before dark we are doomed. There is much worse than nyani and inpundulu protecting the gate.”
They ran the entire distance, Changa’s attention vacillating between the looming compound and the setting sun. As they neared the compound’s door the sound of breaking branches reached his ears. A nauseous pang welled in his stomach; he pulled his sword and a throwing knife then turned toward the sound.
Sayidana stopped at the gate. She approached Changa, a puzzled look on her face.
“There is something coming,” she said. “It feels different. I do not know this threat.”
“I do,” Changa replied. “Go inside.”
“What is it?” Sayidana asked.
“Something from my past,” Changa said.
The tebo burst into the clearing in the form of a massive gorilla, dragging a small tree in its right hand. It slammed the tree against the ground as it grunted and bared its large fangs. Changa swayed from side to side, bracing himself for the charge.
“Changa!” Sayidana called out. “I can help!”
“No you can’t!” Changa shouted back. “Get inside!”
The tebo roared then charged, the tree rose over its head. Changa roared back then sprinted toward the beast, his eyes on the descending tree. He waited until the last moment before leaping to his right, throwing his knife as he dodged the tree club. The tebo howled as the knife struck its neck and the tree slammed into the dirt. Changa rolled on his shoulder to his feet then ran at the beast again, another throwing knife and sword at the ready. The gorilla-beast yanked the knife from its throat, flinging it into the woods. Changa threw another knife; the beast smacked it away. The distraction gave Changa enough time to hack the back of the creature’s left leg, severing its hamstring. The creature struck out, its huge hand crashing into Changa. His sword flew from his hand as he rose from the ground, landing in the forest’s edge. Changa blinked in pain, trying to regain his eyesight when the tebo grabbed his arm then lifted him high. Changa reacted, snatching a dagger from his belt then plunging it into the beast’s hand. Changa fell; the tebo shook its injured hand as it staggered backwards. Changa clambered to his feet, limping to his sword. He followed the tebo, determined to end the fight. He took a deep breath then ran at the tebo again. With a yell he jumped, smashing into the tebo’s chest. Gripping the beast’s hair with his free hand, he pulled himself upward until he looked into the tebo’s malevolent eyes. The tebo’s arms wrapped around Changa, but before the beast could crush him Changa plunged his sword into the beast’s throat. A garbled cry seeped from the tebo’s mouth, its fetid breath washing over Changa’s face. Changa pushed his sword deeper until it protruded from the back of the tebo’s neck. He twisted the handle then yanked it free. The tebo’s head jerked back, its arms falling limp as it fell backwards onto its back taking Changa down with it.
Changa lay on the dead creatures torso for a moment as the pain in his ribs subsided. He sheathed his sword then rolled off the tebo, barely landing on his feet. When he looked up Sayidana gazed at him, a slight smile on her face.
“You are hard to kill,” she said.
A sharp cry from above caught their attention. They looked up to see the inpundulu circling, dark clouds spreading from its wings.
“Inside! Hurry!” Sayidana said.
Changa and Sayidana ran to the entrance. Changa grasped the handle then jerked the door open, surprised it was unbolted. They entered as a barrage of lighting descended from the black clouds, pummeling the stone structure. The walls shuddered as Changa and Sayidana ran down the wide corridor in darkness. Another deluge of lightening hammered the building. The walls transformed, the grey stone emitting a faint blue light illuminating the corridor.
“The inpundulu is opening the gate. We must hurry!”
The long corridor led to a wide cylindrical room. In the center of the room the granite floor shimmered like the surface of a lake, its color the same as the walls. The surface began splashing violently. A human like head emerged; pitch black with eyes that burned like the sun. It rose from the liquid like surface, the figure of a man made of blackness and stars.
“Sayidana,” it said. “I should have killed you.”
Changa stood motionless as Sayidana walked onto the wavering surface. Her clothes and head wrap merged into her skin as she became like the man standing before.
“Yes, you should have,” she replied.
They attacked each other, the force of their clashed creating a shock wave that flattened Changa onto his back. He scrambled back onto his feet then watched as the travelers battled each other with an alacrity that made them seem as blurs. Then they stopped, the male being grasping Sayidana by the throat as he lifted her off her feet.
“I will finish you this time,” he said.
Changa threw his knife. He acted on instinct; sure his mortal blade would make no difference in this celestial battle. But he was wrong. The blade bit into his shoulder and he dropped Sayidana, turning his attention to Changa. He yanked the blade from his shoulder.
“What are you…?”
Sayidana appeared behind the man. She grasped his head then twisted it hard. The crack echoed in the chamber; the man slumped then fell into the waves. His form dispersed, tainting the water, then retracted, pooling around Sayidana’s feet before being absorbed by her. Changa’s throwing knife floated by her feet.
Sayidana picked up the knife then strolled to Changa as she transformed into the woman that he knew. Changa stepped away, his hand going to his sword hilt. It was a foolish move; he doubted if he could protect himself from what he just witnessed.
Sayidana extended the knife to him. Everything about her was the same except her eyes. The cloudy film that once blocked them was gone. Her sepia eyes regarded him.
“You were right,” she said. “You were enough.”
The building shook, then the ceiling behind them collapsed. The inpundulu struck the simmering stone the slowly sank into the shrinking pool.
“You must leave,” Sayidana said. “The gate is closing.”
Changa took his knife from Sayidana.
“I believe there was much you did not tell me,” he said. “I’m beginning to believe you are the one to be feared.”
Sayidana smiled. “It doesn’t matter now. He is dead and I will go home.”
She grasped Changa’s face between her hands then kissed him softly. Changa felt a surge of desire that dissipated as quickly as it appeared. He could tell without looking that his wounds were healed.
“There is a compound three streets west of the mosque,” Sayidana said. “If you pull up the floors in the veranda you will find what you seek.”
The building shook again.
“Time for you to leave, Changa. I hope you live a long life. Maybe I’ll see you again in my travels.”
“I am no traveler,” Changa said.
Sayidana smirked. “You could be.”
She turned then followed the pool as it shrank to a small circle. Sayidana faded as the circle disappeared. The compound walls became translucent, the surrounding hills and forest becoming visible to Changa. And then it was all gone. Changa stood in the middle of an open field. There was no sign that the building ever existed.
“I could be?” he whispered. Changa knelt where the building had once stood. He touched his hand to the ground and the grasses shimmered like the floor of the compound. He jerked his hand away as he shook his head.
“No,” he said. “I am Changa Diop, merchant of Mombasa.”
He stared at the space a moment longer, then turned and walked away.
There was movement at the door. Changa and the others leapt to their feet, weapons at the ready. The doors swung open and a woman entered, her wet clothing clinging to her body. She leaned against a thick carved staff, her head covered with a plain head wrap. She as she looked about Changa noticed her eyes. A milky white veil covered both orbs; the woman was blind, yet she looked about as if she could see her surroundings. She coughed, and then pulled herself straight.
“Who are you?” she asked.
Changa signaled for his men to keep their place. He approached the woman warily.
“I am Changa Diop from Mombasa,” he said.
“And the others?” she asked.
“My crew,” Changa replied.
“You should not be here,” she said. “He will come for you soon.”
“Our dhow has been destroyed,” Changa said. “We won’t be leaving soon. Was this your doing?”
“No,” the woman replied. “He has sent his herald.”
Changa looked puzzled. “His herald? Do you mean the nyani?”
The woman shook her head. “No. They are an annoyance, a side effect of his power. The inpundulu is his herald and his warning.”
“We have encountered no other creature,” Changa said.
“Yes you have,” the woman said. “You think this storm is natural? It’s not. It is the inpundulu.”
“And who are you?” Changa finally asked.
“Sayidana,” she answered.
Changa lowered his sword. “Why is it that no one remains in Kilwa Milikiya except you?”
“I have not always been here,” she said. “Like you I have traveled from afar.”
“Where did you come from?” Changa asked.
Sayidana looked away. “Far away.”
“Sofala? Pemba? Mogadishu?”
Sayidana smirked. “Much farther.”
The sounds of the storm subsided.
“Listen to me, Changa. The one who claims this land is coming soon. If you and your men are here when he arrives he will kill you all. But with your help we can stop him and we all will have a chance to return home.”
“So be it,” Changa said. He turned to Yusef.
“When the storm clears survey the dhow and salvage what you can,” Changa said. “We’ll have to cut trees to repair the dhow. I’m going with Sayidana.”
“That is not wise,” Yusef said. “She may be the cause of our misfortunes.”
Changa glanced at the woman. “I don’t think so. I believe she is just as much victim as we are, but for a different reason. I plan to find out what that reason is.”
Yusef’s eyes said what he could not.
“If I don’t return by the time the dhow is repaired, take them home,” Changa said.
Changa turned to Sayidana before Yusef could reply.
“Let’s go,” he said.
“How many of your men are coming with us,” Sayidana asked.
“Only me,” Changa replied.
He grasped Sayidana’s arm then lead her out the mosque. She jerked her arm away.
“I need all of you!” she said.
“You’ll get only me,” Changa replied. “If I take my men with us I’m sure some of them will die. I didn’t bring them here for that to happen.”
“The two of us cannot stop him,” Sayidana insisted.
“I’m sure you haven’t survived this long alone without some skills,” Changa said. “And I am not easy to kill.”
Sayidana’s eyes seemed to glow with her sour mood. Changa braced himself for some type of attack, but the glow subsided.
“Let us go then. I hope for your sake and mine that we will be enough.”
Changa nodded. “We’ll have to be.”
The storm waned as Changa and Sayidana made their way north from the city. It did not dissipated or travel west as most storms do. Instead it traveled the same direction Changa and Sayidana traveled.
“The inpundulu returns to its lair,” Sayidana said. “It thinks it has done its duty.”
“Will we see it again?” Changa asked.
“Most likely yes,” Sayidana replied. “But not in this form.”
They crossed from the ruined city into the surrounding forest. There was a narrow trail leading into the bush which Sayidana followed. Changa trailed close behind, his eyes studying the foliage as they passed.
“Are we going to its lair?”
“Yes. The inpundulu’s lair is His citadel and his gate. We must stop him before he enters his citadel, before He can possess his full power.”
“So we will wait outside to confront him,” Changa said.
“No. He will enter from within through the gate,” Sayidana said.
“From inside through the gate?” Changa was confused. “How can he enter the citadel without passing through the outside? Is there a tunnel leading from the shore?”
Sayidana smiled. “You do not understand, and I’m not sure I can explain it.”
Sayidana stopped by a coconut tree. A pile of coconuts lay at the base of the tree. Sayidana went to the tree then sat. She arranged the coconuts so they touched.
“What do see, Changa?”
Changa folded his arms. “I see coconuts.”
“Are you sure?”
“Of course I’m sure!” Changa replied.
Sayidana grinned. “Even though these are all coconuts, they are not the same. Some are bigger, some are smaller. If we were to cut them open we would discover that some are sweeter than others, and a few may be rotten.”
“What does this have to do with ‘Him’ and you?” Changa asked.
“The world you live in is not the only one, Changa,” Sayidana said. “Like these coconuts, there are others, many others. Some are very similar to this world, so similar it would be hard to tell them apart. Some are sweeter, yet some are rotten.”
Changa’s eyes narrowed. He wanted to dismiss Sayidana’s words but his experiences proved to him that many things existed beyond the senses.
“Just like these coconuts touch, these worlds touch too,” Sayidana continued. “These points of contacts are called gates. There are some who have the ability to travel through these gates. He is one of those who can; so am I.”
“So when you told me you were from far away…” Changa began.
“I meant I am from another world,” Sayidana finished. “We are travelers.”
Sayidana stood then continued walking down the path. Changa followed, pushing away the questions flooding his mind. He knew better than to seek deeper answers. All he needed to know was what to do to keep his men safe and leave Kilwa Milikiya.
“Sayidana is not my true name,” the woman continued. “It is what I call myself here. My world is very different from yours.”
“So why did you leave?” Changa asked.
“I had no choice,” Sayidana answered. “Travelers are driven to travel. We are born with wanderlust. Passing through worlds also exposes us to different abilities. Some of us use them to help others, some to help themselves. And then there are those who stay silent, content to travel and observe.”
“Does this adversary of yours have a name as well?” Changa asked.
“He does, but you could not pronounce it,” Sayidana said. “Besides, some say to speak His name is to summon his wrath. We travelers have our own superstitions.”
They crested a steep hill overlooking a deep valley sliced by a narrow river.
“We will rest here tonight,” Sayidana said. “It is a safe place and easy to defend.”
“We should probably sleep in shifts,” Changa suggested.
“That won’t be necessary,” Sayidana said. “You and your men killed the nyani and the inpundulu must rest to regain its strength. Tonight will be peaceful. Our days ahead will be much more interesting.”
The two spent the remainder of the day procuring supplies from the market. When they returned they loaded supplies on the dhows then shared a meal with the men on the docks. Changa didn’t return to his counting room that night; instead he slept on deck with his crews, savoring the open air and the clear skies. There was a time in his life long ago when his view was that of a stone room to a small cell. His days were filled with training; when he wasn’t training he was fighting for his life. Since the day he fled his homeland twenty years ago his life had been one struggle after another. To lie on his back and gaze at the stars was truly a gift, a blessing he owed to Belay.
Niko’s doubts intruded on his musing. The baharia was always a contrary one, but for some reason his doubts seemed to linger on Changa’s mind. Changa had seen many strange and wonderful things in his life and he knew that nothing was beyond possibility. Kilwa Milikiya may be a myth, but he had to try. He had no choice.
* * *
Changa and Yusef stood at the bow of the Kazuri as it sailed into the harbor of Kilwa Milikiya. An unnatural stillness ruled the scene, the roaring waves lapping the landing beach the only sound. Sturdy docks lay empty as were the hard packed roads leading from the shore into the stone city. No seagulls hovered overhead, the undulating fronds of palms trees the only motion. From a distance the warehouses seemed recent, but as they sailed closer the buildings revealed their neglect.
“This is not natural,” Yusef said.
Changa didn’t reply. He studied the shore, seeking a good place to land.
“There,” he said, pointing to a stretch of beach closest to the warehouses.
The navigator steered the dhow to the landing; the baharia dropped the anchor in deeper water.
“Let’s get the boats and go ashore,” Changa ordered.
Yusef hesitated and Changa glared.
“We are here,” he said. “We will get what we came for and we will leave. Don’t let Niko’s words haunt you, rafiki.”
Changa and the landing crew boarded the boats and rowed to the empty beach. Once aground they headed to the nearest warehouse. The white stone was barely visible, covered by thick vines as nature reclaimed what men had abandoned. Changa hacked away the vines blocking the warehouse entrance with his machete. Stale humid air filled his nostrils as he entered the abandoned structure. The others followed, their swords at the ready.
“We’ll start here,” he said. “Make sure you search every corner.”
For two hours they rummaged through the rotted furniture and decaying palm leaves but found nothing. They finally gave up, leaving the building, dirty, sweaty and empty handed.
Changa spotted Yusef and the other baharia coming from the warehouse opposite the docks. Yusef wiped his bald head with the palm of his hand then grimace.
“There is nothing here,” Yusef said. “I think bwana Belay was wrong.”
“Maybe,” Changa replied. “Let’s search the city. A few merchants may have left behind valuables in their homes.”
Yusef sniffed. “I doubt it. Swahili are very thorough and very greedy.”
“We have the time,” Changa said. “We might as well.”
They followed the road into the stone town. Like most Swahili cities the mosque occupied the center, and Kilwa’s mosque was an impressive site despite years of neglect. The main structure rose four stories high, the crown ringed by elaborately carved ramparts. The minarets climbed even higher, their copper domes green from exposure and neglect. Changa saw movement near the top of the mosques and minarets.
“At least something lives,” he said.
“Those birds are large,” Yusef replied. “Vultures?”
The creatures leapt into the air simultaneously then circled the minarets, their cries echoing through the empty city.
“Those do not sound like any bird I know,” Changa said. “They sound like…nyani.”
“That’s impossible!” Yusef said. “Nyani don’t have wings!”
The flock flew toward them descending as they came closer. As their features became clear Changa’s eyes went wide.
“They are nyani!” he shouted. “Run!”
The baharia sprinted for the nearest building. Changa was the first to reach the home, shoving open the door with his shoulder. He ran back into the open, waving his men to him.
“Quickly!” he shouted. “Inside!”
The men ran into the building. The flying nyani descended on the last two men, knocking them to the ground. Changa rushed to rescue them, sword in one hand, throwing knife in the other. He threw the knife; it struck one nyani in the head, knocking him off the closest man. With his sword he cleaved another nyani in two. Yusef appeared by his side, swinging his sword wildly. Together they drove the flying primates away far enough for two other baharia to grab their injured comrades and drag them into the building. Yusef and Changa stepped backwards, fending off the beasts until they were able to join their men in the building.
The primate attacked the house, tearing at the palm frond roof and beating at the doors Changa and his men prepared themselves for the onslaught when the attack suddenly ceased, replaced by the rumble of a coming storm. Changa inched his way to the door then slowly opened it. A sky that once showed no sign of ill weather was now black with swirling clouds.
“We should not be here!” Yusef said. “This city is cursed!”
Changa looked at his friend and his men.
“Back to the dhow,” he said. “We’re leaving.”
Changa was answered by thunder. The nyani screeched and the rumble shook the house.
Changa dared to open the door. The nyani were gone. A sudden gust of wind pushed Changa back into the house.
“It seems we’re not going anywhere,” Changa commented.
“We should go to the mosque,” Yusef suggested. “This house will do little to protect us from the coming storm.”
Changa looked incredulous. “So you wish to go to the name’s den?”
“Allah will protect us,” Yusef said.
Thunder shook the house and rain crashed against the roof as if dumped from a well bucket. The ragged thatch ceiling gave way and the baharia were drenched.
“To the mosque!” Changa said.
The baharia splashed toward the mosque. They were almost there when an ear-piercing screech cut through the storm. Changa grimaced as he hunched and cupped his hands over his ears.
“Look!” Yusef shouted.
The dark clouds rippled above them. Changa thought he caught a glimpse of something moving through the clouds but his view was obscured by the torrential rain. The undulating clouds made a path toward their dhow. It swirled above the craft, spinning faster and faster.
“No,” Changa whispered.
Bolts of lightning showered the ship, blasting the mast and deck.
“No!” Changa shouted.
Flames erupted throughout the dhow despite the rain. In moments the entire ship was engulfed in raging flames. The baharia stood stunned. Their only way home had been destroyed before their eyes. Changa’s shock was brief. His mission had changed. Instead of coming to Kilwa to save his business, he had doomed it. He had to save his men and himself.
“Go,” Changa said to his men. “Go!”
They ran to the mosque. Changa was the first to reach the doors, shoving them wide open. The winged nyani huddled in the center of the building. They howled at the baharia, bearing their sharp teeth. The baharia charged into the beasts, releasing their anger on them. In moment the beasts lay slaughtered. The men dragged the dead beasts from the building, tossing them into the streets. Their bodies seemed to anger the storm. It became more intense, the thunder and lightning battering the holy site. The walls and the roof of the mosque were much stronger; they held against the unnatural onslaught.
Changa slumped against the wall. Yusef sat beside him, crossing his legs.
“What will we do kibwana?” he asked.
Changa looked at his friend, his face grim.
“When the storm ceases will go the beach and access the damage to the dhow,” he said. “We’ll rebuild it.”
“I’m not talking about the dhow,” Yusef replied. “I’m talking about this.”
He waved his thick arms around.
“None of this is natural. “Flying nyani, a storm attacking our dhow; this is sorcery!”
“You are probably right,” Changa said. He’d had his share of otherworldly encounters and this was very familiar. He tried to deny it, hoping the original reason for his safari would resurface, but this was no longer about finding a lost wealth. It was about survival.