The yam festival was one to recon but they seemed not to understand the dangers that waited ahead. The primitive tribes of Krampoa and Zed had emerged as one and the fight was not for gold but for life. I was seated at my end in these futile thoughts, to figure a way for my family and I for an escape. I was given a shield and a spear to war for what I knew not for sure.

They danced in dusty but colorful display and the fire burned through the night; they already felt victorious over a war not fought. I stared in awe how they rejoiced in confidence so absolute, my king denied to give an ear for an advice for these lives that raised the dust. I felt sorry for all I could do was think and wait, for my end was near and I could smell the defeat.

An hour passed in every single bit of merriment but I did not fancy how they danced only to die at my king’s folly. I stood to my feet at the thought of my son, went to the bush to devise a strategy for our very safety. They lurked in the dark grass tall and heaped at the far but I was keen to be discrete at my end. I smote them one by one throughout the long night that stood.

Their blood and guilt to cheat over this war rested on the surface of my sword and spear and I did not stop. I went for their leader and it was imperative for me to get him alive. We had a lasting duel as our metals clapped in the air angrily in firry sparks for our lives ever so dear. I was determined to live but at the cost of such fatigue, wiping out an entire camp of trained warriors was a task of death. His blade was at hairbreadth to my neck and when he yelled to strike, I was quick to rise from my sleep.

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