The bus curved its way into Somabhula Growth Point. When I got off, dust rose up and settled on my shoes before I could even take a step. I started making my way past the noisy vendors at the bus stop. As I walked, I kept my head down but my eyes caught everything. I saw the hungry glances from vendors and the tired hope in the boys chasing luggage for coins. I noticed the heavy buckets that balanced like hanging rocks on women’s heads. With my hands buried deep in my pockets I walked past, trying to disappear. It was easier that way, especially because I did not want to be noticed.
Some people still looked at me twice. Maybe it was my slow walk or the black sweater with “REDEEMED” written across the chest. I wore it even though the sun was up. Sometimes you try to hide from the crowd but their eyes always find you. Still, I was here for a reason, even though I was not ready to explain it.
I passed by the market where the tomatoes looked tired and the cabbages were big and green. Further along, a group of men sat on Chibuku crates next to the butchery. Their laughter drifted my way as I passed shops with faded signs and broken windows. A thin dog trotted ahead with its nose to the ground. It was not bothered by the world at all. You could feel the heart of Somabhula beating in those small things. People called out to each other and argued easily over the price of airtime or bread. I walked like I had nowhere to go but I still knew where I wanted to end up.
It did not take long before I heard the noise coming from behind the shops. It was a deep noise that one could not ignore. People seemed to be heading in the same direction. Old men left their shady spots and women adjusted their headscarves before joining the slow river of villagers moving towards the open ground where the big stage stood. Everyone in Somabhula knew the stage was only for serious business.
That was where I saw them, the ones people called the Nuniya. They stood in neat lines. Their muscles showed under their tight vests and some looked like they could carry a cow on their backs. Each one wore a coloured belt tied in exactly the same way. They stood adjacent to the stage. Their faces were hard and serious while they waited for the Master to speak.
The Master stood on his platform, raised above the rest, on the stage in a grey martial arts uniform with a black belt, holding a stick. A wide conical straw hat shaded his face, and his eyes kept moving like a hawk, always watching, never missing anything.
He lifted the stick and called out that word, “Aha!” The warriors answered with one voice, “Aha!” and moved like one body. Their feet hit the ground at the same time. You could feel the respect in the way the villagers watched. Everyone was quiet. Even the children held their breath as the warriors did their kicks and punches in the sunlight. Dust rose up around them. It was more than just another little demonstration of power for all to see.
I stayed far from the stage, behind an old man selling dried fish and a woman with a basket of tomatoes. I watched with the others. For a moment it was easy to get lost in the show and clap with the crowd. Just then, a woman with tired eyes and a dress that had seen better days came forward. She dragged a small boy behind her and did not wait for an invitation. The woman dropped to her knees at the front of the stage, her hands trembling as she held onto the boy’s arm. The Master raised his stick to signal the warriors to stop as the crowd grew silent.
She tried to speak softly, but everyone heard her. A quiet fell as she said, “Please, they have taken our goats again from Hwaya Hill. We have nothing left.” The Master nodded the way people nod when they want a story to end quickly. Before he could speak, one of the Nuniya stepped forward. A big man with a dark belt looked down at her with a small smile. He said, “Goats again? Next time maybe it will be your husband, mother.” The crowd laughed, not loudly but in that small way people laugh when they do not want to be noticed.
The Master put up his hand to stop them. He said something about sending someone to look into it but did not look at her again. The woman stayed kneeling for a moment before she stood up and left. Her head was down. The boy looked back at the stage as if he was trying to remember every face.
The show continued. The warriors went back to their routines. People started talking again. Some clapped and some turned to each other, laughing and whispering. I just stood there watching. I felt something move in my chest. It was not anger or pity, just a strange disappointment. That was the kind of feeling you get when you see someone strong use their strength to step over the small things. It felt as if power was only for showing off and not for helping.
Maybe that was why I did what I did next. I clapped slowly and softly. It was not because I was impressed but because I wanted them to notice. Even after everyone had stopped, I kept on clapping. My clapping was so slow and awkward that people began to turn. When they turned, I smiled the way I always do. It was a smile that made people wonder if I knew something they did not.
I said, “You men are very strong. The strongest I have seen in all these places. Your feet move like you are chasing something we cannot see. But I wonder, do you ever use that for something real or just for show?”
The words hung in the air like the smell of smoke after a cooking fire. People turned to look at me properly now. Some frowned and some just waited to see what would happen. One of the younger warriors walked down from the stage. His chest was out and his eyes were not blinking. He said, “You are talking too much stranger. Do you know where you are?”
I looked at him and shrugged. I was still smiling. “Somabhula,” I said, “I am in Somabhula. Is that not enough?” There was a small laugh from someone at the back, but most people just stared. Then the elder sitting behind me coughed and warned quietly, “Young man, leave it. These are not your matters.”
I did not move. I just stood there waiting. From that moment I knew I had their attention. When you speak in a place where silence is the law, people listen even when they pretend not to.
The challenge had begun. Even if I did not know all their names and they did not know mine, I knew I had their attention.
