A Song of Ruin

The scorching sun beat down mercilessly, casting a harsh glow over the ruins of old Nairobi. Simiren leapt over chunks of debris, never missing a step even as his eyes scanned the desolate landscape. He ran his hands through his ochre-caked locks, the undying symbol of Ole Nyirobi since before, at least according to the elders, the era before the sun fell. 

Every step over concrete and rusted rebar took a toll on Simiren’s frail frame. Every breath made his already burning lungs scream, but he couldn’t stop, he didn’t dare to stop. Fear and desperation propelled him forward. With each step, he became increasingly aware of the eerie silence that enveloped the shattered city. The gigantic skeletons of broken buildings seemed to suck in all the light around them. What had once been doors and windows became jaws of death, ready to devour him should he make a wrong step. 

Simiren pulled his sweat-drenched shuka tighter as a small storm of dust swirled around him. He crouched near a broken wall, waiting for it to pass. Around him, Nature had begun to reclaim the land as weeds pushed through cracked remains of pavement, reclaiming the city for themselves. Unbeknownst to Simiren, the ruin that served as his temporary shelter from the storm once held extraordinary significance. This was where the highest decision-makers of this now ruined city and many others surrounding it had once debated on issues affecting millions. This was the ruin of the Kenyan parliament. Here, the lords of the land had sat. The elders in the tribe still told stories of how, despite the old era bursting with abundance, the leaders of the time had been corrupted to their very essence. They plundered endlessly from those who could barely feed themselves to build gigantic dwellings of stone and metal. Not to live in, but to show off to other plunderers. 

“What about their clansmen? Their people? Surely, they complained?” 

Simiren had asked the elder. 

‘Why, of course they did,’ he answered with a smile, “they did more than complain; they rose and marched to the very chambers of power of the old world.’’ 

“In response, my boy,’’ His face straightened, her voice grew sombre, ‘’ They cut down their own people, their own blood, with weapons of fire and iron.” 

The real reason why the war started was lost to history; the results of the war, however, marked the earth forever. Millennia of human civilisation was erased in mere moments. The earth was torn apart, and its surface turned into a gruesome tapestry of open wounds. In the wake of it all, humanity fell like flies. It was Armageddon. Millions were killed during the war, with billions more lost to starvation and the ensuing struggle for survival. Mother Earth had sung the requiem for her wayward, deaf children. 

The lucky ones died shortly after the war; those cursed to survive were forced to brave a world hostile to their very existence as they struggled to eke out a living from the burnt earth. Still, Mother Earth loved her children. She sang to them, and those who listened not only survived but gained great power. Those who could listen best became attuned to the rhythms of their new reality; some could hear the wingbeat of a fly on carrion several stones throw away. Some could hear the invigorating song of their beating heart, some the music of the rivers of blood in their veins and a precious few, even the diaphanous whispers of the mind. 

In learning to listen to the melodies of nature, these individuals developed the ability to resonate with the rhythms of reality itself. Through that, they could strengthen their bodies beyond what was previously thought imaginable, control their sleep and focus, and, for some, even their perception of time. For the very best of them, they could alter their resonance so utterly that they could shift into entirely different beings. 

The dust storm passed, and Simiren resumed his trek across the wrecked city. 

*** 

Simiren sauntered along the footpath to their manyatta. If one looked close, they could surely make out the smile on his face. His whistling rang through the night, enough to convey his jovial mood to whoever would listen. So happy was he that he could not even scold the over-eager crickets for layering their dissonant harmonies onto his whistles. 

Today, he had heard his heart song in its entirety, and it was glorious. Bits of it had revealed itself to him after he had begun training with the elders, whispers at the beginning, then rhythmic fragments as he grew into his body and trained with the clans’ methods, and finally, it bared himself in its entirety. He was suddenly aware of every cadenced pulse of his heart, of the silken sound his blood made as it moved in tandem with his heartbeat. Soon, he would be able to achieve resonance with his heart song and become a Moran, a warrior of the clan! 

Caught up in his joy, Simiren finally reached his manyatta. 

“Yiana, where are you? Come see! Haha! Your brother is now a big deal, hahaha!” 

She was probably going to scold him for shouting at night, maybe knock him upside the head, but he didn’t care. Good news had to be shared. 

This time, however, his shout was met with silence. 3

“Yiana? Namayiana?!” 

Still no answer. He rushed through the Manyatta’s doorway. 

His sister lay lying on the floor of the Manyatta. Her eyes were rolled back, and foam formed at the corners of her mouth. 

“Yiana!!!” Simiren cried. 

He rushed to her side and cradled her trembling form. He shouted with all the air in his lungs. 

“Elder Nanai! Elder Nanai! Help me!” 

The sentinel elder would definitely hear him; he had full resonance with his heart song, and he could hear things tens of stone throws away. Simiren just had to wait. 

Gently laying her down, he took a cloth from the floor and plunged it into a nearby water pot. With shaking hands, he wrung it and used it to dab her forehead. Slowly, her trembling seemed to subside. 

After what felt like an eternity, a rustle was heard outside the door, and a short old man wearing a shuka walked in. 

His eyes darted around the ruined room before landing on the two people on the earth floor. 

“What happened, boy?” He asked. 

His voice sounded like his throat was made of old tree bark, dry and whistly. 

Simiren quickly recounted everything to the elder with a trembling voice. The elder’s face contorted, adding even more folds to his wrinkled face. He ordered Simiren to move aside before kneeling next to the now fully unconscious girl. He placed his hand on her forehead and closed his eyes. His face scrunched up more and more as the seconds passed before he let out a long sigh and opened his eyes. 

He pulled something from a pouch tied around his waist before ordering Simiren to run and fetch the clan head. Simiren complied and ran as fast as he could to the clan head’s courtyard. When they returned, the elder and clan head sequestered themselves in the manyatta with his sister, leaving him outside, unable to hear what they were discussing. 

Finally, when Namayiana woke up, she informed him that, according to the clan head, she had inherited an old sickness that had not surfaced in the clan for decades. Yiana would die soon. In that moment, something within Simiren snapped. 

He could not speak or eat for days. He stopped training with the elders and completely sank into grief. At some point however, his grief turned into a wild desperation. 

He began consulting all of the clans’ records and all of the elders on the medicines that could cure his sister. For some reason, they all seemed reluctant to speak about his sister’s condition. Still, he did not give up. After poring through the clan’s ruin expedition records, he gained clues on healing medicines from the old world. That was the first time Simiren had ventured into the ruins. 

*** 

Simiren had been stalking his way to this very place for months now. Ever since he learned about these places of healing for the old world, he tried to track them through the ruins. The first time, he found an empty husk of a building with nothing in it. The second time, he found himself on the brink of death. As he traced an old trail towards another place of healing, he found himself face to face with an aberration. Aberrations plagued the ruins of the old cities, vaguely human things with their forms twisted by mutations. They had long, erratically curved nails the colour of rust. Their skin hung loose around their bones, dry and leathery. If they ever did look up from their hunched positions, their large, milk-white, pupilless eyes betrayed nothing but an unnatural hunger. Woe be upon any lone traveller who met them in the ruins. The thing nearly gutted him, and he only managed to escape death by tricking it into falling onto exposed rebar and impaling itself. 

Today was the fifth time he was back in the ruins. In the distance, a concrete wall with a large gap in between could be seen. Beyond the gap lay the remains of what had once been a white building, his destination. Here, the elders of the tribe had found medicines and healing implements of the past. Of these medicines, one had been brought back to the tribe, which allowed the body to heal from any sickness, close almost all wounds, and return one’s body to its peak state. After years of scavenging, none of that panacea had been discovered in the ruins since Simiren was born, but his heart held on to hope with every ounce of strength he had. 

Once in the building, he rifled through the wreckage. Metal fragments cut into his hands as Simiren moved debris aside, but he steeled himself from the pain. Each discovery held the potential to secure his sister’s survival. After what seemed like an eternity of searching, he spotted a glint of metal. From under a rotting board, Simiren unearthed his goal, a sealed metallic box with a large red cross emblazoned on the front. His heart sped up as he opened it. Inside it lay a vial of yellow liquid. Simiren didn’t know or care what it was called, all he knew was that the liquid in the vial could bring his ailing sister back to full health. 

Fastening the vial into a fold in his shuka, Simiren turned back to the road with a renewed vigour. Shattered windows and collapsed buildings framed his path. A twisted street sign hinted at the bustling city that once thrived here. A faded billboard advertised a world long gone, a poignant reminder of what had been lost. Simiren’s footsteps echoed through the empty streets as he pushed through the obstacles, each hurdle fueling his determination to get back faster. 

As he walked, his face streaked with sweat and dust, his mind wandered to his sister’s shocked and proud face when he would bring the medicine. Simiren couldn’t help but smile, and he picked up the pace. 

*** 

Namayiana slowly applied ochre to her locks and skin from the earthen pot beside the bed. Simiren watched on as she silently picked up the dagger and fastened it to her waist with practised ease, her face betraying no emotion. She moved through the dimly lit manyatta like a phantom, lithe and ethereal. Simiren heard the wind celebrate her as she moved, whistling a song of grace, power, and resilience. 

Namayiana was tall and slender, with shoulder-length ochre-caked locks far longer than her brother’s. Unlike Simirens frail and lanky build, Namayiana was designed like a hunter, with a proportion that seemed like Enkai himself carved her out of marble on his most pleased day. Her brown eyes betrayed a calm that promised that should heaven fall, she would hold it up, at least for Simiren. To him she was the provider, elder sister, teacher …to him, she was everything. 

But today was different. On the only bed in the manyatta, there was a conspicuous red stain in the spot where Simiren’s sister slept. Simiren had noticed it when she had gone to perform the morning ablutions before praying to the great Enkai for a good day’s hunt. Immediately, his heart had gone into overdrive, beating like the tribes’ war drums. The sentinel elder’s voice rang in his head. 

“ .. your sister’s sickness isn’t one that can be cured, boy; it’ll only get worse, when she fully grows into womanhood… that’s when she’ll die.” 

As Namayiana prepared her hunting tools, Simiren approached her, his eyes filled with concern. “Yiana, you…!” he said, his voice trembling. I’ll go find the elder!” 

Namayiana turned to face him, confused at first, but when she saw his eyes dart to the blood stain on the bed, her lips curled slightly. She placed a hand on Simiren’s shoulder. 

“Brother,” she whispered, ” it’s fine. Don’t worry. Everything is fine.” 

“But the elder said…!” 

“I know what he told you, Simi, but there’s something he and the chief are hiding from us, we can’t trust them.’’ 

The silence rang heavy between them; Namayiana motioned for him to sit down before continuing. 

“Haven’t you wondered why no one will tell you what exactly is ailing me? I saw their eyes when I woke up that night, Simi. It wasn’t concern they looked at me with; it was fear…and greed.” 

Simiren was confused. 

“Fear? Greed … what? Why?” 

“You see, Simi, women bear the power of creation within them. Our bodies are representations of nature itself. We change with the tide, with the moon, with the earth. It may bring pain, but it also brings blessings. Our inner worlds are our strength, Simi. It seems my inner world carries more power than theirs, and they are afraid.” 

Simiren stared into space for a moment. His sister’s words seemed to lay bare a truth that was close to him yet so far away, as if separated by a thin sheet that he just couldn’t pierce through. 

“But, Yiana… that night, you were in pain! I thought you were going to die!” 

She smiled, “Simi. Pain is transient. I assure you I will be just fine.” 

Simiren was unconvinced. 

“You …you don’t know that for sure! I can’t lose you, Yianna! I just can’t!” 

Namayiana smiled gently and placed her hands over his eyes. “Listen…. use your spirit, empty your mind, let the world speak to you, tell me what you hear.” 

Namayiana’s words and cool touch soothed him. As his muscles relaxed and the weight of what she said set into his bones, the boundaries between him and the world blurred. “I see… I see the world… It’s alive! It’s … singing to me?’’ he whispered, his voice filled with wonder. 

Namayiana’s smile widened. “Yes, little Simsim, you know, for a newly minted moran who has tapped into the melodies of nature, you are very obtuse, aren’t you?” 

She knocked him on the head, making him pout. 

“As long as you live your life internally aligned with the Earth Mother’s voice, nothing in this world can ever shake you. This wisdom kept our people alive, even after the sun fell. Never forget it, Simi.” 

The Manyatta was enshrouded by silence for a long while before Simiren’s voice sounded again. 

“Then what about you? How does Mother Earth tell you to live, Sister?” 

Namayiana paused for a second at the question and then smacked the young boy on the head again. “It tells me to feed you into a little fat lad! Now grab my throwing spears for me, and stop being cheeky!” Simiren leapt out of the Manyatta, laughing and holding his head. “Yes, Sister!” he shouted halfway out the door. 

*** 

Simiren crouched low as he stealthily made his way through the dense thicket. The golden rays of the setting sun cast long shadows across the savannah, creating an eerie ambience. His heart pounded in his chest. Every shrub, every wakening cricket, every dead leaf crunching under his sandals sang the song of the hunt, of blood and metal, of life and death. 

Over the many months since Simiren made his first foray into the ruins of the old world, he had become increasingly resonant with his heart song. He knew every rhythm of his body, granting him incredible control over it. This knowledge also granted him a heightened awareness of the melodies of reality itself. The whispers of the wind, the steady pulsing of the earth, the waning warm hums of the setting sun—he was in concert with all of them. 

At that moment, all of nature screamed to him that he had become prey. Simiren could feel his heart beating in his throat, but he couldn’t stop; Namayiana was waiting for him. Whatever this enemy was, he would reduce it to just another wailing soul. 

A rustle in the bushes nearby caught Simiren’s attention. Instinctively, he froze, his eyes narrowing as he scanned the area. Namayiana’s voice echoed in Simiren’s head: 

“If you ever find yourself out in the wilds after sunset, then every change in your environment should not escape you; that is the dif erence between life and death.” 

Simiren grabbed a satchel around his waist and threw a bead containing pungent poisonous powder, a gift from Namayiana, towards the source of the sound. 

The moment the bead landed on a bush, it shattered and released the powder. In that instant, the bush shook violently, and a figure jumped out. It was a girl. Her frame was startlingly similar to his own, but her eyes glowed with the otherworldly light of an apex predator. In them, Simiren recognised the same unwavering ferocity he had witnessed in his sister. He knew better than to underestimate her. His muscles tensed, and droplets of perspiration trickled down his brow. 

She was dressed in a brown wraparound tunic with two long knives dangling from her waist. She was Mumbi. His sister had told him about them. According to the records, their two tribes had fought for safe lands on the banks of the Nairobi River. The Ole Nyirobi ultimately won, leaving the other tribe, the Mumbi, to search for land farther north. Without the protection of the ochre created from river clay, they were prone to a phenomenon they called ‘the burning.’ 

After years of fermented hate, the Mumbi made it a tribal practice for every young woman (for they were a matriarchal tribe) to bring back the head of an Ole Nyirobi warrior as a signifier of the shift from childhood to adulthood. It seemed that Simiren was this young warrior maiden’s mark. Her eyes locked onto Simiren’s. No words were exchanged. They both knew the silence of the hunt, the unspoken language of survival. 

Simiren took out the knife tied to his belt, and in this desolate corner of the wilderness, a silent battle ensued. The girl lunged forward, one of her knives aimed at Simiren’s vulnerable flank. He reacted swiftly, sidestepping with a dancer’s grace and narrowly evading the lethal strike. They circled each other, eyes locked, focused, and ready. In the next moment, they hurled themselves at each other. 

Time seemed to slow down as Simiren’s mind raced. He was no longer in control of his body; he was simply moving with the rhythm of the battle. His body danced to the song of life and death; he seemed to hear the war songs of his tribesmen who had fallen to the Mumbi on the very lands he fought on now. 

“Lady Death, oh I long to see you, but not today, for I have to churn my mother’s butter, 

oh, Lady Death, how I long to hear you, but not today, for I have to pad my mother’s manyatta.” 

He spotted a small opening, a chance to gain the upper hand. He feigned a stumble, his body falling off balance. The Mumbi girl lunged forward, capitalising on the perceived vulnerability, but Simiren moved as if guided by the wind itself. With lightning speed, he regained his footing and swiftly grabbed her leg, throwing her to the ground and disarming her. The girl’s eyes widened in surprise, and she screamed, hurling a fistful of soil into his face, causing him to lose hold of her and retreat. 

She growled and stepped back, grabbing her fallen knives. Simiren gripped his own weapon, gritting his teeth through the fatigue. For what seemed like an eternity, neither of them moved. The Mumbi girl studied him, her features scrunched as if contemplating something. The next moment, she threw a handful of a white powdery substance at Simiren, causing him to drop to his knees and cough until his lungs were almost devoid of air. When his vision cleared up, no trace of the Mumbi warrior could be seen anywhere. After he had regained himself, he sent a heartfelt prayer of gratitude to Mother Earth and as the darkness began to set in and the crickets began to chirp, Simiren continued on battered and slowly but surely on his way home. 

*** 

After the cataclysm, a stroke of good fortune had graced the banks of the Nairobi River. Here, a tribe had thrived before the destruction. Here the Ole Nyirobi made their home. Their very name marked them as those of the river. Simiren limped back towards their Manyatta, his body weary and battered. In his hands, he clutched the vial that would heal his sister. As he approached their home, he could hear the low murmurs of conversation. Stepping inside, he found himself surrounded by several of their tribe members, including the clan head. The head approached him, his voice resonating with a deep, solemn tone. 

“Where have you been, boy?” 

Simiren faltered, unable to answer. He still remembered what his sister had told him: the chief was hiding something. 

Seeing him not answer, a frown formed the head’s face, but a warm seeming smile immediately replaced it. 

“Wherever you were, boy, it is good that you are back to witness the good news.” 

Simiren felt a growing sense of unease envelop him, the chief did not seem to notice and clasped his shoulder. 

“Rejoice, lad, for I have found a way to cure your sister! I have consulted the clan records, and merging your sister’s bloodline with mine can cancel out the chaos afflicting her!” 

Simiren felt incredulous. It took a mountain of his already stretched willpower to keep from screaming. When he spoke, his voice was hoarse and barely above a whisper. 

“Clan head, I consulted all the records in the clan… I found no such thing.” 

The smile on the clan head’s face dropped, becoming deadpan. 

“There are records only accessible to the clan head’s lineage. Now rejoice, for your sister shall be healed, and we shall be family!” 

Without giving him a chance to respond, the clan head immediately waved his sleeve and walked out of the manyatta, followed by his retinue. 

His gaze shifted toward the inner chamber of the manyatta. There, the mamas of the tribe cleansed his sickly sister’s body with ritual herbs. She sat motionless as they wiped her down with herb-infused cloths. Her eyes were eerily vacant and lifeless. She’d been sedated somehow! 

A heaviness settled over Simiren’s chest, his mind struggling to comprehend the circumstances before him, the sudden shift in their lives. The chief’s words echoed in his ears. He turned his gaze toward Namayiana, her eyes meeting his briefly. Her eyes remained placid, but he could hear her soul calling out to him. He closed his eyes, as she had taught him to do before, and he heard the flame of her spirit in the void, as strong as her will had always been. His sister had not lost hope yet; her body was sedated through some means, but her will burned as hot as ever, yearning for freedom. That was all he needed to know. 

At that moment, Simiren understood one thing. For his sister, who had shielded him since he could remember, he would forge a different path, one that allowed her to dance with her spear, to kill, to hunt, to be happy even if he died doing it. He remembered a line from an old war song the mamas always sang when they washed clothes by the river, “Give me liberty or give me death, I fear no weapon, for freedom is my home…” 

*** 

In the dead of night, Simiren carefully constructed a makeshift stretcher from sturdy branches and woven vines. He fashioned a roller from a log on the other end and fastened it to the stretcher. With gentle care, he lifted Namayiana’s unconscious body onto the stretcher and fastened her onto it with soft but tough vines. After everyone had left, he had fed her the medicine from the vial; she promptly fell unconscious, but her bodily rhythms were completely stable and growing stronger as time went by. Pulling on the stretcher, he began the arduous journey. Frankly, he had no idea where he was heading, but he remembered Namayiana’s words:

“As long as you live your life internally aligned with the Earth Mother’s voice, nothing in this world can ever shake you.” 

He cast away all his fear and put his entire trust in the Earth Mother’s voice. The sound of life was his compass, and he followed it with his entire will. He did not allow even a sliver of doubt to worm into his mind; he could not afford to. 

As he trekked on, he could hear sounds of shouting and commotion from the direction of the village, likely the sentinel elder had found out about their escape. He urged himself to power on and sped up. 

Every part of Simiren’s body was screaming from fatigue, but he couldn’t afford to stop; the clan head’s men were likely already on their tails. He cast every thought out of his mind and willed his body to move forward. His thoughts slowly fell away. Music was all that encompassed his spirit, urging him on. He could not tell where the earth ended and his feet began. Unbeknown to him, he had begun flitting through the forest they had found themselves in like shadows. The pursuers who had been gearing on them suddenly began losing their trace. 

Only when the otherworldly left his mind did Simiren stop. Simiren found himself by the river’s edge, his silhouette shaded by rays of moonlight. A peculiar sensation coursed through his veins as if a presence lingered in the air, unseen yet undeniably powerful. 

Simiren closed his eyes, centering himself. As he focused his mind, a voice emerged from the depths of his consciousness, laced with an enigmatic allure. 

“Wake up, boy,” the voice whispered, its ethereal quality weaving through the fabric of his thoughts. 

Opening his eyes, Simiren was overwhelmed by surprise, and a sense of trepidation surged. It was the very girl who had nearly taken his life. His hand subconsciously reached to the knife at his waist. 

She sneered, “I would stow that thing away if I were you. The only reason you are still alive is because the Earth Mother led me to you.” 

Simiren was utterly confused. “The Earth Mother?” 

She scoffed, “Yes, otherwise? Why would I save river-born trash like you?” 

Simiren felt the bile rise in his throat even as he barked. “How dare a barbaric murderer call my tribe trash?!” 

The girl was stunned for a moment before she burst out laughing. Only after a long fit of laughter did she settle and look at him. 

“You call us murderers! When the sun fell, our people were together, coexisting, intermarrying. You river-born helped our people survive the burning, and we protected you with the powers the earth’s mother granted us! But your people got greedy!” 

Simiren was once again confused, “What do you mean?” She scoffed again. 

“That’s why we hunt you river-born trash down! Ah, the irony that one most attuned to the Earth Mother would be gifted to you people.” 

Saying this, she bypassed Simiren and moved next to the unconscious Namayiana, proceeding to place her palm on her forehead. 

A moment later, the unconscious girl opened her eyes and looked at them. The mysterious warrior maiden smiled warmly at her. 

“Greetings, sister! I am Wandia, and I have been charged by the Earth Mother to take you home.” 

Namayiana was confused, “Home?” 

Wandia smiled even brighter. 

“Yes, sister, home! You are one of us. I’m sure you’ve felt it. You’ll understand once I bring you back to the tribe.” 

Namayiana looked at her brother and back at the maiden. “What about my brother?” 

Wandia did not spare him a glance,’’ He can come as well; contrary to your stories, we do not eat men. However, whether he can stay is up to the matriarch.” 

Namayiana locked eyes with her brother, saying nothing. Simiren’s gaze flickered between Wandia and the form of his sister lying on the makeshift stretcher. The sound of their pursuers could be heard in the wind. 

“What assurance do I have that I can trust you?” Simiren inquired. The girl’s expression once again curved into a sneer. 

“You can’t. This is not a world where trust can be afforded easily, so make your choice.” 

Simiren’s gaze shifted to Namayiana, still frail and in need of healing. She had been his protector and guardian since he was born. 

He smiled helplessly, “Well, I don’t have much of a choice, do I?” 

The air shimmered around them, and they headed, Simiren hoped, to a place where his sister could live out her dreams, where the air rang with the song of life and beauty instead of a song of ruin.