Water Yet Settled

[Yairobi]

(OOC: For all intents and purposes, Moskilde is now Yairobi pending its official change by the admins)

Outskirts of Memen
Region of Yhana, Yairobi

The tarmac wore thin this far north; the last sign of a major road could be no less than forty kilometres by now, and all around them the sun battered plains played a waltz with their sense of direction. It was a nerve racking journey, the dirt tracks that fed into Yhana were a gateway into the melting pot of Yairobi’s rural communities. One thing was certain, they were a people fifty years behind their time, stubborn, religious, strongly set in their ways, and unreasonably hostile to change. It was a trip long overdue.

Contee had made it clear that the rabble up north would have to be dealt with, one way or another, but with the chairmen’s bold statement yesterday, and his declaration to the world that the Proletariat State would be free of the very oppression that defined the revolution, he could hardly be seen to condone martial law.

Instead, he sent Nadir Adeniji, a junior aid eager to impress his talents on the party at large. Little did he realise, the farmers of Yhama were not as accommodating to the ideals of Contee’s Yairobi as Proletaria’s factory workers. The convoy arrived in the dusty city of Memen, one covered truck carrying troops lead the procession while another two followed the junior aid’s car from behind. Arriving today was no coincidence, it was a market day, and the stalls were sprawling with hundreds of people from across Yhana and beyond bartering for goods. The idea was to address the masses, and this was the day to do it. The soldiers quickly pulled together a podium from the cargo they had transported with the trucks, before Nadir, motioning to the squad’s captain to remain vigilant, took to the stage and began to read from the party charter.

 

[Khemia]

The men in the marketplace struggled to go about their business, more interested in the events of scratching together their day-to-day lives than listening to the idealistic rabble of city-folk who knew nothing of their plight. The former government had done nothing to ease the troubles of the farmers lives, and many of the men knew that this government would be no different. They didn't understand. They were farmers, they were not oppressed by landlords. They were not oppressed by factory managers. They were oppressed by those Unions that controlled the trains, that kept the farmers from delivering their goods to markets easily. And the Communists were in bed with these Unions.

Some of the men, however, couldn't ignore the naive man who spoke from his books like they were words of some sort of truth. There was only one truth, and this little man prattling on from behind his scholarly reading glasses was no speaking of it.

"What is this nonsense you speak of!" one of the men shouted angrily at the man known as Nadir Adeniji.

"You cannot 'save' us from oppression!" shouted another.

A man dressed in white watched from the steps of a church located across the plaza. Father Gabriel Ngala was a well respected leader of the community, and he knew that he needed to stop this argument before things became violent. The folks from the south were not patient people. They were edgy and eager to pull their triggers, they enjoyed the noise of guns like they enjoyed the noise of cars and factories.

He opened the door, followed quickly by his young acolyte Josiah Balewa. He could see several of the men within the crowd were looking with increased interest, and he saw the butts of rifles underneath their clothing. If the city people were to fire, he was sure that this day would turn into a blood bath. It was his duty as a man of the cloth to play good shepherd to his flock and keep the wolves at bay.

He stepped in front of the men arguing and saw the Communist lad from the south speaking from his books, addressing the crowd like he were their brother.

"Young boy, what business do you have here disturbing these people today?" Father Ngala began.

 

[Yairobi]

Graves, the squad’s captain, was an old school hardliner. He was a relic of the previous military establishment, happy to still have his uniform following Contee’s purge only days earlier. His pink gums massaged a blunt toothpick as if it were packed with something nutritious, a bad habit, much like his tendency to act without thinking. Grave's career was an unfortunate series of bad decisions, but in the politics of war, the man with the highest kill count often took home the most stripes.

Characteristic of a man that slept with his rifle, Graves raised his butt to the oncoming preacher and his entourage, a look of grim determination bled down across his face and made it clear that things could get nasty very quickly. A greatly unprepared Nadir thought it necessary to interject.

“Captain, lower your rifle immediately, this is precisely what we are here to prevent”

He turned to Nadir, staring defiantly into the eyes of his superior, and obeyed. He took a step back, but his eyes remained fixed on the priest and his companion. Nadir, however, spoke over the priest and to the people.

“We are here on the authority of Proleteria, your nation expects you to conform to the new regime, civil disobedience will not be tolerated!”

 

[Khemia]

"Let no man deceive you with vain words: for because of these things cometh the wrath of God upon the children of disobedience," he quoted the Bible. "Do you know these words, child?"

He could tell that the educated boy from the South had no comprehension of the wisdom of the good book. "Ephesians, 5:6. Child, there is no authority here that we need obey save that of our Lord God Almighty. Your pretty books and big words are as good to these people here as sand is to a man in the desert."

Gabriel Ngala continued to plead with the man, however. "Child, go home. These people have lived their own lives, independent of the governments to the south, for many decades. We do not seek quarrel with your leaders, for it is not the Christian way. Remember this when you think of your leaders, child. Great men are not always wise, Job 32:9."

 

[Yairobi]

The captain’s forearm pulsed like a thick shard of living coal. The veins beneath his dark skin were prominent, coiling down across his extremities as if some foreign presence had invaded his body, and to his hands, where Graves struggled to find the inspiration to release his grip on the rifles trigger.

“Let me deal with him, sir, let me take him into one of the buildings” Only now did he break his deathly glare from the priest and his acolyte, and turn to face Nadir “I’ll put a machete to his throat, nobody will hear a thing, just give him to me, sir”

Nadir’s voice was already faint, drowning in a sea of troubled jeers and murmurs from the crowd. Now, this priest seemed set to ignite the fuse.

“Silence him, and be quick about it, captain”

Grave’s smiled, exposing his yellow teeth. He discarded his toothpick to the dusty track underfoot, a brief sizzle as its moisture was suffocated by the sands heat. He ordered his squad to approach the troublemakers.

“That’s enough, preacher, you’re coming with us”

 

[Khemia]

"Deuteronomy 29:21. 'Eye for eye, tooth for tooth, hand for hand, foot for foot,'" the Priest glared at the soldier that stepped forward, but his acolyte stepped between the two men and raised a pistol, shouting out threats like a brave man, though fear flew wildly in his eyes.

Gabriel knew the threat posed by these southern men would not be tempered today, and even as his young acolyte began firing his weapon at the Communists, Gabriel turned to the crowd who had begun drawing their own weapons, and brandished yet another, far more volatile biblical quote. "For the preaching of the cross is to them that perish foolishness; but unto us which are saved it is the power of God!' Let not the Heretic guide us, let not the Heathen 'absolve' us of our worldly sins! Make war your conviction, and leave it to God to determine the guilty!"

 

[Yairobi]

The soldiers immediately opened fire on the crowd. Graves, being at the front of the procession, took an unfortunate stray from the acolyte’s poorly aimed fire. It impacted with his shoulder, reducing his ability to handle an automatic weapon effectively, now it served more as a intolerable nuisance swinging from the sachet around his blood soaked shoulder. Not all of Graves claws had been broken, however, as he dropped to one knee in an apparent attempt to shield himself from the volley of oncoming fire, he reached into a holster tied discreetly to his shin, sliding a machete from inside its leather pouch.

Another bullet whizzed past his ear, the sheer heat scorched an invisible tunnel through the air before imploding the vital organs of a young black soldier stood only centimetres behind. The captain was blind to all of this, the crowd was lost in a vein pressed red mist that focussed only on the preacher. He raised his one remaining functional arm into the air, machete in toe, and with a single powerful swing, threw it on a path to Gabriel’s chest cavity.

 

[Khemia]

The priest did nothing to prevent his fate, his scream was short and cut off by his determination to die as a humble subject of God. He fell to his knees before the enraged officer and clasped his hands together in prayer. The crowd watched their father fall, his white robes stained in the crimson fluid and mud. Dozens of men within the crowd armed with illegally owned automatic rifles opened fire on Graves who perched over his wounded prey like a victorious lion.

Still more men were hurrying from their homes, entire families armed with pistols and machetes and a variety of tools that could somehow be used to flay, gut, shred, or otherwise maim a man.

Several blocks over a police jeep had been alerted to the 'problems' in the square. The 'police' were no loyal subjects of the Communists, they were self-appointed bruisers who executed their self-righteous duty to keep the peace with even heavier guns than the average citizen. The heavy machine gun in the back of the jeep was a testimony to that.