Bukharesh
23-08-2007, 08:10
A thick cloud of dust hung over Ibo, the sun baked inland capital of Bukharesh. From the crest of one of the tallest hills southeast of the furthest slums, a peasant could barely make out the tops of the skyscrapers downtown. Still, where light failed to escape from the center of that downtrodden, roach infested black hole that passed for civilization, sound came on like a stampede of rhinoceros. Shifting, reverberating against the edges of cliffs and on the walls of shacks, the din of gunfire and booming cannon wound its way out, through valleys and over long stretches of grassland like a sidewinding serpent.
For the peasant who stood watching idly, it was nothing to make him shiver. Indeed, it would have been more cause for concern had the noise stopped, and silence taken its place. That would have been truly terrifying, for it would have signaled the end of the siege of Ibo, and the victory of the communists over the Movement for Honest Democracy. For a peasant who hoped for Kantigi’s victory, the sounds of war gave heart, and a wise man would pray that they continued for many more weeks, until the last communist had been driven out, or been dumped into the sewers to feed the rats.
For the moment, however and ironically, the rats were feeding the communists and the democrats alike. The harvests in this region of Bukharesh had been interrupted by the fighting between the two large factions, struggling to fill a power vacuum in the nation after the death of the moderate socialist President Amani Allen. Now, everyone ate anything they could scrounge, and the men with guns tended to scrounge more than those without. So, it was of little surprise to the peasant when he heard shouting and screaming in the hamlet below him, followed by the roar of a truck engine and a burst of gunfire from a Russian rifle.
For the peasant, and for the people of Bukharesh, this was the way of the nation for four years, as the third long period of civil strife in only twenty years drew on. It was a period of war and famine, drought and extreme poverty; a long dark nightmare that seemed increasingly unlikely to end with the world opening its eyes and waking up. Murder, open war, robbery, and rape were more than common in the countryside, and most of the cities burned. The capital, an awful place in the best of peacetime, changed hands dozens of times between communist fighters, the militant heirs of assassinated President Amani, and the democrats, loyal to David Ibrahim Kantigi’s Movement for Honest Democracy. Hundreds dead turned to several thousand in just a few months. The only things there seemed to be no shortage of were bullets and the guns that fired them.
It would not be an endless war, however, and nor would it destroy Bukharesh or her people. It would take many more years and many more wars before the nation crumbled. This one was more of a beginning of a saga than an end, though it was truly the first chapter in the last book of long history. For the peasant who watched Ibo fume that day, he would not be left broken hearted as the guns fell silent two years later, for Kantigi eventually emerged victorious, driving the communists from the capital, and into the hills, exhausted from too much killing and having too few allies among the population.
As the sun rose on the 18th of February, 2008, Kantigi was sworn in as the first president of the 2nd Republic of Bukharesh. To the crowds that attended the ceremony, outside the ruined old colonial governor’s palace that housed the new Congress of the Republic, Kantigi promised both a new, bright era, and a hard road. As he told them, the forces that he had battled to give birth to the Republic would never be defeated by bullets and armies, but only by the commitment of the citizenry.
He was met by cheers from those standing in front of him, but he was no stranger to nationalist politics and the fickle minds of the people of his nation. He would have to be a true man of iron if he intended to keep his fledgling democracy from cracking on the rocks before it left port…
-----
Kantigi shot up in his bed, sweat streaming down his thick black brow, burning his eyes. He raised a scarred right hand to wipe it away, and put his feet on the cold wooden floor. The sky outside was still dark, without even the first light that woke the farmers in his old village. He got to his feet, stumbling in the dark for a pair of pants. On the bed, a woman sighed in her sleep. Remembering himself, he tried to keep quiet as he pulled on his trousers and stalked to the door.
He stepped out into the hallway. At its end the soldier who supposedly guarded the door to his bedchamber was fast asleep, a bottle of gin half empty and tucked under his arm. Half smiling, he walked the other way, descending the back staircase into the presidential mansion’s kitchen. He was met there by another surprised guard, caught in the act of feeling up one of the maids. The man shoved the girl away and saluted, forgetting the fact that his fly was half open.
“As you were,” replied the president, not seeming too concerned with the man or his particular late night vice. The soldier relaxed, but only slightly as Kantigi walked past, all 300 pounds of him, muscle and bone. This particular man knew the President well, and only trembled somewhat at his sudden appearance. Others were more keen to believe the rumors that he was a walking spirit, endowed with superhuman strength and the ability to know all a man’s vices. Maybe he was a spy for God himself. This, they thought, should frighten only the communists, but nonetheless, the staff in Kantigi’s household, his guards, and the men who fought under him made sure to watch their step when he was around.
The President walked down the hall, into the far wing of the house. He rapped on a solid oak door, and waited.
“Just a minute,” came the sleepy voice. The door opened, and there stood a gentlemen with a neat grey beard. The man was Ibo Ubani, the President’s physician and closest confidant. The doctor smiled and saluted, a leftover from the days when he served as a medic under then General Kantigi who in turn served then President Amani.
Kantigi returned the salute, and as Ubani made way, he strode into the man’s quarters. Falling down into a stuffed chair, the President’s brow furrowed as his expression became troubled. Ubani, wearing a nightshirt, sat down across from his President and friend.
“Do I have to ask what the matter is?”
“I’ve had a dream.”
“Ah?”
“I’ve seen my death.”
Ubani frowned, and nodded.
“I was set upon by wolves in the middle of a desert,” continued Kantigi. “They tore out my eyes so I couldn’t see their faces, but I knew their voices. They were the voices of my enemies, both men I’ve met and men I haven’t.”
“Could you place them?”
“Some. Like I said, I haven’t met some of them, but I knew who they were in my dream.”
Ubani got up and walked over to a small brown bag on his nightstand.
“Is this the first time you’ve been troubled since the swearing in?”
“Yes.”
“Hmm.”
He removed a bottle of pills and walked over to the President. He offered two, which Kantigi swallowed without water.
“It was only a dream…” muttered the President.
“And I’m only a doctor, but I can still say that if it bothered you enough to come here at 4:30, it must have some significance.”
“Mindless paranoia….”
“Or perhaps just caution that comes with experience. You know your enemies, Ibrahim. It’s your greatest attribute.”
“Some people used to whisper in dark corners. They said I could know all a man’s flaws just by looking at him. Funny thing is, I used to believe it.”
Ubani smiled.
“You’ve taken on a great responsibility, but don’t lie to yourself and say it isn’t what you wanted.”
Kantigi looked at the floor.
“I want to make Bukharesh whole again. Make it great again, and respectable.”
“I know you do, and such desired weigh heavily on a man, physically and mentally.”
“Mmm.”
The two were silent, Kantigi lost in though, Ubani considering his friend.
“Those pills will help you sleep.”
Kantigi got to his feet. He looked for a moment at his friend, and then nodded. He walked out of the room, his eyes still brooding.
For the peasant who stood watching idly, it was nothing to make him shiver. Indeed, it would have been more cause for concern had the noise stopped, and silence taken its place. That would have been truly terrifying, for it would have signaled the end of the siege of Ibo, and the victory of the communists over the Movement for Honest Democracy. For a peasant who hoped for Kantigi’s victory, the sounds of war gave heart, and a wise man would pray that they continued for many more weeks, until the last communist had been driven out, or been dumped into the sewers to feed the rats.
For the moment, however and ironically, the rats were feeding the communists and the democrats alike. The harvests in this region of Bukharesh had been interrupted by the fighting between the two large factions, struggling to fill a power vacuum in the nation after the death of the moderate socialist President Amani Allen. Now, everyone ate anything they could scrounge, and the men with guns tended to scrounge more than those without. So, it was of little surprise to the peasant when he heard shouting and screaming in the hamlet below him, followed by the roar of a truck engine and a burst of gunfire from a Russian rifle.
For the peasant, and for the people of Bukharesh, this was the way of the nation for four years, as the third long period of civil strife in only twenty years drew on. It was a period of war and famine, drought and extreme poverty; a long dark nightmare that seemed increasingly unlikely to end with the world opening its eyes and waking up. Murder, open war, robbery, and rape were more than common in the countryside, and most of the cities burned. The capital, an awful place in the best of peacetime, changed hands dozens of times between communist fighters, the militant heirs of assassinated President Amani, and the democrats, loyal to David Ibrahim Kantigi’s Movement for Honest Democracy. Hundreds dead turned to several thousand in just a few months. The only things there seemed to be no shortage of were bullets and the guns that fired them.
It would not be an endless war, however, and nor would it destroy Bukharesh or her people. It would take many more years and many more wars before the nation crumbled. This one was more of a beginning of a saga than an end, though it was truly the first chapter in the last book of long history. For the peasant who watched Ibo fume that day, he would not be left broken hearted as the guns fell silent two years later, for Kantigi eventually emerged victorious, driving the communists from the capital, and into the hills, exhausted from too much killing and having too few allies among the population.
As the sun rose on the 18th of February, 2008, Kantigi was sworn in as the first president of the 2nd Republic of Bukharesh. To the crowds that attended the ceremony, outside the ruined old colonial governor’s palace that housed the new Congress of the Republic, Kantigi promised both a new, bright era, and a hard road. As he told them, the forces that he had battled to give birth to the Republic would never be defeated by bullets and armies, but only by the commitment of the citizenry.
He was met by cheers from those standing in front of him, but he was no stranger to nationalist politics and the fickle minds of the people of his nation. He would have to be a true man of iron if he intended to keep his fledgling democracy from cracking on the rocks before it left port…
-----
Kantigi shot up in his bed, sweat streaming down his thick black brow, burning his eyes. He raised a scarred right hand to wipe it away, and put his feet on the cold wooden floor. The sky outside was still dark, without even the first light that woke the farmers in his old village. He got to his feet, stumbling in the dark for a pair of pants. On the bed, a woman sighed in her sleep. Remembering himself, he tried to keep quiet as he pulled on his trousers and stalked to the door.
He stepped out into the hallway. At its end the soldier who supposedly guarded the door to his bedchamber was fast asleep, a bottle of gin half empty and tucked under his arm. Half smiling, he walked the other way, descending the back staircase into the presidential mansion’s kitchen. He was met there by another surprised guard, caught in the act of feeling up one of the maids. The man shoved the girl away and saluted, forgetting the fact that his fly was half open.
“As you were,” replied the president, not seeming too concerned with the man or his particular late night vice. The soldier relaxed, but only slightly as Kantigi walked past, all 300 pounds of him, muscle and bone. This particular man knew the President well, and only trembled somewhat at his sudden appearance. Others were more keen to believe the rumors that he was a walking spirit, endowed with superhuman strength and the ability to know all a man’s vices. Maybe he was a spy for God himself. This, they thought, should frighten only the communists, but nonetheless, the staff in Kantigi’s household, his guards, and the men who fought under him made sure to watch their step when he was around.
The President walked down the hall, into the far wing of the house. He rapped on a solid oak door, and waited.
“Just a minute,” came the sleepy voice. The door opened, and there stood a gentlemen with a neat grey beard. The man was Ibo Ubani, the President’s physician and closest confidant. The doctor smiled and saluted, a leftover from the days when he served as a medic under then General Kantigi who in turn served then President Amani.
Kantigi returned the salute, and as Ubani made way, he strode into the man’s quarters. Falling down into a stuffed chair, the President’s brow furrowed as his expression became troubled. Ubani, wearing a nightshirt, sat down across from his President and friend.
“Do I have to ask what the matter is?”
“I’ve had a dream.”
“Ah?”
“I’ve seen my death.”
Ubani frowned, and nodded.
“I was set upon by wolves in the middle of a desert,” continued Kantigi. “They tore out my eyes so I couldn’t see their faces, but I knew their voices. They were the voices of my enemies, both men I’ve met and men I haven’t.”
“Could you place them?”
“Some. Like I said, I haven’t met some of them, but I knew who they were in my dream.”
Ubani got up and walked over to a small brown bag on his nightstand.
“Is this the first time you’ve been troubled since the swearing in?”
“Yes.”
“Hmm.”
He removed a bottle of pills and walked over to the President. He offered two, which Kantigi swallowed without water.
“It was only a dream…” muttered the President.
“And I’m only a doctor, but I can still say that if it bothered you enough to come here at 4:30, it must have some significance.”
“Mindless paranoia….”
“Or perhaps just caution that comes with experience. You know your enemies, Ibrahim. It’s your greatest attribute.”
“Some people used to whisper in dark corners. They said I could know all a man’s flaws just by looking at him. Funny thing is, I used to believe it.”
Ubani smiled.
“You’ve taken on a great responsibility, but don’t lie to yourself and say it isn’t what you wanted.”
Kantigi looked at the floor.
“I want to make Bukharesh whole again. Make it great again, and respectable.”
“I know you do, and such desired weigh heavily on a man, physically and mentally.”
“Mmm.”
The two were silent, Kantigi lost in though, Ubani considering his friend.
“Those pills will help you sleep.”
Kantigi got to his feet. He looked for a moment at his friend, and then nodded. He walked out of the room, his eyes still brooding.