Chapter 16

The following morning, Luyanda was back in Keita’s office.
“I’ve been thinking a lot about the stool that you touched. It’s quite unique, actually. So I did some reading, but was unable to find anything about it in these books.” He tossed volume after volume on the table in front of him. Luyanda glanced at the titles: “Thrones and Dynasties.” “Stools of Dominion. “Royal Seats and Royal Totems.” He picked up one of them, and flipped through its pages.
“What language is this?”
“Ancient Nubian.”
Keita resumed his seat and folded his hands, thinking.
“This stool of yours,” he asked, “what does it look like?”
“Kinda old and worn out. Scratched.”
“That’s not much to go on. Is there no way of getting your hands on it?”
“There is a chance that it hasn’t been shipped off yet.”
“Can you find out for me, please?”
“Msiza, call Amina.”
A second later, Amina’s irritated face flickered before Luyanda.
“What do you want?” she snapped.
“I’m fine. Thanks for asking. I wanted to find out when the next shipment’s going to be?”
“The drones should have been here yesterday. I’m guessing they’ll be here any minute now.”
“And when was the last one?”
“About a month ago. We cut down the shipments after all the exhibitions were in place.”
Luyanda hung up, leapt to his feet and bolted out of Keita’s office. He bounded down the corridor, up the escalator, and into the museum building. Amina was seated at the reception.
“What’s the hurry?”
“No time to explain. There’s just a piece of junk that I need to make sure goes out in today’s shipment.”
He sprinted to the holding section of the warehouse. Crates were sprawled all across the floor. He scratched his head for second, wondering where to start. How on earth was he going to find what he was looking for in all of this mess? No bright ideas came to mind. He ripped open crate after crate, checking the contents of each. By the sixth crate, just as he was starting to reconsider his plan—
“Yes!”
It was the stone stool. Right at the bottom of an empty crate, resting on a thick layer of wood shavings. He reached out to grab it, then paused. He remembered only too well what happened the last time he had touched it with his bare hands. He ripped his backpack off his shoulders, and emptied it out onto the floor. Taking a handful of wood shavings in each palm, he carefully lifted the stool out of the crate and into his bag. He zipped it up, stuffed all his things into his bag’s side pockets, and charged out of the warehouse.
In five minutes, he was back in Keita’s office, sweating and out of breath. He slung off his backpack and dropped it with a thud on Keita’s desk.
“There it is,” he announced, a grin of triumph on his face. “But you have to take it out. The last time I touched it, I ended up in the sickbay.”
Keita unzipped the backpack, hoisted out the stool and placed it on his desk.
“I’m afraid I’m going to have to ask you to touch it,” he said. “I need to see what’s going to happen.”
“You already know what’s going to happen,” Luyanda said.
“Don’t worry,” Keita said. “This time, I’ll come with you.”
“How are you going to do that?”
Keita took Luyanda’s hand in his and grasped it firmly.
“Now, touch the stool,” he said.
“Are you sure about this?”
“No, I’m not. But there’s really only one way to find out who you become and where you go. Go on. I’m right here with you. It’s going to be alright.”

Luyanda took a deep breath, closed his eyes, stretched out the fingers of his free hand and brushed the cold, hard surface of the stool. The ground jerked from beneath him, and he felt an icy blast of wind smash into his face. He was whizzing through a tunnel at an ungodly speed, then just as suddenly, everything stopped. Hard packed earth solidified underneath his feet. He opened his eyes. He was seated on the ground, his hands tied behind his back. Thick twine bit into his wrists. A bonfire raged before him. He blinked as his eyes adjusted to the gloom.
A voice boomed out of the darkness.
“Answer the question, Magere!”

This time, Luyanda wasn’t as confused as he’d been before. As a flood of memories and thoughts that were not his, yet were vaguely familiar, welled up inside of him, he knew that he was once again in someone else’s body and mind. He knew his name was Magere. He knew he was a soldier. And at the moment, he also knew he was in a great deal of trouble.
Magere gazed at the circle of eyes peering at him out of the shadows around the fire. He detected little warmth or sympathy in their cavernous depths. Twenty men. Each perched on a three-legged stool. Shawls wrapped around their shoulders and sombre expressions on their faces.
The voice boomed out again.
“Why did you desert your position?”
The speaker was tall, lean and clean shaven. He stabbed an accusing finger at Magere.
“Speak!”
“I will tell you what took place, Owuor!” A wiry man with a thick, matted beard rose to his feet.
“Speak, General.”
“First he disobeyed orders and abandoned his position. After that, he fled the battlefield like a coward.”
Magere’s head fell to his chest. He frowned as a he felt a sharp pain shoot through his lower back.
“You may frown, Magere. But you know I speak the truth,” barked the man who had just spoken.
“Thank you, General.”
The general resumed his seat. Owour faced Magere. “What’s your side of the story, Magere?”
Magere blinked in the darkness. Images came flooding through his mind. A turbaned stranger. His best friend on the ground. A spear head stabbing his shadow. A scream of pain. He turned to his interrogator and paused. He didn’t know where to start.
“He came to the battlefield to rescue me,” Okelo interrupted, rising to his feet. “The Lang’o broke through our left flank. We needed men to stand in the breach.”
“So you also disobeyed orders?”
“It was a decision I had to make,” Okelo responded. “The enemy had breached the defenses at the hill. The plan had failed. It was only a matter of time.”
“Are you questioning my strategies?” Omaya growled.
“It was my mistake. If it were not for Magere, I would not be here right now. He risked his life trying to save mine.”
“Did he or did he not run from the battle?” asked Owuor.
“He had to do it to save his own life. We ran into a stranger who knew exactly how to kill him.”
Murmurs rippled through the assembly.
“That’s impossible,” said Owuor.
“I am telling you what I saw.”
“So can you confirm that Magere fled the battle?”
Okelo glanced at Magere. Magere cleared his throat.
“I did,” Magere said. “When I realised that the man knew exactly how to kill me, I….I panicked.”
“So the brave, indestructible warrior is nothing but a coward?” the general sneered.
No one else said anything. The men cast meaningful glances at each other. Others stared at their feet.
“My fathers,” Owuor resumed, “your verdict.”
A wizened old man pushed himself up onto his walking stick. “The sentence ought to be death,” he wheezed, “but we know that that is impossible. The decision rests with you, Chief Onyango.”

The gray-haired man with the deeply furrowed brow did not stir. After an eternity, he struggled to his feet, wheezing. “As Okoth stated, if you were mortal, we would execute you,” he said. “But since we cannot do that, you leave me no choice. Lwanda Magere, I banish you.”

The words clunked through Magere’s ears and dropped to the bottom of his chest like lead. He shot a glance at Okelo, sitting at the outer edge of the gathering. Okelo caught his look and at once turned away. Magere searched for Omondi. Omondi met his gaze and frowned.
“Go in peace, brethren,” Chief Onyango said.

The Elders rose to their feet.
“Wait!” Omondi shouted. The men paused where they stood.
“I understand that desertion is the worst crime that a soldier can commit. But put yourselves in Magere’s shoes. Never in his life has he known fear. He has never had to deal with it. Never had to control it. What would you do had it been you?”
“My sentence is final, Omondi,” Chief Onyango replied. “Besides, we all know that Magere cannot be killed. His lies were a lesser offence than his desertion, the punishment of which was included in his sentence.”
“But I was not lying,” Magere barked. “I was stabbed on the battle field.”
“Then show us your wound,” Omaya ordered.

Magere struggled to his feet, and raised his arms, exposing his bare ribs . Omaya tramped across to him.
“There. On my left side.”
Omaya took one look at the long, angry gash and gasped in surprise. He turned to the Chief.
“He is wounded.”
Murmurs rippled across the circle of elders.
“But how did he sustain it?” Chief Onyango asked. “He has never been wounded in his life.”
All eyes turned to Magere. He shook his head.
“I cannot tell you that,” he said simply.
“Your life depends on it,” Chief Onyango replied.
“I cannot tell you that,” Magere repeated.
“Do you think we would want to kill you should we discover your secret?”
Magere did not answer. A tense silence hung over the gathering.
“Please, Magere,” Omondi pleaded. “Think of your people. Think of your father.”
Magere’s head sunk to his chest. His face contorted in the dark. A storm was raging inside of him. Finally, he drew a deep breath and said hoarsely -
“If you want to stab me, stab my shadow.”
For a second, no one said anything. Then a flurry of whispers washed across the grey heads gathered around the bound prisoner.
“You expect us to believe that?” Chief Onyango demanded.
“You can try it,” Magere said. He took a step towards the bonfire, and glimpsed his shadow dancing on the hard-packed earth beside him.
General Omaya gripped his spear firmly in his hand. He strode across to Magere, and studied his face.
“For your own sake,” he said, “I hope you are not lying.” He crouched over Magere’s flickering shadow and glanced at Magere. Magere nodded. The general buried the tip of his spear into Magere’s shadow on the ground.
Pain shot through Magere’s side. Black and white stars popped before his eyes. Old memories, names and feelings receded like an ocean tide ebbing away as new ones replaced them. He was Luyanda again. An icy wind swept past him as he plummeted headlong through a dark and formless void. The sudden shock of his feet slamming into the concrete floor forced his eyes open. He was flat on the floor, staring into Keita’s worried face.

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