[Slokais]

A motorbike came to a stop along the hard red dirt, in the dit was an overly elaborate concrete sign that said “Communauté Rurale of Diawara” in faded letters. That’s how Elizabeth Mbaye Beronas knew this was the place. She didn’t call herself that especially in this place, instead, she had told everyone including the motorbike rental company her name was Mbaye. Her study of French in college had been put to the test, as Koldan’s seemed to put in entirely new words to the language. So far she assumed the locals she had met had seen her as a well-educated daughter of a mega pastor or government minister, used to speaking only formal French. However, she was neither, in fact, she had never set foot in Kolda or anyone in Neria since her birth.

The Bernonas were nice people, good peace peace-loving Catholics who were the envy of every priest and highway billboard. Unable to have children of their own, the Bernonas were convinced by their congregation to utilize an adaptation agency called World Family Connection. Across the ocean in Kolda, a young Mbaye was selected from an orphanage and brought by WFC to the care of the Bernonas in suburban Newton, South Princeton. The Bernonas then named Mbaye, Elizabeth after her new adoptive grandmother. From the start, Elizabeth’s parents were very open about who she was. When she asked why she looked different from her parent they took her to meet with an employee of World Family Connection who explained in terms a child could understand. In middle school, she joined a group at her Church called “World Culture Hour” This was a group of fellow adoptees that had also been adopted through WFC. The group aged from newborns to teenagers and was led by the head prest’s wife, who asked everyone to call her Miss Mary. Mary helped the group who often dealt with confusion and faced bullying in school. To Elizabeth, Miss Mary was a trusted adult who could always be relied on. The court called it international smuggling and human trafficking although in Elizabeth’s case, the real perpetrators were the Koldan government who in the 90s and 2000s took the children of poor rural mothers in exchange for money. Elizabeth also received around $70,000 in a settlement with WFC, with both Miss Mary and her husband being removed from the congregation in their attempts to cover up the organization’s wrongdoings.

Now, Mbaye was home or at least she hoped she was. After the 2011 Coup, Ministry of Health records became available including one that listed “Mbaye Ada Diallo” as being under the care of the World Family Connection of Guiedawaye orphanage during 1997. From there, Mbaye began calling the names of related records spending hours in high school searching Koldan government websites. Mbaye even switched from Slokasian to French as her secondary language class to help her read the websites. It took her many more years but finally, she found a document that listed her being a hospital patient in the small town of Diawara. Mbaye then spent the rest of her settlement money to quit her job in tech and book a flight to Kolda.

Diawara didn't look like much of anything, scattered brick and stone houses with several animals running around. A small church towered over the town, however just by the entrance to the town was a boulangerie called Prison Mart. Although the name suggested low quality, the interior was relatively clean. In fact, Mbaye assumed the name came from the fact this was a colonial prison. Each cell was now a different department, meat’s, bread, and even a cheap cellphone store. Mbaye didn’t have a plan for how exactly she would find her family, just a name, and a will to finally discover her true family.

[Slokais]

The sun glittered off the jeep's roof, each bump of the road shifting the light, thankfully Ousmane Ndeye had sunglasses. He also had an earthly spotlight, as this was a political rally. Unlike politicians in other countries, where each candidate ran his campaign and focused on certain issues, Ousmane was just a puppet. However, unlike the other political hacks who signed up for this, Ousmane was just born into the wrong family. Across the side of the car, a banner read “Ousmane Ndeye for Deputy of Thiayone-Botou”. His party-picked assistant, Thierno handed him a megaphone
“Use this when we get into town, people will gather”
Ousmane was also handed a list of KLF-U Party talking points. Not that anybody over 5 years old hadn't heard it repeated many times.
Kids stopped playing football to run up to the car, yelling “Le caid, le caid” Some of them just ran to keep along the car. Next came the grown men, dressed in kaftan’s waiving green flag’s the symbol of the Koldan Liberation Front. Eventually, the jeep came to a slow in the center of town, where several local KLF-U candidates had already gathered, as soon as he arrived in the plaza a cheer went up from the crowd.
“Long live the Union, Long live the Revolution, Long live Gano”
Thierno cringed a little when he heard that last part. Seynbou Gano had been the long-time President until 2011 when he was ousted by the military before that military govermeant was ousted by Edouard Senghor. The people still loved Gano, as he had liberated Kolda from minority rule and was seen as the father of the nation, even as some within the party cringed at Gano’s socialist economic policy. Ousmane personally favored Gano over Senghor, although Gano enacted authoritarian means, his goals were admirable. However, Ousmane's father the regional party secretary who was now on stage with some of the party list candidates, was a Senghor loyalist. As a reward, he had been made the Party Secretary of the Riviere’s Region, the most populous in the country.

After the rally was done, Ousmane’s father found him backstage pouring himself coffee.
“Son, you need to be more expressive, you looked like a statue out there,” his father said, as if he was a football player who had made a crucial error.
“Next time, be more expressive, we won’t retain this District if you are not active”
Ousmane turned away from his father as he added cream to his cup. “I feel like the party program is too limiting, the people want something new”
“That’s what the last candidate said, he barely scraped by a majority, that’s why I suggested the Revolutionary Committee pick you, you were so full of energy when you were young”
Ousmane sighed and walked to his own personal car, an old pre-war AMCA Nationale restored by Ousmane himself.
As he turned the keys into his car, he said to no one in particular.
“If it’s something I actually care about”
His father just stood and watched as his son drove away.

Mbaye had talked to several people at Prison-Mart, and each seemed to know the Ada Diallo’s. Many seem surprised, at least by their expressions. After some time, she found an off-shit Prison Mart employee to take to the Ada Diallo residence. Mbaye returned to her motorbike, as the young man named Assaine rode through Diawara. Eventually, they were on the backroads outside of town, following old logging and farming roads. Through her conversations with the good people of Diawara, she found out the Ada Diallo’s were wealthy landowners who were able to take advantage of land redistribution. Much of rural Kolda, was a small concentrated town with vast reserves meant for workers and farmers to settle upon. However, corruption in the 90s meant many people did not receive the land they had been promised.

Before independence, Arivee settlers occupied massive amounts of land building their communities and converting locals. Even though almost all had either moved to Brissiac or to urban areas. Their old estates still remained deep within the semi-arid forests. Assaine eventually stopped outside one of these old estates, except the design had been significantly modified.
“Well Madame, here it is the House of Ada Diallo,” Assiane said gesturing to the building.
The house had the traditional Laerlian-style columns, that had been pained in a vibrant muti-colored pattern. The lawn of the manor was filled with several feet-high wood carvings each incredibly detailed. Mbaye opened the black iron gates and into a small garden. Water trickled from somewhere nearby, a large cross towered over a maze of paths and greenery. Then Mbaye saw an older man, facing away from her. Was this her father?

[Slokais]

In the basement of the Thomas IV Church of Newton, there was a small gathering every Thursday night. Thomas IV had long held a reputation, as one of the better places of mass in all of South Princeton, and such was the nicest in the entire Township. At the center was a couple, Howard and Mary Jonas who had been profiled in a 2008 issue of the Holy Times as “caretakers to the world’s children”. Both had brought over 60 adopted children to their church alone and almost 1,000 to the Diocese of the Outer Islands alone. Starting in 2006, they began a program called “World Cultural Hour” for these children from improvised backgrounds.
“Elizabeth,” Miss Mary asked
“I have had a good day so far”
“You just started at Simon XV Secondary, right dear?”
“Yes, lots of new friends”
“Well remember the best practices, we discussed last week”
“About boys?” Elizabeth asked
A couple of others in the group laughed.
“Yes, dear. Aequinta’s?”
Aequinta’s was a 19-year-old originally from Lauchenoria, he had unfortunately been named after the Patriarch of the Church of Sanctaira.
“I started work, last week at a restaurant. However, I feel the temptation of sodomite’s within my pure heart”
Even though same-sex marriage had recently been legalized, a large portion of Slokasian’s including Catholics still viewed the idea of being gay as sinful. Years later Elizabeth would have to overcome her Catholic faith, although for now she quietly listened.

At that moment, something Elizabeth would remember for years to come happened. Sarah, a 9-year-old from Lao Sansong came running in. She had tears in her eyes.
“How could you, Miss Mary, How could you”
Miss Mary ran to Sarah
“What’s wrong dear”
“You took me from my Daddy, you kidnapped me”
“No,” Miss Mary said shocked
At that moment, a grown Sansongian man in a black suit and tie came storming into the room.
“Get away from my daughter,” he said pushing Miss Mary away.
At that moment, some of the others in the room jumped up, as the man carried Sarah away still crying.
Everyone just sat in silence for a moment, before a group of police officers came into the room. Already in handcuffs was Father Howard.
“No, please” Miss Mary begged
“Ma’am, you are being charged by the Province of South Princeton and the Ministry of Justice with accessory to kidnapping in at least 15 counts.” another officer said, placing handcuffs on Miss Mary.
“You will be transferred to the police station, and everything from now on can be used as evidence in future criminal proceedings. Si necesitas este mensaje-” The officer continued escorting her outside.

Over the next few weeks, there were many hard conversations. Sarah returned to her family almost immediately in Lao Sansong, year’s later Elizabeth would look her up and find that Sarah had changed her name back to her birth name and was studying to become a Gumatara, a teacher with the Arikata Faith. Others found their families in time, yet Elizabeth stayed waiting. At the time she traveled to Kolda, only a few in that original group had yet to find their birth families. Dean who was barely 3 years old at the time of the arrests, was originally from a small fishing community in Nuiqust. The town had been destroyed by a flood, around his birth with the family fate’s being unknown. Mbaye thought about all these things as approached her father.



“Excuse me” Mbaye asked in French
“Excuse you, for speaking the tongue of the colonizer's,” the man said.
Mbaye sighed and spoke one of the few words of Kango she knew
“Daughter, I am Daughter”
That got the man’s attention, who then turned.
“Mbaye?”
“Yes,” Mbaye said, realizing this was her father.
Mbaye quickly rushed forward and hugged her father, who half-heartedly hugged her back.
“Please, forgive, I know little Kango” Mbaye said
Her father said something in Kango, however, she did hear “Mother”
“Where” Mbaye asked, like a little child who longed for her mother in the night.
Mbaye’s father spoke this time in French, after carefully looking around.
“The others must not know of this conversation, I never spoke French to you”
“Yes, father”
“Your mother is inside the house if the priests ask, who you are say “Eliba ware”
“Eliba ware?” Mbaye repeated
“In worship, you are worship of the Sprit”

Mbaye was left confused, was her father like the Mega-pastor she saw on billboards on the way to Diawara? Then again, each preached in French not Kango, only true revolutionaries, those who had been defeated by Gano still rejected French. Who was her father?

[Slokais]

“Bonjour comrade’s”
That’s the line, Julie had been repeating all day to the various prospective buyers of the trendy new Guediawaye apartment. Julie was a real estate agent selling the new 4 bed 3 bath top-floor apartment in the historic Liberte neighborhood. Real estate wasn’t Julie’s calling, yet for someone from the Amazargha minority it was one of the few jobs available to her. The Amarzargha were descended from Mallacan migrants who came over in the 1920s and 30s. Julie’s ancestors were sheepherders in the Mallacan highlands who were brought over to work in factories in Guediawaye. They intermarried with either Arivee settler creating a unique culture. While Christians in Guediawaye were primarily Catholic, the Amarzargha were mostly Maronites. At 5 pm, Julie packed away the remaining flyers and sweets on her display and locked the door.

Liberte was located in 3rd Arrondsmeant, a quiet and leafy quarter known for its historical architecture and colonial churches. Traditionally home to the Arivee elite, it was now home to a Koldan political class. Politicians and businessmen shopped at the fanciest boutiques yet publicly called to support the workers. They had personal servants while stating they fought for the class struggle. Julie boarded the Guediwaye Metro, a recent vanity project by the Senghor government sponsored by Xiomera. She took the train to Gare de Thaiyore Station, which was now in a completely different neighborhood.

Julie checked into the local office of the Democratic Action Party, the DAP was the largest opposition political party, besides the Brissiac Union, which didn’t operate north of the Banguala River. Independent polling looked good for this election cycle, with some putting the DAP as high as 20% nationwide. Although there was little chance of victory, every gain against the Senghor government and the KLF-U was a victory. In the past political opposition had been crushed or banned, yet for the time being, they had survived. Although some leadership had been arrested in the post-election protests of 2019, the DAP had grown.

Julie set out into the street’s Thaiyore, she had lost her business suit from his realtor job and was now dressed in a traditional shirt and a multi-colored dress. She had opted for it, as it was more traditional something she wanted to appeal to in a community such as this one. The DAP’s new strategy was not only energizing the youth, tired of years of KLF rule but also appealing to older supporters of Gano. Senghor had been rapidly pushing Kolda from socialism to an autocratic capitalist state. Corruption was rampant at all levels with Senghor giving private contacts for infeasture to his political cronies. In Thaiyore, garbage control was no longer controlled by a local authority but rather by Guiedwaye Déchets Unis (GDU). GDU now tasked with managing waste in the whole city was ill-equipped, and often only collected in wealthy neighborhoods. Trash was still dumped at community collection points by a society conditioned to follow regulations yet now it had become a massive pile of trash. In the trees of the street nearby, plastic bags hung onto trees like party banners, kids had even taken plastic bags and bottles are were using them to play games in the street. The first address was on Rue Bis 40, a small blue multi-story concrete building.

“Excuse me, Comrade are you busy” Julie asked the old woman standing at the door.
“Not for now, Madame but that could change real soon if you don’t tell me where you here,” the woman said with an attitude.
“Well, I’m with the Democratic Action Party and was wondering if you were registered to vote?”
“No, thank you, Madame. I fought for Kolda’s independence and wouldn't see it go down the drain” the woman said loudly, she then gestured for Julie to come inside. As soon as she closed the door, she shut in quickly.
“Do you have any idea, how many l’informateur are out?”
“Yes, actually,” Julie said smugly
“Do you want me to listen or not?” the woman said
“The DAP is gathering a broad coalition to challenge the Senghor regime, you were listed as a Gano supporter”
“You can't expect to challenge Senghor, however, yes I will be voting DAP,” the old woman said as she walked into her kitchen.
“Times are changing, the people want a new Kolda,” Julie said sitting down on a barstool across from the sink.
“Sombi?” the old woman asked as he plated up a bowl of sweet rice pudding
“Yes, actually although I may have to head on soon,” Julie said
“There was an infomateur watching you,” the old woman said, opening the shade over the small kitchen side window. She looked out, before gesturing to Julie
“Come closer, Omeke girl,” the old woman said pointing to a man smoking a cigarette on the floor below talking into a mobile phone.
“Was he behind me?”
“He has been around this building for days, several other of you Heutoirs have been around”

Julie ended up staying for around an hour in the old women’s home. Her name was Abasatou and had served in the Women’s Liberation Brigade during the Great Kolda War. The WLB was a leftist and gynarchist military unit that fought primarily in the rural Riviere Region. Abasatou explained that many village communities were often led by matrichary, so to many the WLB was not seen as unusual. However, once the war ended, the WLB was forcibly absorbed into the KLF-U. Those who refused were branded as traitors and arrested or worse. Abasatou had been an earlier adopter of the KLF-U, and she was rewarded with a position as a Minister for Women in the Workforce. Although to Abasatou, quickly disagreed with the KLFs policy and was replaced in the 1990s. Since then she had been living semi-well in Thaiyone, staying on the KLFs good side and keeping her head low.

“It’s going to be your generation who changes things, I can feel it”
“I really hope so, it’s been great talking to you Madame”
“Keeping going, fly like the frigate bird’s in the sky”
Julie grabbed her bag and was halfway out the door when she began to wonder were the line was from.
Almost as if sensing her thought Abasatou said.
“That’s from a poem we used to say, way back in the delta”
“Does it have a name?” Julie asked almost out the door
“It needs no name only for you to listen”

[Slokais]

Ousmane had been in secondary school when the coup happened. His family had long been connected with the KLF-U, party and as such could afford to send Ousmane to the best prep school. Lennesway Day School was located above much of Guediwaye, with some classrooms having views that stretched out into the Olympic Ocean. At Lennesway Day, being well-read in culture and classical education was important and thus each student was required to attend a 45-minute Classics Disscusion class in the middle of the day. This kind of education had largely died out within public education, as Seynabou Gano viewed studying foreign ancient texts as “backward-minded and oppressive”. Ironically, Gano’s son was in the same Classics class with Ousmane, although they were far from friends.

“Today, we will be discussing the works of Élisabeth le Bonnaire, that are in your textbook,” the teacher, Madame Bourne said.

Madame Bourne was an older Arrivee woman with blond hair which was slowly turning grey, she was often jokingly referred to as Madame Bourne Long Ago. Élisabeth Bonnaire was a Laerlian painter who was well-known for her portraits of Fellsian elites. They would eventually have to write a paper about one of her paintings using command terms to describe the meaning of her artistic choices. At the time, Ousmane could have carried less, most people cheated on the tests anyway. Madame Bourne still didn’t understand mobile cell phones, so students would just hide them and use them to access documents with all the answers. It was one of these mobile phones that went off a few minutes into class.

Claire, the offending student pulled out her mobile phone. Ousmane thought this was odd, Claire was one of the few students who truly may have carried about her schoolwork.
“I am so sorry, Madame,” Claire said before stepping out.
“Must be serious” one of her friends said

At that moment the phones of every student began to go off like crazy, including Ousmane’s phone.
Madame Bourne had completely lost the class, even as she tried to keep teaching about Bonnaire. Yet her students were already abuzz in many conversations.
“They took the Capitol”
“Screw, this I’m going home”
Eventually, the public alert sirens began to go off, and the students were ushered towards Lennesway’s large colonial area basement. For several hours, the students sat on the cold stone floors, their silence occasionally broken up by another phone call from concerned parents to students. Gano has been cooped, that much was clear from the rumors quickly spreading, but from who?
“It was those Brissican” one boy said
“Hey, I got family in Brissiac why would try and take over Kolda” Claire said, she had been the first called because her mother worked at an office building across from the Presidential Palace that was currently surrounded. She had calmed down several hours ago, but her eyes were still red.
“As revenge, you people want to re-colonize our country,” the boy said.
“There has been peace for years, why attack,” Ousmane said.

Several hours later, the doors of the basement burst open. Soldiers with light green armbands their weapons drawn.
“Excuse, me,” the school security guard said, standing up.
One of the soldiers pointed his assault weapon at the guard.
“You are not paid well enough, to deal with us. We will be gone soon” a man said from behind the soldiers. It was obvious he was their commander.
“What do you want” Madame Bourne asked
“If you are ever asked, we are with the General,” one of the soldiers said as he grabbed one of the students.

The soldiers fanned out across the room, and one of them approached Ousmane.
“ID, now,” he said
Ousmane quickly produced his KLF party membership card, one of the only pieces of ID he had. His father had once told him that a KLF membership card could get you out of any situation, and as such Ousmane kept it close. So was the power of the KLF over society.
The soldier, who only looked a few years older than Ousmane himself, scanned the ID intently.
“This one’s one of ours,” he said to his commander.
Ousmane however was shocked when several other students were taken.
“They have KLF ID cards, there with us” Ousmane pleaded.
“We don’t need you,” the soldier said.

In the end, two dozen students were taken from Lennesway Day, on the day of the coup. Included were Claire and a few of Ousmane’s friends. He or anyone else at that school, never heard from them again. At the same time, the students were never declared dead. In the aftermath, after the counter-coup led by Edouard Senghor the events that day became a closely guarded secret. Madame Bourne soon disappeared as well, some said from old age, and some said she left from the stress of it all. Ousmane didn’t blame her, the coup changed Kolda. Before, Kolda had not been a democracy or really that democratic by any international standards, yet at least he knew what to expect. Senghor however took the KLF in a new direction, no longer was it a party of ideals, but rather a party of status and wealth. Rather what held the KLF and by effect, Kolda together was simply personal greed.


Ousmane had fully been regulated by his campaign schedule. Day after day, town after town. Every time there would be business first, meeting the local party chair and such. Such conversations were very stuffy and proformative. Lots of “for the workers' and “for the Koldan people' were thrown into policy. One of the nicer stops was the town of Faildouth located along Banguala Bay. Much of the traditional architecture in small towns had been destroyed or made a KLF-U-related office. Ironic, that the same buildings that had once held KLF fighters were now used by the victors.

Still, Faildouth held a nice charm, fishermen docking on the beach, local kids jumping off the piers in the blue water. After a rally in an old town, Ousmane left his campaign staff behind and wandered to a nearby internet cafe. Ousmane liked to stay informed on international affairs and wished to travel the world someday. The cafe turned out to have an excellent iced coffee and sweet Fatyare pastry. However, soon his father came into the cafe, and he placed his order before sitting next to Ousmane. The two didn't look at each other, there still obviously tension between them.
“We can’t have you wander away like that,” he said
“I’m not a child, I have a college degree,” Ousmane said, handing his empty glass to a waiter
“In something worthless never the less”
“Wanting to know our History, is important to me and should be to you”
“Don’t tell me what to think Ousmane, I’m here to give you an opportunity”
“Okay..”
“It’s in Brissiac…I didn’t suggest it, but party superiors said otherwise”
“Call me interested, what’s the business in Brissiac? Doesn’t Le Gens Separation apply?”
“They need support, radical elements are trying to disrupt their government”
“That’s their problem, let those Baliah sort out their issue”
“So you are saying no?”
“...No, not exactly”
At that moment, his father’s order appeared at the counter. As his father went up to grab his sandwich, Ousmane realized something. Being away on party business would give him an excuse to leave his campaign and his rigorous campaigning behind. Ousmane had been feeling sick at the thought of repeating the lies he had been fed, this trip would be an antidote to his sickness. When his father returned, he spoke.
“I’m perfectly fine with it, what’s my role”
His father paused for a second, taking a bite of his sandwich.
“You are knowledgeable in French, and it gives you a chance to use those history skills of your”

Brissiac despite being across the water, was a world away to many. Despite being in the same country, Brissiac enforced security at their border. With a lack of jobs in the rest of Kolda, economic migrants flocked to work low-wage jobs in the cities of Brissiac. Neither state would survive without the other, Kolda benefited from money being sent back and its youth being employed, while Brissiac was able to continue to export technology and keep the Arivee minority rich. The KLF-U had largely ignored Brissiac since the 90s, and the passage of the Le Gens Separation or “People’s Separation” confirmed that. Despite, human rights issues being raised in Brissiac and the continued imagery of colonialism, the KLF-U didn’t contest the dominant Brissiac Union Party within their region. Meanwhile, the Brissiac Union didn’t contest the KLF-U by paying for Arivee citizens to migrate south of the border. It was a kind of deal, that made you forget that Brissiac was even part of Kolda, like decades of oppression at the hands of the Brissiacan minority didn't happen at all. Ousmane was still excited, he had only been to Brissiac once, a childhood vacation at a Brissican vineyard, that he barely remembered. He knew it would be a work trip this time, although his excitement still stayed with him as he boarded the short flight south to Saint-Paul.

[Slokais]

Mbaye spent the first week with her new family confused. She imagined her biological family would be her perfect match, her mother and father complimenting her perfectly. Yet both her Mother and Father were extremely devoted to their faith. Through, conversations with the many people coming through, they were Priets of the Diawara Faith. From Mbaye’s observations, the Diawara combined the traditional animism of Kolda with a modern view of religion and Christianity.

Mbaye hadn’t come in with a plan, she had only booked a return flight in two weeks and everything was up to her to figure out in between. Mbaye had tried to approach her mother at various points but she had been quietly ignored, her father had not told her mother, who she was. When her father was in her presence, he referred to Mbaye as “nemeca ke” which she was fairly sure translated as “new member”. Mbaye spent her days mostly studying the various assortments of books that filled the home’s library. Since there was no internet, the books became her only source for translation and learning the Kango language. French had been strictly forbidden, and Mbaye hadn’t heard a lick of any since her arrival. Eventually, after a few days, Mbaye realized it would probably be best to leave. Many things seemed to be wrong with the Diawara, new young men and women would come into the compound every day, and they were then dressed in robes and taken to a community of several huts across the road. Additionally, when Mbaye walked the gardens she would be asked “Emtire ka, cane” by passersby, she would just look at them and smile, and they seemed to understand.

On her final night, Mbaye once again tried to reach her mother. Every night, Mbaye had to respectfully fold, when either one of the roaming priests stopped her from approaching her mother, or when she went to sleep in a large modern guesthouse stylized like a traditional hut. Tonight, her mother was holding a gathering with several senior priests. Although Mbaye had been raised and in her heart was Catholic, she appreciated the Diwara. They were keeping alive traditions that had been destroyed by colonialism yet also moving to a modern faith. Once, Mbaye reached the grove of plants stylized to form a tribal pattern, she paused on a curved stone bench. The days were warm, yet the night felt just perfect, light breezes blowing the smell of tropical plants around. Was this home? Mbaye had been struggling with the question for so long, was Slokais still home, or was it where she was truly born? Here in Kolda, Mbaye felt a sense of belonging and comfort she had rarely found anywhere else. At the same time, something didn’t seem right. Regardless, Mbaye would leave tomorrow, she already had plans to explore more of Kolda.

In the moment, Mbaye instinctively grabbed her phone, a habit of living somewhere with good cell service. To her surprise, she had service and more unexpectedly she had a text from an unknown number. The only message was,“I heard you were in the country, please I want to talk. It’s been so long”. The message confused Mbaye, according to records she had left Kolda when she was only 2 years old, and her parents were right there. Then just as she was starting to put her phone away, it rang with a call from an unknown number.
“Who is this” Mbaye asked angrily
“Please don’t hang up it’s Julie. Don’t you number” Julie responded
It took a few seconds for Mbaye to absorb this information, as she looked for words to respond, she saw several priests gather across the field from her. If she didn’t go over now, her mother would once again disappear.
“I know, it may have been confusing for you. But please, I heard you were in Kolda”
“No, it’s not that” Mbaye responded in Kango as she made her way across the field.
“When did you learn, Kango” Julie responded in English
“I’m with my biological family, they're part of this religious group” Mbaye whispered
“Listen to me Elizabeth, what are they called” Julie said, worry in her voice.
“Diawara” Mbaye said, just as she reached the group of priests.
“We are Diawara, the time has come,” the Priest said in Kango
“Get, the hell out of there, Elizabeth,” Julie said with panic in her voice. However, Mbaye wasn’t listening

The last thing, Julie heard in her apartment in Gueidwaye was the phone dropping to the grass, then several words in Kango, before the call was ended.

[Slokais]

In the north of Kolda, the dry plans eventually turn into an expanding desert known as Moudjerria. From colonial times, the central government had tried to tame the desert, to turn its resources into profit. Yet there always was resistance, when Missionaries attempted to convert Moudjerrians to Christianity from the religion they had practiced for hundreds of years, the Moudjerrians burned their settlements, as the colonizers burned the Moudjerrians. When the Kolda War began, bands of revolutionaries pushed south to reclaim what remained of the ancient city of Kolda, a city they had been banished from for hundreds of years. And now, as the central government allowed private business to extract and destroy the landscape for profit, the Moudjerrians did not remain silent. Usama had taken up the call to fight in 2021 after the thugs of Pirot Mining destroyed an ancient shrine in his home village.

The Indigenous Moudjerrians were divided into around a dozen smaller tribal groups, each generally centered around an oasis, each with its own forms of art, music, and culture. Although all were united by a common belief in God, the same as much of Kolda, however, the Moudjerrians were often viewed as lesser than others for their nomadic and sheep-herding lifestyle. Usama was different as he had been educated at the Al-Kunah University, living in the city of Port D’agent for several years. There, Usama learned of the many injustices his people had faced at the hands of outsiders for generations, he learned of greed and corruption and of the ills of a modern Koldan lifestyle. When Usama returned to his tribe, he discovered that Pirot Mining had begun to construct a mining depot in the small natural bay, polluting and drying up the small creek, his people had used for water.

Usama soon joined a court case launched by an environmental organization against Pirot, hoping his testimonial would help bring the Brissican mining conglomerate to justice. However, justice did not come as the Ministry of Development and Mines allowed Pirot to continue construction. Soon, his tribe had to migrate further north into the harsher desert lands, devoid of any water. In addition, other Moudjerrians had launched attacks against the companies and the government, leading to the military cracking down on civil liberties. Now, in an election year, Usama wanted to help make a difference.

Usama’s tribe, the Armzana had long been prevented from voting. The government had long declared that since the Armzana didn’t own their own properties, they could not be confirmed as residing anywhere. This was even though many Armzana had actual government IDs and some even paid tax, yet were always rejected when they attempted to register to vote.

Usama’s jeep bumped over the dry plains on the way toward a small village. The government called the area Al-Ransira Planning District for their own purposes, yet to the Moudjerrians it was just called Ta’zarghiqa or “The good place” in Moudjerrian. Usama parked his open-top jeep in the center of the community, just outside the community mosque. Usama then walked to the nearby well, its waters almost dried up as summer began. Once he had washed his shoes, Usama entered the mosque where a small group of people was waiting for him.
“Is everyone here?” he asked
An older man walked, over his robes adorned with a gold necklace, obviously a person of great respect within the community.
“We asked as many as we could, many are afraid they will be arrested if they try to register,” he said
The others around him signaled their agreement.
“Tell them, they have nothing to fear. By not voting they will let the fears control our land and our people, now is a time to kick out those who have oppressed our people”
“You are well-spoken, however, your message falls upon ears who understand, go out and speak to them,” the old man said pointing to the door.

As Usama stepped outside, dust whipped up against him. Usama pulled his robes over his head, so it only left the eyes uncovered, and ventured towards a group of wood houses. The Moujeerians traditionally lived a nomadic lifestyle, although in recent decades had settled into seasonal living, this allowed for the cultivation of plants during the wet months, and sheep and cow herding during the dry months. Usama opened the wooden gate separating the cultivated land inside from the bare land outside. Already, a group of people was gathered around a central courtyard visible to the outside, during periods of dust like this, the buildings prevented dust from blowing in while still creating a place to gather.
Usama introduced himself to the group, made up of several families, and asked how many were of voting age, several raised their hands.
“Did you hear that voters and being driven to the registration office today?” he asked
“Of course, not much else happens out here except those miners that come by,” an older man said
“Why are you not coming?”
“Have you not heard? They arrest some of those who try to vote, give them impossible requirements and when you fail they arrest you” the older man’s son said
“No one is getting arrested today, the court has declared language tests for voting unlawful,” Usama said sitting down in the courtyard on a wooden stool.
“Are you not afraid of the gun? Afraid of a troubled man with power. The Ancestors teach us to preserve ourselves” an older woman said, clutching her necklace.
“The power of justice is as strong as the evil of man, If anything goes wrong, I’m with you,” Usama said

[Slokais]

When Ousmane arrived in Brissiac, he and his group of KLF-U insiders were treated immediately to a photo opportunity for the Brissiacan authorities. The airport terminal cleaned out of the way for the group, a dozen or so, mostly men in business suits, when they reached passport control, a requirement for entry into the Brissiac Region they were whisked through security.

Despite, Brissiac being part of Kolda since its independence, it felt like a completely different world. Brissiacans and traditional French speakers were a rarity in most of Kolda, yet here everyone spoke a very formal French. Due to the Brissiac’s strict border policy since the end of the Kolda War, travel to Brissiac was difficult except for the wealthy. Meanwhile, many Koldans risked everything to travel to Brissiac by crossing the narrow strait that separated the two regions. Brissiac had never been subjected to the same state planning and years of corruption and was thus flourishing in an ultra-capitalistic paradise. The roads were smoother, and the buildings were taller yet under it all was a brutal reality.

Ousmane had traveled to Brissiac when he was about 13 years old, some family friends offering a week’s stay at a resort deep within the Brissiacan wine country. Ousmane’s mother had just recently divorced, leaving his father desperate to connect with his son, now all his own. The first days had been good for both of them, Ousmane just enjoying all of the resort features while his father drank wine and casually flirted with other guests. Eventually, Ousmane established a friendship with one of the other boys at the hotel, Antonie. Antonie was a few years older and thus was a paid employee of the resort, bringing around cold glasses of juice and water to guests by the pool. The two began to talk, mostly about girls, sports, and other teen boy stuff, as Ousmane somewhat dumped all his feelings and emotions. One day, however, things changed.
“Where do you live, do you just stay at the resort?” Ousmane asked.
Antonie poured another drink for a resort guest before he responded.
“Not exactly, my whole family’s housing is provided by the resort, although we don’t live here” Antonie replied.
“Oh, so they pay for your family’s house”
“Somewhat..” Antonie said, unsure of his answer.
“Why don’t I come over, at least to see it at least”
“It’s not interesting seriously, anything here is much better than my house”
Antonie left to deliver a drink to a poolside guest.
Antonie returned a small tip in his hand.
“Alright, you win, fate is telling me to let you come along, be here back at 5:30,” Antonie said

As Antonie locked up, Ousmane joined him.
“You sure want to see this” Antoie said
“Sure I'm leaving in a few days anyway, might as well see where my friend lives,” Ousmane said
Antonie led Ousmane down a staircase and then out a door into the expansive wine fields.

The resort, Parigne de l’est, was originally a massive winery founded by settlers in the 1880s. Now the resort was a massive entertainment complex with several restaurants, a casino, and a waterpark. Both wealthy Koldans and Brissiacans alike as well as foreigners frequented the resort. As the boys walked through the vineyard, the two talked.
“I’m starting at a new school called Lennesway Day in a week” Ousmane said
“Sound’s fancy, plenty of Brissicans, right?”
“Yeah, well my French is pretty good, now right?” Ousmane said
“Sure, sure. You can now understand when Brissican girls reject you” Antonie joked
“Come on, you haven't seen me in action,” Ousmane said as they approached a large hedgerow.
Antonie fumbled around in his pockets, producing a key.
“If you wanted to me for a hike, you could have just told me,” Ousmane said
At that moment, Antonie pulled a small handle and opened a door in the dense hedgerow, covering a brick wall.

[Slokais]

Back in the present, Ousmane was being driven through downtown Saint Paul, the capital of Brissiac. It was obvious their route was pre-planned as they took a detour through the city's wealthiest neighbors, avoiding the highway through the slums. As if not showing poverty meant it didn’t exist. He wondered if the other delegation members were really this blind and dumb or if they were quietly ignoring it. When they reached the Hotel Le Nerian, Saint Paul’s finest hotel and convention center, Ousmane opened the door and opened the truck to grab his bags.
“Non, monsieur, je l'ai” a bellhop said, a young Koldan boy. He looked barely 13.
“C’est bon, c'est bon, I will handle it” Ousmane insisted, as the rest of his entourage was carefully funneled inside, their bags being carried by other bellhops. While the other’s could ignore such a situation, Ousmane wanted to know more.
“What’s your wage, monsieur,” Ousmane asked
The bellhop looked shocked at even being addressed.
“100 marks”
“Here is 200, get some food,” Ousmane said as he pulled the money from his pocket. Ousmane was surprised by the low pay, the minimum wage was at least 350 per day, strictly enforced. As he made his way inside with his own bags, Ousmane wondered if the boy was even in school. He thought back to that holiday and what happened with Antonie.

2008
Parigne de l’est, Brissiac Province, Kolda

When the gate opened, Ousmane was greeted by a series of low-rise concrete buildings surrounded by the walls he had just passed through.
“This is home,” Antonie said
Antonie showed Ousmane around the small neighborhood, its only entrance being a carefully graded gate which was closer.
“My parents are not here, their shifts don’t end tell later,” Antonie said as he opened the door on a third-floor unit.

Antonie’s house consisted of one large room and a connecting bathroom. In one corner, younger siblings and cousins sat around a small radio listening to children’s programs. In another, a makeshift kitchen with a small jerry can and several stacks of packaged rations stamped with the resort’s logo. Across the floor were several bed pads and piles of assorted clothes. When he entered, the kids turned off the radio and ran over to greet him
“Who is this” one kid said
“He has nice clothes, does he work at the Resort?” another said.
“I’m Ousmane, I’m just visiting” Ousmane took a seat in a plastic chair.
“Okay, what did everyone get today” Antonie asked
The kids went around excited in a circle proudly talking about selling their wares or getting tips from tourists. What struck Ousmane in that moment, was that every kid including his new friend didn’t go to school, instead, they worked their days at the resort. While, this would be a dream for his friend's home, pampered with the wealth of high society. Ousmane for the first time in life, questioned. Why were things like this?

After the holiday, things wouldn't get better with family. Eventually, his mother left and his father turned to prostitution and his club of friends. Their home became a meeting place for an increasing collection of characters, holding their meetings in the basement. Despite this, his father pushed him hard in his education, and Ousmane feared anything less than high marks. Although he was academically successful, his emotions disappeared, he had no passion for his chosen path in politics except keeping his father happy and keeping up the lifestyle. Ousmane’s early 20s were a collection of parties with rich and well-connected at night and political/business deals during the day. At 24, Ousmane left the country taking upon a different name, enrolling in Albarine University. All this was an escape from Kolda, but most importantly his father.



Ousmane rejoined the rest of the group inside the hotel, An older Brissiac man in a suit was passing out room keys. Ousmane looked over to Alexandre, another younger KLF-U member.
“Are you seeing this?” he said
“Seeing what, is this about the bellboys? It’s their job”
“They're paying them only 100 marks a day” Ousmane whispered as the older man got closer.
“You have been scheduled for a meeting with the Minister of Immigration at 7:30 pm,” he said to the group. When he made his way to Ousmane he paused before handing over the key.
“Don’t pay my employees, that’s our job. You are lucky I don’t tell the police” he said as he held Ousmane’s shoulder whispering.
“You shouldn’t use kids as cheap labor” Ousmane responded heading towards the elevators.


In the predawn darkness, Julie pulled into one of the many police checkpoints across rural Kolda.
“Hello, identification,” the officer said, waiting for Julie to produce it.
Julie handed him an ID, not her actual one but a fake produced by one of the many scam shops.
“Toll, Madame,” he said as he returned the ID.
“Can you grab the wallet, dear?” she said to Jamel, sitting in the passenger seat.
Once the money, was paid the officer had no further questions and let her proceed down the road. The toll wasn’t real, just a cop trying to get a few bucks out of drivers. It was widely understood that justice at every level required a physical or metaphorical price.


“So I am your, husband or boyfriend or something,” Jamal said
“Relax, a married woman is much less scary than a single woman, especially of my age” Julie set the wallet in her cup holder.
“You know, if we wanted to make this scene more convincing, I should be driving,” Jamal jokes.
From the back seat, Adama sat up pulling his assault rifle from under the seat.
“Be careful with that thing” Jamal said
“Ex-military, relax,” Adama said
“I still don’t understand why you want to find this woman even after finding out about her past,” Jamal said
“Her family is pure evil, I wouldn’t mind taking out a few of them,” Adama said
“Look, she is a foreigner, if we do anything to her we have an international incident,” Julie replied, turning onto another road.
“Plus, she is truly a good person who doesn’t know her family's true extent” Julie added
“How do you know her, Julie” Jamal asked

[Slokais]

Mbaye woke up in pitch-black darkness, her eyes slowly adjusted to the low light of the room and eventually, her surroundings became clear. She was in a small room with plaster walls on each side and a metal door on one wall, letting in a tiny amount of light around the edges. Compared to the darkness, the light of the door might as well have been the sun. Mbaye also felt sick as if she had been drugged with something, her mount was also incredibly dry as if she had eaten sand. Eventually, after an unknown time, the door swung open.

After the initial adjustment to the brightness of the outside, she could see a man dressed in green robes with a white star pattern in its center, Mbaye noticed he was armed with a small pistol, not she had the strength to escape anyway.
“Wait..” Mbaye said as he struggled to find words.
“Don’t worry” the man said, this time surprisingly in unaccented English
“Where is my father” Mbaye said as the man dropped a plate of stewed cabbage and rice.
“Not here, you will meet him soon, if the goddess wills it,” the man said turning around
“Why me" Mbaye asked partly to her captor and partly to herself.
“You are part of the plan,” the man said as he closed the iron door, plunging the room back into darkness

The year was 2011, and the city of New Liverpool had just come out of a large storm as the students of Howard-Prince Gonalez Univeristy’s Pre-College Program entered its historic Presidential Hall. Built in 1918 as the first building of HPGU it was designed to model the Slokasian Capitol Building of the time, its large columns covering quite small doors. HPGU was Slokais's most prestigious public university and arguably the most prestigious overall if Kirkland and Saint Pius University didn't have something to say about it. Even getting into a Pre-College Program was a massive achievement, each student had been a top performer in their political science classes and many had received endorsements from MSLs or local political officials. Mbaye or as she went by at the time "Elizabeth" had struggled to just make it into the program. In the building’s vast lobby, signs directed students who had just dropped the bags in Georgio Best Residential Building to the commencement of the two-week program for talented high schoolers, not just from Slokais but from across the globe.

“First of all, welcome to Howard-Prince Gonalez University, all of you have been chosen because of your talent, and skills and each of you has shown how like our namesake you can create change. These next two weeks are designed to give a taste of what a full 4-year’s at HPGU could look like, both as a college experience and as a prime institution for political science”

“At other colleges, pre-college suggests admission, here that means nothing,” said a girl next to Elizabeth.
“I know right, my parents are just happy they don’t have to pay for this,” Elizabeth said
“What’s your name,” the girl asked
“Elizabeth, I’m in the Diplomacy major”
“Oh nice, I’m Julie. International Business”
“Why business, was the UNLCF, too easy?” Elizabeth joked
“Ha, no. The College of Finance is a bunch of business jocks”
“I notice you have an accent, where are you from?”
“Kolda, although I have dual citizenship and live in San Fernando”
“Oh, cool,” Elizabeth said

The Dean finished her introductory speech, and as the students exited to their first classes, Julie held Elizabeth up.
“Hey, let's meet up sometime”
“Sure, what’s your Talk username”

The meeting with the Brissican Immigration Minister was very one-sided. He gave his annual report to the whole group although he looked only at the small number of Brissican civil servants seated on one side of the table. Brissiac had been receiving high numbers of workers from Kolda, both legal and much to the note of the Immigration Minister, “undocumented, illegals”. After giving his report, Ousmane spoke up, a decision that saw instant glares from the Koldan delegation.
“Not to be rude, sir but this is a discussion not a report to your peers,” Ousmane said
“Brissiac, would be pleasured to include if you simply return what was taken,” the Minister said
At that moment, the Koldan Immigration Minister responded
“I apologize for my comrade's rudeness, we will continue to enforce our side of the border”
“No problem, just of note several Brissiacan companies have expiring resource contacts within your country” the Brissican Minister responded.
“Indeed and I believe those will be satisfied per my sources”

Fatou-Ba Gueye, the Koldan Immigration Minister was a deeply respected party man, he had come up with the generation of thinkers who had built Koldan identity during the 1970s. His politics were considered a little odd by party loyalists such as President Gano, and was thus left out of the inner circle during his multi-decade rule. During this time, Fatou-Ba joined a circle of insiders, all deeply interested in Koldan history and native folk religion. Through them, Fatou-Ba became deeply connected with Fen-Dawla, a man of humble background who saw visions of a new great nation. The ancient city of Kolda had been destroyed by colonialism, yet Fen-Dawla saw a vision of a new great city of innovation. However, he warned it wouldn’t be possible until the Spirits of Ancestors were claimed. Fen-Dawla was the voice of the goddess Dalwa, who spoke from the spiritual beyond. If people believed in her, she and her fellow sprits would return.

Fatou-Ba saw this as his new vision, his great purpose. When word began to spread of a plot against Gano, he established himself within the movement and helped promote a new figure to power. Although President Senghor was not enlightened yet, many in his cabinet were and they fulfilled the wishes of the ancestors. When Dawla required new citizens for its great city, the military brought in thousands from all classes to begin building the new city. Soon, the New Founders as they called themselves had built themselves into every institution, they may have been Brisssican or Koldan but they were ready. Now the final steps were coming, all that lay between a New Kolda and ruin was President Senghor.

[Slokais]

Ousmane approached the Koldan Immigration Minister after the meeting, he was a older man with glasses named Fatou-Ba.
“I don’t think you had to apologize earlier, the Brissican Minister was ignoring our delegation”
Fatou-Ba looked up, in his hands he was holding a checkbook.
“Youths…You don’t understand what’s at stake here”
“Yes, I do, a key meeting with your counterpart, which we had no input on”
Fatou-Ba handed a check off to a nearby assistant
“Don’t tug against the breast which feeds you,” the Minister said as he walked towards the nearby elevator.

The assistant, a young woman with short braids, carried the check down the hallway and opened a door to a small stairwell. Ousmane considered the oddity of this for a moment and what Fatou-Ba had said. Ousmane excused himself from the group, began walking towards the bathroom, and waited inside until all of those from the meeting had cleared. Ousmane then sprinted down the stairwell careful to move quickly yet tread quickly in case the assistant was still nearby.

Behind the hotel in Saint-Paul, a group of Brissican men were gathered, shaded from the street by the outline of the building.
“Minister Ba sends his apologies for earlier,” the assistant said bowing to a Brissiac man in a grey suit
“As long as he keeps his word to speak with Senghor about our proposal,” he said as he turned towards his associates.
At that moment, Ousmane burst out of the stairs, looking halfway between ready to fight and ready to arrest someone. Not as if he could do much of either.
“I will deal with the interloper,” the assistant said, pulling a silver knife out of her skirt.
Ousmane rolled up his sleeves “Tell me what you are delivering, we don’t have to fight here”
“You have betrayed our ancestors, you shall die for it” she said, dropping her knife.
"At least you fight with honor, but yet you betray our country for money?" Ousmane asked.
"God's plan for the Koldan people is greater than you could ever imagine"
The women attacked first, attempting to strike Ousmane off his standing with a flying kick. However, Ousmane was not a total amateur, his father was friends with many traditional wrestlers who were still popular in the Koldan countryside.
"Watch this men, and learn son. Maybe they will make you less of a weakling"
Those words of his father came to him now, and so did the fighting skills these men taught Ousmane.
Ousmane remained defensive, as the assistant who was trained in some form of martial arts attacked with ferocity.
The Brissicans who had originally been intent on leaving remained, as if entertained by the two Koldans fighting each other.

“2 minutes to live” shouted a voice from beyond the curtain.
Jissel Baoul, the Democratic Action-Party candidate, steadied himself for one of the most important debates of his political career. Baoul had been around danger his whole life, from age 14 he had worked in the state-run agricultural farm system, his labor being rewarded with membership in an extremely corrupt union. Eventually, he rose to the top and helped organize several surrounding farms into an independent union. Company thugs eventually came for him, giving him permanent scars on his arms and legs. Yet still he pushed forward, and eventually received a law degree from the San Fernando University in Slokais Islands. When he returned, came a new vision and calling, politics.
The KLF-U always came for him. When he was elected in 2014 as the first DAP senator, he was arrested for a traffic violation and kept in jail for several weeks. When he criticized DeChamps, a lifestyle brand for child labor violations his house was shot at by gunmen. Of course not directly from the KLF-U, their allies had connections across Koldan society, and speaking up against them was always a risk. God willing, the people of Kolda would be able to hear him speak another day.

“Good evening, Kolda. Tonight is the first Presidential Debate, you will see 4 candidates, each receiving over 10% in polling” said the host, a KBC reporter.

Jissel had been placed in second, and thus followed President Senghor onto the stage. In front of him, the President was getting last-minute hair and make-up from reporters. A KBC staff member walked by handing a piece of paper to the President. He was then motioned to enter the stage, to the wild applause of the audience. Per KBC rules, the audience was meant to be reporters and undecided voters, but it was common knowledge the KLF-U sent in party loyalists with specific instructions. This is how they won, they controlled the board making the game unfair even before the election tampering. Jissel walked onto the stage and went for the handshake as he stood at his podium, however, the President didn’t respond as he set the piece of paper given to him in front of his lectern.

"He must have had the questions," Jissel thought as the debate opened. It was obvious President Senghor was ready to respond while Jissel, the Brissican Union Party, and the KLF puppet candidate were left in a worse place. During a TV break, Jissel leaned over to the President.
“I know about the notecard, let your policy speak for itself for once”
“Is that a threat” President Senghor responded
“No, but at least try and make it at least look fair”
“How dare you to question our election workers, in my term, they have been consistently ranked as fair”
“Fine, let’s see what the people say”

After the break, when Jissel was asked a biased question about his military response to the threat of Islamists, he began by saying.
“First of all, this is not a fair debate, President Senghor knows all of your questions”
“Let me respond to this outrage,” the President said
“No, let it be known this election is not fair, people of Kolda stand strong against this injustice”
At that moment, Jissel’s mic was cut
“Senator, that statement is out of order, President Senghor you have 30 seconds to respond”
“As part of the New Dawn program, electoral irregularities have been reduced and in the past two elections, irregularities have been at an all-time low, you sir are part of the problem by convincing the Koldan people there is an issue here”

When the debate ended, Jissel went way while Senghor went the other way. As he made his way to his dressing room, Jissel was stopped by a Koldan Intelligence Bureau agent who put his arm out.
“What you said, could be considered treason,” he said
“I have broken no laws, I won’t let your campaign of terror win”
“Just keep that in mind, you are treading on wet planks,” the agent said, turning away.
“Then I will bring down the whole bridge,” Jissel said as his assistant opened the dressing room door from the inside.

[Slokais]

As the trees became shorter and the dirt became dry sand, the military presence increased. Julie had already been to the Mbaye’s last known location, a cult compound deep in the bushlands which had been abandoned, a smattering of armed cultists stood guard, but they were no match for the small and stealthy force which included Julie, Jamal, Adama and several affiliated local militia members. Although the Democratic Action Party was created as simply a political party, it had become the leading voice of true opposition or at least non-Islamist forces. Included were many local militias consisting of ex-military activists who had never returned their weapons, some were veterans of the War of Independence while others could no longer be complicit in the government's modern conflicts.

Through the questioning of some captured cultists, they revealed everyone had simply gone to be part of the “New Dawn” whatever that meant. As Julie searched the rooms of the vast estate, she began to build a story. This was one of many cultist centers related to the Dawla cult, with everything from business deals to ceremonies being held there. The Dawla were a Rivalist cult that mixed Christian and traditional Koldan ancestor worship. Mix in a cultish and money-hungry policy and you had a dangerous cult to both its followers and to the Koldan people.
Jamal was familiar with Dawla, as his cousin had been converted.
“He sold his possessions, then just disappeared, his mother was distraught,” Jamal said as they picked through the building's kitchen.
“They just left all this chicken stock in the freezer,” Adama said as he opened it.
“I guess they didn’t need Chicken Neg’aze in this “New Dawn” of theirs,” Julie said
“My cousin called his mother, a few weeks ago actually. Said he was better there and wanted her to bring his siblings up to the New Dawn” Jamal said as he grabbed a loaf of bread.
“You think this New Dawn is an actual site or some twisted version of heaven?” Julie asked as he walked into the dining room.
“The Dawla are big believers in the ancient city of Kolda. They're probably there.” Adama said.
“Did you know this earlier?” Jamal asked somewhat angrily
“Yeah, I just wanted to gather some supplies, the site is off-limits and all the way in Moujerria,” Adama said, grabbing a container of chicken stock.

Mbaye had been given a square meal a day, she wasn’t starving although the long hours in the darkness of the room didn’t help. She couldn’t sleep, leaving Mbaye lots of time to ponder many things. The walls were thick, made of some sort of reinforced material, in addition, there was no cooling of any kind meaning she was obviously not underground. Surely, someone had noticed she was gone. Mbaye had planned to call her parents, or well her adoptive parents anyway. They were probably worried enough to call the Slokasian Embassy if something happened. Then again, so many people had gone missing in Kolda in recent years. Before she left, her friends shared articles and headlines about all the violent incidents and kidnappings. At the time, Mbaye had reminded them about the incidents even within Slokais itself. In this hectic world, not many truly inhabited places were safe. Mbaye also thought about her true father and mother. Why would they kidnap or at least hold her here? They hadn’t sacrificed her yet, so obviously she wasn’t the priority. Maybe it was some crazy form of extortion? Get the Slokasian government to pay the cult to fund more rituals, maybe?

After a few days, the door once again opened, however this time it was three people all dressed similarly to the first man she saw.
“Come with us” the one in the middle said in French
Although she stood up on her own, Mbaye walked out of the room. She wasn’t handcuffed, although she was still trapped. She stood in a small office with plaster walls, a portrait of her father wearing purple robes was positioned on a wall between a cross and a curved wooden symbol. On another wall was a small window inside of a door. Her first look upon the outside world was a strange one, the pure night with the occasional reflections. It was then clear to Mbaye that she was moving.
“Where are we?” Mbaye asked simply
After a few second's pause, the middle guard, the obvious French expert spoke again
“On the road to revelation, to the birthplace of our people” he said
Mbaye began thinking to herself, “birthplace of our people?” she thought.

The first week of the month-long program at HPGU was a blur for both Elizabeth and Julie. It was as if the standard formalites of high school were mixed with the social aspects of the first week of summer. Elizabeth had a roommate, a Ren christian girl named Rachel. Initially not close, when she mentioned her church back home in passing, Rachel suddenly became very interested in discussions of theology. Although Rachel was clean and orderly she was no fun to hang out with for more than a few minutes. So, Elizabeth began exploring her new surroundings. On one of these trips, she went to the Drywall Ball court. HPGU wasn’t as good as many of the other UNL schools. However, it wouldn’t be a Slokasian college campus without an intense passion for the new national pastime. Casually watching, Elizabeth spotted the girl from the orientation, Julie.

Julie had taken an interest in Drywall Ball in secondary school when her family moved from Kolda. The competitive intensity and friendships kept her interested in high school, earning an athletic scholarship from San Marcos Academy in Grade 9. SMA was an intense environment, the children of the city’s elite attended and there was pressure to succeed from peers and from teachers who got paid with results. Due to her economic background, Drywall Ball was her only way to make friends, even if some girls wouldn't talk to her if she wasn’t on the team. When arriving at HPGU, she repeated the process, finding a few friends that way. People seemed slightly less artificial then at San Marcos, a little more willing to be open and talk. Then again HPGU was still a high-level academic program. It was during a casual six-a-side game, when she spotted the girl from orientation, Elizabeth.

“Hey, you play Drywall Ball?” Julie asked
“Sometimes, just for fun. How's it going?"
"Good," Julie said grabbing her bottle of water.
"How are your classes going?" Elizabeth asked
"It's been interesting, if not I wouldn't be here right?" Julie said taking another drink of water.
Elizabeth paused for a second "Mind if I join you?"
"Sure, I'm pretty sure Joseph over there is leaving," Julie said
"Okay, sure. You seem a look more professional than I am" Elizabeth said
"Oh yeah. Let's talk strategy real quick"

[Slokais]

Ousmane had been unable to strike the assailant and neither had his attacker. The Brissicans seemed very amused by the fight between the Koldans. It was as if this was no more than some form of entertainment to the Brissicans. It had always been like this, Koldans killing and fighting each other when the Brissicans profited. Ousmane’s father was a high-ranking politician, high enough to live well beyond the fears and dreams of everyday Koldans. Despite this image of Kolda’s self-reliance pushed by the KLF-U, Kolda needed the world and the world needed Kolda. For much of his life, Ousmane had believed the lies his father had told, of greedy capitalists and dangerous Islamists. Yet when he attended University, his perceptions changed. Although capitalism was still evil, so was the false flag of socialism promoted in Kolda. The world could be divided into the camps of Capitalism and Communism yet in the end, people suffered under both. When his father called him to return to Kolda and join the political machine, Ousmane had a new goal. Be the good child his father wanted and take everything down from the inside.

His attacker swung again, although this time Ousmane grabbed the knife mid-strike and pushed it back into his attacker. She fell backward, clutching her chest. Behind them the Brissicans still stood, waiting like spectators for the referee to call the fight. When it became clear, she was not getting up, the Brissicans themselves prepared to fight, although he doubted they would. He would most surely be changed with the murder of this woman, even if in self-defense and in favor of the greater good.
“I’ve got a murderer over here” one of them yelled in French.
“You played yourself, dealt with our problem and we still got the money,” another said.
“What’s in it for Brissiac?”
“Everything, you Koldans do the work, and we naturally reap the benefits”
“What about Brissiacan independence and self-reliance?” Ousmane asked as he thought of a way to get out of this situation and this alleyway.
“The Koldan people have and always serve Brissiac”
At that moment, a group of young Koldan boys appeared in the alleyway behind them.
“Report this man to the police” one of the Brissican men demanded.
“What has he done?” one of the boys demanded, Ousmane recognized him as the one who had taken his bags several days before.
“Never the matter, I’ll tell the police you boys are illegals and they will deport you” the taller Brissican man said, suddenly realizing he was surrounded.
Ousmane realized this was his chance and rushed the three Brissican men, and that same time the boys on the side did the same. In the chaos of the moment, Ousmane somehow slipped through and onto a dusty backroad. Those boys, similar to those he met during his childhood trip, had saved him. Fate had spared him, yet Ousmane realized the conspiracy within Kolda was greater than before.

For the first time in a long time, Etienne Seghor was slightly afraid of losing his job. Although he publicly declared the DAP would never come close, and the Koldan people would triumph, internal polling suggested otherwise. It didn’t help Republican Rally and the Dawla were also taking away some of his votes. Although they had long been party allies, they had still fielded candidates in 2024, and now look to cut into his margins.
“What are our options?” President Senghor said as he sat with his VP and Chief Advisor. They had been reviewing the internal poll conducted last week by the KLF-U.
“Comrade President, we have several, although the foreign election groups are watching closer this time” his Chief Advisor, Moussa Kiemba. Kiemba had been a long time party fixer despite being a former Islamist, yet his resources and connections were key in setting up Senghor’s path to control during the early 2010s.
“We can’t let the capitalists have any chances” President Senghor
“Very well, the most minor measures are already being undertaken. The Moujerrian extremists are already being denied from the voting booth”
“A real shame, the children of Diawara turned on the party which could help them the most” Vice-President Joseph Thianghou added. Thianghou was a Revivalist Christain, who while a little extreme sometimes was key in gaining the support of Revivalist benefactors. Many in the party looked at him very favorably, maybe a little too much for Senghor’s liking.
“Indeed, what about the RPA-DAP alliance in Saborrise, they usually come out in large numbers there?” The President asked.
“A little truth, we are already distributing materials claiming Jissel Baoul is a radical Islamist who wants to ban Animistic practices, watch how those Saborrise savages react” Moussa Kiemba responded, grinning at his cunning plan.
“Well, you seem to have things settled as always, Comrade Kiemba,” President Senghor said.
“Let, me speak with you in private, Comrade President” Vice-President Thianghou added
“Of course”

After, the Chief Advisor left, Vice-President Thianghou asked the President bluntly
“Do you believe in Diawara?”
This was a conversation which had occurred many times as Thianghou, a believer in Rivalist, Diawara faith attempted to convert the Catholic, Senghor.
“I believe in the organization and the restoring the Koldan people, yet I don’t believe in idol worship,” President Senghor said
“You should, Diawara believes Koldan can become great again, and promises all power to you if you accept her wisdom” Thianghou said
“Look, Joseph. I am a man of God. While I appreciate the support of Diawara faithful and I can not commit in good faith. God willing we will win this election, that is enough”
“Very, well. But the spirits are restless and rising”
“Tell the spirits and yourself to get out of my office, I want to believe in you, Thiangou. Yet these statements are outrageous, ” President Senghor said, pointing to the door.
“The ancestors remember those who turn against them” Thiangou said as he stood up.
“When you get over this Comrade, I want you to pick a suit for Tuesday’s victory celebration”
“Very, well, you have chosen,” Thinagou said, closing the door behind him.

Before Kolda was a nation, it was a city. A great city rising in the grasslands and the center of a large trading empire. Yet today, little remained except a few markers. This is the story Mbaye knew before she stepped out of her mobile prison, the guards still holding her.
“Welcome to New Kolda”
The shell of the ancient city which had been decayed and eventually destroyed by colonial authorities in the 1920s had been restored. The brush of the arid Moujerrian plan had been completely cleared with a mile of the massive modern tower reaching the sky, construction vehicles were abundant. Small structures covered the landscape made from pre-built concrete and steel. Mbaye was quickly pushed out of the road and into a network of white tents.
"Where I am going?" Mbaye asked
"To serve your creator," one of the guards said, as they approached a checkpoint.
It was a small white tent, with various medical instruments pushed to the walls. Nurses wearing white robes approached.
"Please comply with all further instructions, in time you will be granted answers from the high priest," A young nurse said as she inspected Mbaye, measuring her height and guiding her into a small adjoining tent.
"Please change, your clothes are inside," the Nurse said.
Mbaye wanted to be unwilling yet after many days of living in complete darkness, just being outside in the light was a gift. In time she could escape, yet for now, she knew it was pointless. Her new clothes were all grey with a large curved symbol across the front. It included a bottom undergarment layer similar to pajamas. After gathering her old clothes, she stepped out of the tent.
"No, leave them inside" a guard demanded in Kango.
After setting her clothes back inside, the same nurse greeted her
"Wonderful, you look much more beautiful," she said.

After changing, Mbaye was finally allowed to enter the general population. She was given an electronic card attached to her waist, which listed her daily schedule on a small digital screen. From there she was allowed to roam the city, although she was warned that if she failed to report to her scheduled duties it would "not go unnoticed" by the "ancestors". The people of New Kolda wore various singular-colored clothes, each with the same symbol that adorned her chest. Most wore grey, although the guards wore green many guarding women and men dressed in white. It was clear, that those who were white were granted high authority. After several minutes, including heading towards the edge of the city of were Mbaye found a high electric fence, she arrived at her assigned Home. It was a simple grey concrete cube from the outside in a sea of similar cubes. After slipping her electronic card into a small slot into the door it opened.
This building was not all hers, it had been subdivided into smaller cubes with white walls and tent doors. Peaking around it seemed as if the building was full with only empty cube.
"Welcome home to me" Mbaye said as she stepped into her new home.

[Slokais]

In the center of New Kolda, Jemus Jamneh looked out upon his creation. Not his idea, but rather his execution. Progress has been moving quickly as workers have reached peak productivity. Although workers greatly outnumbered citizens by a factor of 7 to 1 they had become compliant due to hard work, the will of Dawla, and the de-programing programs. Those who stepped out of line were subjected to the enlightenment of their ancestors for days straight in a cell. Eventually after the humiliation and exhaustion of the program, those who once resisted seemed content to return to their duties within the city.

Jemus Jammeh did not create the Dawla Movement, it was his teacher David Temaga. Temaga was blessed with visions of both God and the spirit mother Dawla. With these visions, he was able to find the host of Dawla, a woman who guided Temaga to create the Dawla organization. In 2005, Jemus declared himself to both God and in service of Dawla who had created the Kolda people from her womb. Yet the greatest of the Koldan people was yet to come, Dawla had foreseen a child born to a Koldan father, who would be the second coming of Christ upon his 15th birthday. As 2025 approached, a young boy born to Joseph and a Brissican woman named Mary was set to reach the age of his enlightenment. Jammeh was made aware of this not by the female host of Diawara but instead by her spirit which had become one with an AI model. However not even the average follower of Diawara was aware of this fact. Jemus as well as Joseph and Mary had been the ones permitted to consult with Diawara through the supercomputer.

“Joseph is at the door,” Diawara AI said through his office’s sound system.
“Let him in dear Creator,” Jemus said
The door slid open and Joseph Thinagou, the vice-presidential candidate, greeted Jemus. However, Jemus had known for much longer.
“Good to see you, Dear Joseph” Jemus said
“To you as well, I have several topics to discuss related to the election,” Joseph said as he sat across the desk from Jemus.
“I assume this is in regards to President Senghor?”
“Yes, he has rejected Diawara, he only sees our movement for its economic influence,” Joseph said
“Very, well. He has made a decision which has decided his fate” Jemus said
“Another piece of news, Senghor believes this election will be close and has asked for a communication with Diawara faithful to support him instead of you”
“Does he know the full extent of our operations?”
“No, he believes the High Council of Darwla is the true authority,” Joseph said
“Very good, although we won’t be doing any of that,” Jemus said
“I would say the same but even the KLF-U’s own pollsters predict a close election, a DAP victory would undermine a decade of work”
“I agree, although we still have to retain ballot status with 5% of the vote”
“If things go to plan we won’t have to obey those rules anymore,” Joseph said
“Very, well. I will ask Darwla for guidance” Jemus said.
He typed into a keyboard on his desk “Should Darwla faithful support the KLF-U to guarantee success, use up to K-10 security clearance information”
A few seconds after he typed it, the voice of Darwla based on a female voice model responded.
“Yes, the faithful should support the KLF-U, considering assets within the cabinet”
“Very, well,” Jemus said
“Wise guidance from our creator, I will begin preparations for even the workers of New Kolda to vote,” Joseph said.
“You should be proud of your child’s mother,” Jemus said
“If we are talking about family matters, why bring your daughter from abroad?” Joseph responded.
“I could ruin your whole reputation tomorrow, Joseph. An illegitimate son born to a 16-year-old mother, a Brissican mother as your other son finds himself on the wrong side of the law in Brissiac” Jemus said
“What?” Joseph responded angrily
“Ousmane has found himself in trouble with the Brissican police”
“Damn, I believed his travel to Brissiac would cure him of his behavior”
“I have dealt with it, consider a favor on my part”

Brissican police eventually caught up to Ousmane Thinagou, they came to his room the next morning. After demanding he come with them immediately, Ousmane cooperated. The one favor of being the son of an influential KLF-U politician was that police or legal discipline was never a concern. He knew his father would scold or be cold to him upon returning to Kolda proper. Although Brissiac operated very much separately, the KLF-U had its connections.

Ousmane was booked for three counts of coordinated assault, they hauled him out of the front of the hotel much to the confusion of other guests. Once he was outside, Ousmane was hauled into the back of a police van and was handcuffed to an iron bar. Looking around, Ousmane wasn’t the only one being arrested as the same young boys who had helped him escape were now in the back of the van with him. They stared at him as the van continued down the road.
Ousmane turned to a boy in a white and blue striped shirt “Why, did you help me” he asked in Kango
“We saw you were in trouble, you’re one of the good ones,” he said, looking down.
“I’m gonna get you all out, do your parents know?” Ousmane asked
The boys looked at each other
“They are working too, everybody at home is. We all live together in an estate outside of town”
“I’m a politician in Kolda. I’ll make sure you all get home” Ousmane said again.
“Politicians always make promises,” one of the boys said.
“I’m a good one, the other’s both Brissican and Koldan may look past the everyday person, but I see you as Koldans” Ousmane said as the van stopped once again.
Ousmane was brought into a holding room, with blank metal walls and one long two-way mirror looked back at him. He had been separated from the boys, who must have been brought in for questioning. “How, hopeless,” he thought. An entire life from youth working to make a few dollars, while the locals think you're nothing but a waste of society. This time, Ousmane would take the blame, say it was all him, and take whatever punishment so these boys could live a half-decent life. As the son of a major politician, Ousmane realized in his late teens, he was living a different life than so many of his countrymen. In addition, his father's involvement in arms trafficking led to Ousmane taking on a false surname when he applied for university abroad. Ousmane Thiangou became Ousmane Sarr, a name so generic he shared it with fellow countrymen studying at San Fernando University in Slokais.

After several minutes of waiting, an officer returned
“I’m sorry Missiouer Thiangou, you are free to leave”
Ousmane was used to this, his father must have found out or they found out about his father.
“Are the boys free to go?” Ousmane asked.
“No, they started the attack, it was only natural you responded,” the officer said opening the door of the holding room.
“Those boys are just, if not more innocent than I” Ousmane said.
“Not my decision, superiors made it for me” the officer said as they walked down a brightly lit hallway.
“If money is an issue, I can pay for the boy's bail” Ousmane pleaded.
The officer opened another door, leading Ousmane back onto the street. In the road was the familiar sight of a Koldan government vehicle, and in front beside the driver was the frame of Ousmane’s father.

The road to New Kolda was bumpy, Julie had gathered a group of Islamic and DAP forces together for an assault on the city. It was no longer a Mbaye rescue mission, but a strike at the heart of the Diawara conspiracy. The DAP forces were either older veterans or fresh-faced city kids cosplaying as revolutionaries, they would be modeled into proper soldiers soon. Julie had been with them several years ago, a college student at Howard Prince-Gonzalez University in Slokais, when it became clear in 2014, that the KLF was not letting go of power, she was drawn to action. First a simple campus protest with like-minded activist friends, yet it didn’t feel genuine. People are more concerned with “intersectionality” and “literature” than actually doing anything. Additionally, ill-informed individuals praised Gano and his brave anti-colonialism. Julie had to do something.

Upon graduation, she returned to her grandparent's home in Guediawaye. Over cups of traditional Mallacan mint tea made by her grandmother, Julie developed a plan. She got into contact with a revolutionary named Savior Bagheri, an eccentric but intelligent man who was initially concerned Julie was a foreign spy. Yet after several summers of work on a farm and training range in Rivieres backcountry, she gained Bagheri’s trust.
“We are making final preparations, Savior,” Julie said as she entered his tent at an advance camp in the Moujeriian bush.
They had joined an existing Saw’ab Liberation Front camp, although there was initial concern with Julie and several other female soldiers not wearing “proper, moral coverings”. Julie had met them halfway with a traditional Mallacan headwrap.
“Quiet, I am consulting the ancestors,” Bagheri said, as he overlooked a set of figurines.
“I am praising the spirits for a successful battle” Bagheri added as he lit a candle and turned to face Julie.
“Are they on our side?” Julie asked
“Yes, the Dawla is a false prophet who fell from heaven. True power comes from the spirits and the soul, not a false prophet”
“Good, we are having a meeting in the main tent,” Julie said, turning to leave.
“It’s not just my spirits on our side, although I suggest you send a prayer to your god before we enter battle”

The meeting was held under the shadow of a large boulder, a tent forming a high ceiling. Saw’ab fighters walked around gathering chairs together around a central table with stacks of paper.
“Good to see you,” Saleet al-Ebrahim said, Al-Ebrahim was one of Kolda’s most wanted men and also a former member of Parliament who resigned in 2021.
“And to you as well,” Julie said, sitting down in a chair.
“I’m glad you have decided to cover yourself properly,” he said, sitting in a chair nearby.
After a few moments, Al-Ebrahim grabbed a piece of paper
“Let, us begin”
“First of all, I would like to acknowledge this historic cooperation to strike a blow to the Diawara cult,” Al-Ebrahim said, he then motioned for a man to step forward.
“This is Rabi’an, he lives a few miles from the New Kolda site. Please enlighten the group of the site”
To this moment, they had been speaking in Kreole, a lingua franca of French, Kango, and Arabic. Yet Rabi’an only spoke in his native language Arabic.
“The cultists have occupied the site for many years, yet ever since the start of their campaign against the Saw’ab people they have been quickly building on a several-mile-wide site” Rabi’an said as he pulled out a piece of paper.

“They take workers from elsewhere and dress them in grey robes, the true cultists wearing white and have them build buildings of pure marble, in addition, they have mine and well a few kilometers away from the central city,” he said.
“We will send a force to these areas, mostly made of SLF troops,” Al-Ebrahim said
“Yes,” Rabia’an said
“They have already built a power planet, a prison, and a high-security tower in the center” Rabi’an added.
“Mbaye should be in there,” Julie said to Bagheri who had joined her.
“Indeed,” Al-Ebrahim said.
“Although your friend isn’t our primary mission, it’s the spiritual leader of the Diawara, Jemus Jammeh” he added.
Al-Ebrahim then went around the table explaining each group's mission, with Al-Ebrahim leading an elite force to block the road out of New Kolda.
“Jammeh will flee on foot. I shall meet him on the road. Face to face. Holy judgment will be delivered”

[Slokais]

Weeks of hard labor had broken Mbaye, with a strict schedule of tasks mostly related to constructing permanent homes for New Kolda, the buildings would be grand in size and scale yet the worker's homes were no more than reused shipping containers. In addition, overseers in white robes harassed the workers daily, not letting them cease until the dedicated break hours. In addition to physical monitoring, each worker had to wear a silver weight around their waist, which acted as both a key and a GPS, with threats of the devices being used to shock those who attacked.

On the third day, Mbaye saw overseers take a man to be re-educated for failing to meet work quotas. According to fellow workers, re-education meant imprisonment in a high-tech lab where workers would be humiliated until they confessed Darwla was the creator of all things, and they would submit to her will. Those who returned were often in a state of mental confusion with many never being the same. The fear of re-education and the boot of the “white robe” enforcers prevented Mbaye and many others from rebelling or attempting to escape into the bush. One day, at 6 pm, all workers, and overseers were ordered to the central square. Typically a gathering ground for the white robes and the mysterious red-robed women, thousands have gathered. Around the edges of the crowd, overseers stood on top of buildings their guns at the sides watching for any disturbances. Although no worker had been killed yet in her time, Mbaye didn’t doubt they would shoot. From a balcony, Jemus Jammeh appeared
“Citizens of New Kolda and Faithful of Darwla, I have an important decree, directly from the Holy Leader,” an announcer said.
Covered in white robes, trimmed with gold, Jemus Jammeh was now a familiar sight to Mbaye as his portrait had been displayed on various physical and digital billboards throughout the city.
“Faithful,” he said, his voice booming through the square.
“We have been blessed with the opportunity, to decide the political leader of the Koldan people, tomorrow is Election Day” Jammeh proclaimed
“As a reward for the great pace of construction, every citizen even the lowest gray robe will be allowed to vote, all registration has been completed”
The audience cheered, especially the white robes, with many already on their knees at even the sight of the great Holy Leader.
“Darwla has declared that all faithful will vote for the KLF-U for president as they best represent the Koldan people. In addition, she has declared a vote should go to the Darwla Party on the parliamentary level to advance the goals of the Koldan people best”
The crowd cheered again, as Jemus retreated into the tower

The short plane flight across the Koldan Basin from Saint-Paul, the Brissican capital to the national capital of Guedieawaye was quiet. Ousmane had come over in a commercial flight, yet he was returning in a private one at the request of his father, the future vice president of Kolda. It was obvious the KLF-U would once again win, they had deep pockets, connections, and a significant population blinded by decades of propaganda. Still, there was hope, Ousmane had been connecting information for years and the time would come when the world would know the full truth.
After reaching cruising altitude, his father, Joseph Thinagou finally spoke to his son.
“Consider yourself lucky, I could have let you suffer”
“I wouldn’t have minded, those boys should be out not me,” Ousmane said
“Who cares, they made the choice to live in Brissiac and therefore suffer,r” his father said, taking out his phone
“We are all Koldan” Ousmane said

After a few more minutes his father responded.
“What you saw was Diawara’s plan,” Joseph said
“You mean the political party? I saw KLF-U officials being paid off”
“Kolda and Brissiac can not exist without one another, Gano understood that”
“Yes, but are we taking orders from a random political party now?”
“It’s not a party, but the salvation of the Koldan people. You will meet them soon” Joseph said, before giving his son the silent treatment for the rest of their journey home.

Election Day dawned on Kolda the 20th day of November. Across the country, poll workers opened the polling centers, some had long lines, and some had short ones. Yet millions would participate in a democratic exercise not always given. Although the elections would fail to be rated as “Free”, it would be a far cry from the widespread corruption of the 80s and 90s. The DAP had been active in voter turnout, getting those who hadn’t voted or hadn’t been registered, yet even their best predictions gave the election to the KLF-U.

In Brissiac, the BUP came in large numbers, with a new generation of youth inspired to continue the legacy of Dechamps. Ethnic Koldans, while not barred from voting, were targeted with the closing of polling locations in the heavily Koldan, Montaulême Department. Despite this, lines at the three remaining polling places stretched for blocks, due to a campaign by DAP allied organizations. Regardless, the BUP easily won the Regional Presidency with Joséphine Cloutier winning 75% of the vote.

In the countryside of Kenedougou-Saborrise, ethnic minorities came out in large numbers to support the DAP, especially in the Sabourrise Department home to the Regional People’s Alliance which campaigned alongside the DAP. Next door in Rivieres, Jissel Baoul voted in his home Department of Central Cap despite threats against him made by supporters of the KLF-U. Farmers and peasants took time away from the fields and rivers to enter the voting booth.

In Guediawaye-Lennes, home to the capital city, Ousmane Thiangou and his father were on the ballot with Ousmane being a party-list candidate. Although he did not make any public appearances as Ousmane prepared to join his father in New Kolda. He had been informed the prior night by his father’s secretary. The two had not been talking directly since his return from Brissiac. Despite this, Ousmane realized getting closer to Darwla would reveal more of the grand conspiracy, which Ousmane was sure linked back to the faith.
In Moujerria, ethnic Mojerrians were blocked from the ballot by the removal of many from registration rolls. This was planned of course, and would hopefully give the KLF-U the edge in the popular vote. Meanwhile near the city of New Kolda, Julie, Al-Ebrahim and their combined forces were getting in position.
“Tonight is the day of action” Al-Ebrahim proclaimed over a breakfast of groundnut stew.

Mbaye was given the day of the election off. They would be put in the same vehicle which had taken them to the city and driven to a nearby polling place. Cameras would be fitted into the grey control devices and would watch the workers and faithful as they voted. They were told not following the way of Darwla in terms of voting would lead to re-education. Yet, they would be away from their prison in New Kolda for several minutes as they voted. Due to there being thousands of workers and staff, they were bused to polling places every hour in smaller groups.
“Please line up” an overseer called out over a megaphone as Mbaye gathered with other grey-robed workers. None of the people around her seemed familiar, although she suspected as much. The matching clothes and the sheer scale of the Darwla operations prevented it.
From the bush that surrounded the city, a line of buses drove in, nothing more than converted school buses parked just inside the gate of the city.
“Please enter a bus in an orderly manner, as a reminder any attempt to resist the commands of a superior acting in accordance with the word of Darwla will be re-educated”

Mbaye, however, realized election day may be the best chance she got to escape. The work had broken her, as her situation had become hopeless as the days turned to weeks of mindless work. She had not attempted to escape yet, as the fences were high and constantly patrolled by white-robed guards and occasionally standard Koldan military units. As the bus drove through the bushlands, Mbaye tried to get a feel for her surroundings, if she could escape far enough maybe there would be a willing person to take her back to Guediawaye or more likely nearby Kabo Geshann, although both were bad options.

The polling station was a small community center in a nearby village, it was obvious it did not expect thousands of extra voters to arrive on site. The workers exited the vehicle and joined the existing although short line of very confused local residents. Once the residents had voted, several military officers entered the building before motioning for the first of the workers to enter. The line moved quickly and soon Mbaye was standing by the entrance. From inside, a voting official made a motion and Mbaye stepped inside.

Mbaye couldn't do it, not only voting for who her captors had chosen but to stay in their servitude. Before entering the voting booth, she searched for other exits. And there was one, just behind the booths, a door to the outside left unguarded. Yet at the same time, escape would either mean death or the horrible torture of the re-education center. Was it worth the risk? Either way, she would not vote for the KLF-U or Diawara as instructed, doing that would cause punishment. Nothing to lose, either her life, her mental capacity, or her freedom.

Private Daouda Marone had been tasked to protect the polling location by her commander, the SLF had been active in the area and there were concerns supporters of Al-Ebrahim would attempt to disrupt the process. Daouda had been confused throughout the day as busloads of people had shown up at a fairly quiet polling place. She had chatted with one of her comrades about it, and he simply said there were members of the Diawara faith.

“She’s been in there for too long,” Daouda’s comrade said
“I’m going in,” she said.
“Excuse me, sir, voting is in progress,s” a poll worker said standing up
“Military business, we believe there is terrorist activity nearby,” she said opening up the voting booth.

Mbaye was already gone, she had snuck under the back of the voting booth and out the back door of the polling place. She remained low, her head bowed down to the Earth as she soon heard the first shouts of guards. Just a few houses and she would be in the deep and maze-like bushlands of Moujerria. After turning a corner, a guard spotted her.
“Stop!” Daouda shouted

Daouda was confused, “why only one?” she thought.
“Don’t shoot, we need her alive” a voice said through her earpiece
“Who is this” she asked
“A much higher superior, just tail her and we will send backup”

Mbaye reached the dense grasslands, dodging thorns and branches as the soldier remained in pursuit. After a few minutes of running, Mbaye found a small hole in the ground obscured from above by branches. She had completed the first step of escape. Now that it was done, Mbaye realized where she was. She knew there were insurgent groups in Moujerria, although she had been warned they were dangerous and often kidnapped foreigners. Above her helicopters flew, as the voice grew closer.

Daouda eventually lost the woman, and just as she was about to call it in, she got a call from command.
“All units, the Diamana Power Station is under attack by terrorists, we need all forces to report”
Daouda turned and ran back towards the village.

Diamana Power Station was in fact much more than a small power station, it was disguised as such yet provided enough power to give New Kolda the ability to operate until its own plant was completed. Local forces were key to protect it and so was the Diawara, sending several conveys of security forces to assist the military. Julie heard these vehicles pass as she crept through the bush with Savior Bagheri and Al-Ebrahim and a squad of elite SLF fighters. The rest had been split off to either attack the power station or to assault New Kolda from other positions. They wouldn’t have enough force to destroy the city or fight the full force of Diawara’s private military or the Koldan Military, but enough to lure Jemus Jammeh out of hiding and for Mbaye and several others to be rescued. Al-Ebrahim was focused on a morale victory and then a total defeat of the Diawara.
“This will be an illegitimate election, the KLF-U grip will only become stronger, why not fight now” he had said in a speech a few hours before.

Julie was dressed in combat entirely with a Koldan-war-era Assault rifle as well as a small handgun in her pocket and a Patriarchal cross necklace around her neck. She hadn’t been fighting these battles for years as those around her had, yet she trusted her heart, her people and most importantly rescuing her friend. They had grown somewhat apart after that summer, Mbaye had deactivated her social accounts, although last she heard “Elizabeth” had gone to Princeton Island University. Julie never made it out there, what happened between them and the magic of those months was gone. Yet, a few years ago when returning to Kolda, Julie went looking. Through the internet, she found out about her change and finally her new social media accounts. Mbaye had found her parents in Kolda and was traveling to meet them. Julie sent a message but got no response, maybe Mbaye had forgotten or maybe just didn’t walk to think about it anymore.

Then a message from a contact with the Slokasian Embassy, a woman reported missing in the interior. A quick conversion revealed a name, then soon an insane connection. The DAP had received an anonymous message regarding Jemmus Jammeh’s payments to several obscure and foreign church organizations. Very odd, then a connection with South Princeton. Could Mbaye be related to the Diawara conspiracy? Eventually, Julie met with Mbaye’s local friend, a fellow Slokasian-Koldan adoptee living in Lennes. Posing as a friend of Mbaye’s, she learned of her friend’s similar upbringing in Slokais, her real biological family being a Diawara politician.

Was she the daughter of Jemus Jammeh, one of the most powerful and dangerous men in Kolda? Regardless she was obviously in danger and had been kidnapped. From there she assembled a team of fellow comrades. Using her theories to convince others to join in and her importance. Yet, somewhere in her heart Julie suspected she may have just been wrong. A lonely heart looking for her long-lost friend, or maybe something more. Either way, she was now at the fence of New Kolda.

[Slokais]

As voting began to close across Kolda, Ousmane was in his room at the Thinagou Estate in Guediawaye. From here he had used multiple proxy VPN’s and emails to send information to a DAP field office. There had not been a public statement, had his message come off as crazy? Ever since returning from Brissiac, Ousmane had been a good son, to get closer to his father. Through that, the Diawara operation was clear. His classmates, kidnapped back in high school, had not been killed by the military but sold to the Diawara for unknown reasons. This explained why the officer had not taken Ousmane. Even then his father was part of this dirty conspiracy. He couldn’t stand to even look at his father. Yet, now was not the time to reveal his true intentions.

Ousmane and Joseph had been invited to the Presidential Palace for a KLF-U election event. Or rather a victory party waiting for officials to sound off another 5 years of KLF-U reign. Among the guest names was a who’s who of the politicians and economically powerful. Although in Kolda, those worlds came together quite often. The Thiangou’s limo pulled into the Palace Gardens, a beautiful landscape of native plants and flowers illuminated by multi-colored lights.
“Welcome, Monsieur’s to the Presidential Palace,” a butler said as various journalists photographed Ousmane’s father. The soon VP to be. With his placement on the ticket, tabloids had begun to cover the Thiangou’s more and more often. Not in a critical way, as many received funding from KLF-U members or were state-owned but in almost propaganda “get to know them” way. Ironic for a country built on a socialist party to be some consumerist, but regardless Ousmane entered the Palace.

The Presidential Hall was a long ballroom with a large TV projected on one wall, tuned to the state-run Voice of Kolda. Every few minutes there was a cheer as another seat would be announced. Soon, the inevitable KLF-U victory would come and President Senghor would almost certainly make an acceptance speech. Joseph was soon engulfed in conversation with other party officials, many of whom were both personal friends of the family and were members of Diawara faith.
“Congratulations,” someone said to Ousmane
“What?” he responded
On the TV screen, was a list of seats called for the KLF-U, including Ousmane’s. Whether he wanted it or not, Ousmane would enter Parliament starting in 2025. Despite this, the mood became less celebratory as the DAP-RPA alliance unexpectedly had already won a dozen seats across the country. Either way, the Presidential results would soon be called, or would they?

Jemus Jammeh sat in his control room monitoring the ongoing situation. His daughter had gone missing. Jemus was still unsure why he cared so much. Born through wedlock, she had been quickly set up for adoption after it was discovered she was not the next host of Darwla. Yet, still, at this time, Jemus wanted all of his children to return from abroad. There were at least a dozen more across the world, yet Mbaye as she not now called herself was special. Well-educated and well-connected, he had monitored her progress since she arrived in the city. A false report had brought her back to Kolda, but it was her curiosity that brought her here. Darwla had fated it.

Suddenly, multiple explosions rocked the faculty. Jemus ran to the window and saw multiple fires near the city’s perimeter.
“Darwla, status report,” he said
“Fence integrity has been disrupted in Sectors 3, 9 and 11. Multiple non-citizens have entered the city” the AI responded.
“Alert all units to those sectors”
Suddenly, the power went out across the entire city, and a few seconds later the tower’s emergency generator turned on.
“Darwla, please turn on the tower’s defensive systems,” he said as white robes ran through the street.
“Already done,” Darwla responded.

Julie ran through the city’s streets. The darkness shielded her unit's movements as they split off, and Julie and Beghari turned towards the re-education center.
“You believe your friend is there,” Beghari said as they ducked behind a barrier.
“Yes, if she is the daughter of Jemus, he must have sent her to be re-educated,” Julie said as she checked her ammo.
“IF?” Beghari responded
“Technically she could be the daughter of several other leaders within the Diawara”
“Damn it, Julie”

Daoula had arrived at the power plant too late, as soon as insurgents came they left. Although not before disabling the power. There had been some losses, although many were wearing white uniforms. As Daoula walked through the site awaiting orders she noticed one of the bodies wearing a white uniform had a strange device around his waist.
“We will handle this matter,” a voice said from behind her.
A military officer dressed in all black obscured his face with a helmet and stood behind her. Daoula recognized the uniform as part of the National State Intelligence Unit (NSIU) unit. Fearned as a branch of the secret police which terrified both friend and foe. NISU involvement meant the attack was more than a simple night-time raid.

Jemus quickly assembled his inner circle, the Red robbed mothers including Mary who had birthed the Savior, several top scientists, and his closest spiritual and military advisors.
“We are under attack,” he said as they gathered in the pod-shaped lounge that connected his office with several others in the tower.
“Diawara gave us a report”
“Several dozen hostile units, some near the Re-Education Center some approaching the Center City”
“She speaks,” Jemus said
“What about the security forces?” one of the Mother’s asked
“They are occupied with other matters, the few in the city are currently engaged,” Jemus said
“We were abandoned,” another Mother said
“Be quiet..before you get exiled!” Jemus yelled, clearly agreeing but not happy with her speaking.
“Is escape the only option?” the Savior said
“Yes”, Diawara AI said, answering his question without being prompted, a clear sign of her growing intelligence.
“Our creator has spoken,” Jemus said

Al-Ebrahim had been fighting for his people for years, from parliament to the battlefield. With God as his witness, he fought both the non-believers and the government. Al-Ebrahim took notice when Moujerrians began to report strange activities in the bush near the ancient city of Kolda. After his legal attempts in Parliament were blocked, Al-Ebrahim refused to attend and stated he would serve his people within his homeland. In 2021, after a series of murders by government troops, Al-Ebrahim armed himself and led an attack on a military prison. Freeing his new comrades in the SLF, Al-Ebrahim became the most wanted man in Kolda as he was expelled from parliament. A younger him didn’t endorse violence, yet when the government didn’t play by those same rules, Al-Ebrahim embraced it. He also favored the close kill, the bullet was often described as the end of bravery and thus Al-Ebrahim began to bring a traditional sword to the front.

Now, Al-Ebrahim fought through the streets of New Kolda, his comrades breaking down doors and freeing those inside. The resistance they met was quickly put down as Al-Ebrahim waited for Jemus to make an appearance.

They called him the Savior, born in 2010 to Mary and Joseph. He was proclaimed at birth as the savior of the Koldan people, a second coming of Christ. God had delivered him to study the texts and deliver miracles to the Koldan people. At age 5, Savior healed an elderly man of his blindness, at age 11 he heard from Diawara herself the first time. In a nation of ethnic segregation between Brissicans and Koldans, Savior was born to both. He learned French from his mother, Mary who herself was just a teen when she had delivered the miracle of life.

Now, the Savior was leaving his only home. In a helicopter with his mother and the other mothers and children of the Inner Sanctum of Diawara. Before he walked up the ladder to the roof, Jemus turned to him. He would be leaving by vehicle.
“Savior, your day of enlightenment your 15th year is coming soon,” Jemus said
“Indeed, glory be to God I will see the day” Savior replied.
“This is only temporary, 2025 will be the year of the new Koldan Dawn” Jemus said as Savior boarded the helicopter and flew away.

Al-Ebrahim had reached the main road in and out of New Kolda. Above a helicopter left the top of the central tower.
“Permission to destroy,” a private said, loading his rocket launcher.
“No, it’s not honorable, and Jemus knows that. He will come by road”
As if on command, an armored vehicle sped out of the main square. Jemus was on board. Once it reached a few hundred meters from the tower, the landmines exploded on command. Not enough to destroy it as the SLF’s engineers had calculated but enough to blow out the heavily armored vehicles' back tires. Al-Ebrahim stepped out into the road, his sword drawn, its tip already red with the blood of the Diawara’s guards.
“Jemus, you are a false prophet, the only prophets are named in the Quran” Al-Ebrahim yelled.
When there was no response, Al-Ebrahim spoke again.
“Fight me as an honored man,” he said.
After a few seconds a private asked “Maybe, he is not there, sir”
“He is, back up and let me fight him with my blade”
At that moment, the side door opened and Jemus stepped out with his wooden cane in hand.
“So glad to finally meet, Al-Ebrahim”
“Glad to see you have some honor”
“Indeed,” Jemus said, pulling the top of his cane, and revealing a sword of his own.
“No interventions, man to man.
Jemus bowed and Al-Ebrahim did the same as the fight began. The two circled sizing each other. Al-Ebrahim struck first just missing Jemus before being parried. The two were leaders of great movements, men of power, and influence over aspects of Koldan society. Al-Ebrahim clearly had the greater weapon yet when he finally struck Jemus it was Al-Ebrahim who collapsed.

A bullet rang out from the top of the armored vehicle as a guard had made a direct shot into the SLF leader’s neck. Jemus stepped back, holding a deep chest wound. He pulled his foe’s weapons out of his chest and was pulled back into the vehicle by another guard.

The surrounding forces of the SLF and the DAP stood in shock. The armored vehicle started its engines again, nearly running over the body of Al-Ebrahim as it disappeared into the distance. Surrounded by his comrades, Al-Ebrahim lay at the edge of death.
“Jemus…false prophet..may he be tormented to his end…” he said as the life drained out of him his body sprawled toward the starry sky of his homeland.

[Slokais]

The horrors of the battlefield were little compared to the scene at the re-education center. Julie expected resistance or the prisoners to scramble towards her yet it was a very different scene. A massive laboratory of horrors, bodies both dead and barely alive were scattered. The sight was unspeakable and incompressible, Julie scanned the hallways looking for her dear friend. Yet not a familiar face looked back, just mumblings from cells. Julie wanted to find Mbaye, but not here. Beghari slowly walked around, helping those who were able to their feet, those unable, and those too far gone he prayed for them.
“She’s not here,” Julie said after a few minutes
“Do you want her to not be here or is she not here?” Beghari said as he gave water from his pack to a prisoner.
“I don’t know. I can’t stand to remain here”
“No, take it all. See what the Diawara does to human beings. Beyond despicable. May the fires of damnation destroy them very soon” Beghari said as he lifted another man to his feet.
“What is your name?” Julie asked
“I am….I am…James Diouf” the man said weakly
“Do you know of a woman named Mbaye?”
“No…No…The voices” the man mumbled.
“His head is gone, and so is your’s,” Beghari said

Joseph Thinagou became worried. It was almost 11 pm and there had been no final call. The DAP stood at 35%, higher than any public poll. Rumors swirled through the venue of terrorists casting ballots or foreign inventions by Kolda’s enemies. Finally, a Diawara friend of Joseph approached him.
“The city is under attack” he whispered
“What?”
“The child, the mothers, and our leader have fled”
“Where is their destination?”
“Your house, don’t worry. Diawara had constructed a story and a statement. Trust in her plan” he said
“Is the city under their control?”
“For the moment” the man replied, before disappearing back into the crowd like a raven in a flock.

President Senghor was watching the sky from his balcony. He should be on his other balcony, the one which looked over the Great Hall. He should be speaking to the Koldan people. Had the capitalists finally caught up? No, Joseph had assured the Diawara organization would come through. They had helped before. He began to think about his defeat. In his heart, Senghor would accept it, the Koldan people didn’t want 5 years of him. Yet publicly, Senghor would cry fraud. At that moment his assistant approached him. From the Great Hall, he could hear cheers loud enough to scare the birds of the garden to briefly take flight.
“Sir, they have called your victory,” she said
“Beautiful, is my speech ready”
“As always”

Mbaye came out of hiding when night fell, she now walked across the landscape as the bush ended and turned into the harsh deserts of the border regions. The frontier was dangerous, beyond lay steep mountains with deep canyons. Yet she knew if she turned around certain death would come. Finally just as midnight came, Mbaye stumbled onto a riverbank. Dipping her hands into them, she took a drink. Her mouth was dry, her stomach was empty. Yet she was still alive. Cranes flew through the river catching small fish with their teeth before disappearing into the reeds. She was far from the home she grew up in. The suburbs of South Princeton were very different, yet Mbaye felt hopeful. She was home, a confusing and broken home. Yet she lay under the sky of her ancestors, the birds flying overhead as they had for a thousand generations before.

Julie, Beghari, and another DAP soldier named Cession led to prisoners out of the re-education center and into Cession’s pickup truck.
“What happened here?” Cession asked as he jumped into the driver’s seat with 4 survivors in the backseat.
“The horrible wrath of these vultures of death,” Beghari said
“Diawara will be destroyed,” Julie said, her thoughts and feelings in another place.
“What about your friend?” Cession asked as they drove through the city.
“..I don’t know. May my time was gone years ago” Julie said
Suddenly the street lights came on as the power was restored to the city.
“Time to leave,” Cession said as he pulled onto the main boulevard of the city.
Julie saw a group of soldiers standing around a body. Cession drove closer before rolling up the window.
“Where’s Al-Ebrahim?” Beghari said
“Gone,” a private said, pointing at a white robe covering a body.
“May he be blessed in his afterlife,” Beghari replied.
“What’s the plan, Madame” the private said to Julie

From the distance, a line of vehicles approached.
“Renforcement’s” the private yelled to his comrades.
Another soldier placed Al-Ebrahim’s body in the truck bed.
“Take his remains to the village of Ame’ana” the private said, picking up his gun.
Cession rolled up the window, before quickly speeding out of the city away from the approaching NISU forces.

They were brutal, the NISU was the most elite unit of soldiers in Kolda. Some SRF surrendered although most died fighting for their homeland and their struggle. The spirits had little distance to fly home.

Julie watched as they sped through the countryside to the pre-designated meeting spot. Although she doubted many would not make it, the attack on the power plant was already believed to be a dangerous mission

Ousmane watched the celebrations play out, cheering and hugging all around. Fat cat’s ready for another 5 years of easy money. Politicians ready for 5 years of the endless reign of the KLF-U. It shouldn’t have been this hard for them, however. Ousmane had in the past been a cynic of the intelligence of the everyday man. To blind and too dumb to see the birds of freedom being chained to trees of dictatorship. Yet this time, 37% of the population had voted for the DAP and 58% had voted for someone not with the KLF name to the left of his name. 2024 would not be the year of democracy. Ousmane wondered if it was too late, the government would come down harder. The freedoms gained during the Senghor years would be scaled back, and the military would crack down even harder.
Yet as his grandmother told him in his infancy, the birds would always return home.