The shop smelled of old paper, lemon polish, and time. Behind the counter, Mr. Abara looked up from a pocket watch he was polishing. His spectacles perched at the edge of his nose, his face creased with the kind of gentle wrinkles that spoke of patience more than age.
"Sawubona, Mazwi," he greeted in siSwati, his voice a warm, familiar rumble. "Kunjani?"
"Ngiyaphila, Baba Abara," Mazwi replied. The words came naturally, like breath. But his eyes were already fixed on the window. "The… the game in the display."
Mr. Abara's eyes glinted knowingly. He didn't rise. Instead, he gestured for Mazwi to step closer.
"Inkhundla ye-Aether," he said softly. "A rare piece. It found its way to me… and perhaps now, to you."
Hesitant, Mazwi approached. Up close, the silver etchings on the box resolved into more than patterns: they became the swirls of a lihiya cloth, the proud horns of the Inyathi—the buffalo, guardian of ancestors. It was both ancient and strangely new.
"What is it?" Mazwi whispered.
Mr. Abara's tone shifted, carrying the weight of an elder speaking to blood.
"It is a journey of the spirit, mfana. A test of one's isithunzi—their dignity, their inner light. The old ones, our amadlozi, remind us that true strength is not taken but cultivated. Like a seed, it must be nurtured. This," he tapped the lid gently, "is the soil."
Mazwi's heart quickened. The words stirred something deep within him—a longing he had only ever brushed against during the orphanage's cultural visits, when the distant drums seemed to echo a home he had never known.
Mr. Abara pushed the box forward. "It is not for sale. A gift such as this cannot be bought. Only accepted."
With trembling fingers, Mazwi lifted it. Light as wood, yet heavy with meaning. He bowed his head slightly. "Ngiyabonga, Baba."
The late afternoon sun greeted him as he stepped outside. He didn't wait until home. Perched on the low wall of the orphanage garden, with the city noise fading to a hum, he lifted the lid.
No board. Instead, resting on black silk, was a polished obsidian sphere—dark, deep, starless. Around it lay seven tokens, each impossibly detailed:
A woven lihiya basket.
A small Inyathi figurine.
A clay pot, an imbiza, for medicine.
A ceremonial spear, an umkhonto.
A shield, an ihawu.
A divination bone from a tingono set.
A small, unlit lantern.
Mazwi drew in a sharp breath. He recognized them all.
The sphere pulsed, drinking in sunlight. The air stilled. Even the traffic hushed, replaced by a silence alive with presence. Warmth bloomed in his chest—not fire, but a peace vast and ancient. Then came the voice, not in his ears but in his soul:
Sawubona, mntanami. Welcome, child of our blood. Your spirit has been dormant, but the soil is fertile. The path to cultivate your essence begins now. Your ancestors are your guides. Choose your foundation.
The seven tokens glowed, their edges haloed in soft light. Mazwi's pulse matched a distant, unseen drum. He understood: this was no ordinary game. This was a calling.
His hand hovered above the tokens, the first step into a map that had waited all his life to be drawn.