A certain village, in the eastern parts of Africa
Mugambi sat on a rock in the grazing field, chin sunk into his palm, elbow on his thigh, staring off with that dull, waiting kind of boredom.
Cows grazed lazily nearby, tails flicking now and then at the flies bothering them. A few meters ahead, the sheep kept close together, the younger ones breaking off to run and jump before drifting back to the group.
They always stayed close together, except when a few naughty ones got the urge to explore. His gaze fell on Kabenyangia (little destroyer), the only sheep with a name earned from her usual mischief.
She lifted her head, grass still in her mouth, and fixed her eyes on him, as if struck by sudden enlightenment. Actually, she wasn't looking at him at all, but behind him, toward the cornfield where green stalks stood tall.
Breaking from the group of bowing heads, she started toward the corn. "Kabenyangia!" Mugambi called in a bored tone, and she paused, lowered her head… but didn't eat. She kept walking.
"Kabenyangia," he called again, letting out a long, exhausted sigh—half from her usual antics, mostly from sheer boredom. She paused, picking at her food. Moments later, she lifted her head and sauntered towards the corn. He exhaled another weary sigh and pushed himself upright. His eyes scanned the ground, found a stone, and he tossed it toward her—missing by a wide margin.
He let out another lazy sigh and looked around for another stone, though by now it was getting hard to spot a throwable one in the field. Then his eyes landed on a bullhorn.
He picked it up while muttering,
"This can't be from M'mbura (buffalo)," remembering their fiery bull.
His father had sold it a few years back because it loved to butt anything that moved—human or chicken, stranger or family. Before that, his father had suggested cutting off its horns to prevent it from tearing someone apart. They got help from a few villagers, did the deed, but it didn't help. M'mbura ended up sold anyway.
The sound of tearing corn pulled him out of his thoughts. Of course, Kabenyangia was already at it. He squinted and struck a dramatic pose. "Nogokua narua (today you are dead meat)," he warned. She dodged his throw skillfully and ran across the field with a long corn in her mouth, kicking her hind legs high as if to mock him—just like always.
He watched her reunite with the others and glanced up at the sun. "How many days till I go back to campus?" he muttered, letting out yet another sigh as he counted—almost a week. Good thing he had chosen a university far from home after highshcool two years ago.
Mugambi had a wish: to spend as little time as possible in this village. Life here revolved around farming, and he hated it—or maybe he just hated the endless cycle. Wake up early, breakfast, farm, lunch, farm, evening, sleep, repeat. Day after day. Repeat, repeat, repeat.
He picked up the horn where it had fallen and found a good spot under the corns where sunlight never reached. Twirling it in his hands, he admired the smooth surface, feeling the cool, slightly rough patches under his fingers, and noticed a few strange markings now that the dirt had been shaken off. Maybe their dogs had dragged it here; after all, they liked to bury their possessions out in the farm. But it didn't smell meaty—just faintly of earth and dried grass—no way they'd bring something that wasn't edible.
"Maybe it's a Ruguti (war horn)," he thought, picturing his ancestors moving through some hills in animal skins, the sunlight glinting on their weapons. Hunting time.
During those historical times, the Ruguti wasn't just a tool; it symbolized authority, unity, and identity. It had been used to warn of danger and raids, to gather people quickly, to communicate during war and emergencies, and even as a ceremonial tool for drinking traditional brews.
"Oh, must be one of those," he said, brushing the dirt from the mouthpiece at the narrow tip of the horn. He wiped it clean on his shirt, lifted it to his lips, and let out one powerful, resonant blow.
There was no sound. But a colorless ripple pulsed outward from the horn, stretching across the world.
And time slowed.
Cornstalks arced through the air in glacial sweeps, birds traced impossible loops above, and a single leaf drifted like molten gold from a branch. Even Mugambi's movements stretched—his fingers lingering on the horn, his blink half a heartbeat longer than usual, his muttered words dragging, vowels stretching as if caught in thick syrup.