To Break an Empire by Ismail "Ish" Rashad - HTML preview

Chapter 3: “Don't Feed the Simba”

The humid air clung to the fabric walls of the makeshift command tent, a suffocating blanket that made every breath feel like a laborious task. The flickering oil lamp in the corner cast long, jagged shadows, distorting the faces of the men gathered around the table. Colonel Kwame, his expression hardened by years of war, was hunched over a series of intelligence reports, his hands gripping the pages with such intensity that his knuckles turned white. His eyes scanned the documents with a mixture of disbelief and growing anger.

The war in the north had dragged on for years, a bloody stalemate fueled by an insatiable global demand for lithium, a resource more precious than gold to the Empire. The fighting was vicious, and the world watched from the sidelines, indifferent to the suffering it caused. In his heart, Kwame knew the truth: The Empire was feeding the fire, feeding both sides, like throwing meat to a starving hyena.

"They say the Empire is supplying both sides," he muttered, his voice rough with barely suppressed anger, the weight of years of deception etched into every syllable. "Feeding the fire, they call it. Like throwing meat to a starving hyena."

A young lieutenant, eager to impress but clearly out of his depth, scoffed. "But Colonel, isn't that what we do? Exploit the weaknesses of our enemies? If they're playing both sides, isn't it an opportunity for us to do the same?"

Kwame fixed the lieutenant with a gaze so cold it could freeze the blood in one's veins. "This is not a game, Lieutenant. This is our land, our people. We are not pawns in some grand imperial chess match," he snapped, his words cutting through the air like a whip. He paused for a moment, his gaze lingering on a faded photograph of his grandmother, a woman whose wisdom had been a guiding light in his darkest moments. She had raised him, taught him the importance of honor, and instilled in him the deep-rooted wisdom of their ancestors.

“My grandmother used to say,” Kwame continued, his voice quieter now, tinged with nostalgia, “Do not feed the Simba. He will grow strong, and then he will turn on you.”

The lieutenant, confused, stammered, "Simba? The lion?"

Kwame nodded, his gaze distant as he recalled his childhood days in the village, the stories of the mighty Simba that had been passed down through the generations. "In our stories," he said, his voice steady, "the Simba is a powerful creature. It represents strength, pride, and dominance. But when it is hungry, it is unpredictable. It is dangerous. It will tear apart anything in its path. The Empire, with its greed and weapons, is feeding the Simba. It is fueling the very chaos it seeks to control."

He looked around the tent, his eyes settling on each of his men in turn, sensing the weariness in their bones. These were men who had fought too many battles, lost too many comrades, and endured too much suffering. They had witnessed the Empire’s insatiable thirst for power firsthand. Their struggle was not just one of survival—it was a fight to reclaim their dignity.

"We must find a way to stop this madness," Kwame said, his voice filled with determination, though tinged with sorrow. "We must find a way to break this cycle of violence. But how?"

The words hung in the air like a challenge, and no one had an answer.

Back in the Empire, Lordes sat at his desk, his mind a battlefield of conflicting thoughts. The weight of the war in Africa settled heavily upon him, pressing down on his chest with each passing day. The Empire’s interests in the region were no longer a secret, and the reports from the frontlines made his stomach churn. He had been part of the initial deployment—a brutal campaign in the same region—but the reality of it all had been far worse than he could have imagined.

The heat of the African sun, the dust that clung to everything, the endless miles of barren landscape—it all seemed like a distant nightmare now. But the faces of the men he had fought alongside still lingered in his mind, particularly one man, Sergeant Obiora.

Obiora had been a towering figure, not just in size, but in spirit. His booming laugh and warm heart had quickly put Lordes at ease when he first arrived. Obiora had become more than just a mentor—he had become a brother in arms.

"Ha! You move like a lion, young one," Obiora had said once, clapping Lordes on the back with a force that nearly knocked him over. "Strong and swift, but also patient. There is power in patience, Simba.”

The nickname had stuck. Obiora had often called him "Simba," the lion, a symbol of both strength and cunning. Lordes had initially hesitated to embrace it, but over time, the name had come to embody the lessons Obiora had taught him: the importance of adaptability, understanding the terrain, and fighting with respect for the land and its people.

Now, as Lordes sat in his office, his eyes scanning the intelligence reports detailing the escalating conflict, the memory of Obiora haunted him. The words he had once spoken echoed in Lordes' mind like a warning: “Do not feed the Simba. He will grow strong, and then he will turn on you.”

The Empire's actions, he realized, mirrored the very dangers Obiora had warned about. The relentless pursuit of resources, the manipulation of both sides in the conflict, the callous disregard for human life—all of it fed the violence, made it stronger, and created a monster that would one day turn on its creators.

Lordes remembered a conversation with Obiora, years ago, when the old soldier, now retired and living in a small village, had shared his own memories of the war that had nearly destroyed humanity. “They unleashed a plague upon us,” Obiora had rasped, his voice trembling, his eyes filled with a sorrow that seemed to reach across the decades.

“A silent, invisible enemy that wiped out millions. Then came the war robots, enforcing order with an iron fist. When the dust settled, Omezarr stood alone – a victor in a war that had brought the world to its knees. It then became the Empire.”

Lordes closed his eyes, struggling to suppress the growing sense of unease in his gut. He could no longer ignore the truth: the Empire, in its insatiable greed, was stoking the fires of war, fueling chaos in Africa for its own gain. But for what? To control, to dominate, to expand its reach at any cost.

He remembered the vibrant cities of Africa, now mere echoes of their former selves. The once-bustling markets of Marrakech, now silent and deserted. The ancient pyramids of Giza, their majestic forms scarred by the ravages of war. The vibrant coastal cities of Zanzibar and Lamu, their once-thriving ports now desolate and empty. The Empire's hunger for resources had transformed the continent into a wasteland, its people scattered and broken.

Lordes thought of the other nations, each with its unique culture and history, now subjugated under the Empire's iron fist. The artistic heart of Florence, its museums looted, its streets patrolled by Imperial soldiers. The technological hub of Tokyo, its innovation stifled, its people forced to serve the Empire's war machine. The vibrant cultural melting pot of Buenos Aires, its traditions suppressed, its people living in fear.

The Empire wasn't just about war. Far away from the fighting, rich people who supported the Empire lived in fancy cities built on water around the world. Their floating palaces—marvels of craft and decadence—stood as monuments to the Empire’s dominance, towering above the decaying cities and desolate fields that told of its ruinous reach. Power was measured by the depth of one’s foundations, the weight of their influence sinking beneath the waves, with opulence flowing freely through networks hidden from the common eye. The deeper the roots, the higher the crest of their wave, a living symbol of their rank in the Empire’s cruel and unyielding order.

The Empire's reach was vast, its grip suffocating. It had devoured the world, leaving behind a trail of broken dreams and shattered lives. Lordes knew that the fight for freedom was not just about Omezarr; it was about the soul of every nation, every culture, every individual who had been crushed under the Empire's heel.

He opened his eyes, his gaze hardening with resolve. He would not let the Empire win. He would fight for the future, for a world where diversity thrived, where cultures flourished, and where the people were free to choose their own destiny.

Then, he overheard a hushed conversation in the hallway, the murmurs of high-ranking generals discussing the Emperor's latest actions. One of them, his voice dripping with a cold, indifferent satisfaction, recounted a chilling tale.

"Twelve of his closest advisors," the general sneered, "were deemed disloyal. The Emperor invited them to dinner, enjoyed a fine meal, and then, in a single, swift motion, had them executed at the table. They say he barely paused his meal, simply ordered the bodies removed and continued dining."

Lordes felt a shiver run down his spine. This was no longer the act of a leader; it was the act of a monster. The Emperor had become a tyrant so twisted, so consumed by his paranoia and desire for absolute power, that he now viewed even his closest allies as expendable. The fear and distrust had seeped into every corner of the Empire, turning it into a breeding ground for terror.

Back in the heart of Africa, Colonel Kwame knew that sending the document to Lordes, still entrenched within the Empire, would be perilous. But the need for the truth to reach him was urgent.

Kwame had prepared carefully. The message was hidden within the pouch, disguised as a simple token of African heritage—a charm for protection, a piece of ancestral wisdom meant to pass unnoticed. He entrusted it to a trusted courier, a quiet, resourceful man known for his discretion. The courier, in turn, had connections within the Empire, individuals who could move unnoticed in the shadows, even within the walls of the imperial stronghold.

Using a series of coded messages and discreet exchanges, the courier had slipped into the Empire's capital, evading the watchful eyes of the Empire's security apparatus. The parchment found its way to Lordes, delivered in the dead of night, as silent and unnoticed as the shadows that carried it.

In the chaos of war, in the blood-soaked fields of Africa, the Simba had awakened. And Kwame knew that it was only a matter of time before the lion’s hunger would consume everything in its path.

As Lordes processed the chilling story, something else caught his eye. A small, intricately woven pouch lay discarded near the base of a pillar, its contents spilling onto the floor. Lordes approached it cautiously, his instincts telling him that something important had been left for him.

Inside the pouch, nestled amongst dried herbs and amulets, was a single folded piece of parchment. The paper was old, its edges frayed, and its ink was smudged, as if it had been hurriedly written in a desperate attempt to escape notice. It was a coded message—written in a language he didn’t immediately recognize, a cryptic script that made his heart race with the promise of revelation.

He remembered Obiora’s words: “The land itself fights for you, Simba. Learn its secrets.” With a grim determination, Lordes set to work, using his military training and knowledge of African cultures to decode the message. The characters on the page slowly revealed themselves to him, and the message became clear: it was a desperate plea for help.

The letter detailed the Empire’s atrocities in Africa, laying bare the scale of the destruction and the suffering caused by its manipulation of the conflict. It was a call for action, imploring the enemies of the Empire to expose its crimes, to awaken the conscience of the world, and to empower the African people to fight for their own future.

Lordes' blood ran cold as he read the final words: "The Simba grows strong, and the Empire feeds him. But a lion who is hungry for too long will turn, and when it does, it will tear apart everything in its path."

He knew the sender of the letter had taken a great risk to get this message to him. The consequences for anyone caught with such information would be catastrophic. Yet, there it was, the truth laid bare before him. The Empire's grip on Africa, its machinations, its deceit—everything was coming into focus.

And he knew, in that moment, that he had no choice but to act.