Bound To Burn 🔥

The shadows Between Rivals

Chapter Six – The Shadow Between Rivals

The boys had tested their strength. Each walked home in silence, their thoughts lingering on the stranger they had met in the woods. Neither spoke of the encounter, but in their hearts, something had shifted.

Simba couldn’t forget the way Salah moved—confident and sure, like someone who had wrestled since birth. And Salah, despite his pride, was unsettled by the softness of Simba’s face, the gentleness hidden beneath the fight. "He looked more like a girl," Salah muttered to himself one evening, "but he fights like a beast."

As the wedding day approached, the village transformed. Huts were freshly smeared with red clay, homesteads swept clean, and drums echoed in every corner. The scent of roasted goat, millet porridge, and fermented brews hung thick in the air.

Chief Indemba’s homestead brimmed with joy. Amina’s betrothal to Chief Suku’s second son, Jimbo, was not only a personal victory but a political alliance. The women bustled with excitement. Wendi boasted endlessly about her twin daughters, Fany and Feny, their beauty, and their dance skills.

"This union will strengthen us," Chief Indemba said to his eldest wife. "We must present our best face."

Meanwhile, Simba trained harder. He spent hours in the field practicing with the spear, wrestling with older boys, pushing himself until his palms bled. But something inside him was changing. He no longer trained to win. He trained to belong, to be seen by his father, to silence the whispers that he was soft, that he didn’t fit in.

That evening, Nze found him sitting alone sharpening his arrow tips.

"You’ve grown quieter, Simba," she said, crouching beside him.

"I’m fine, Mama," he replied without looking up.

"You don’t have to carry the whole mountain. Be strong, yes—but don’t forget to breathe. You are still a boy."

Simba nodded, but the words didn’t reach him. His eyes were already on tomorrow.

In Chief Suku’s compound, Salah was also preparing. His elder brothers teased him, calling him “Baba’s golden arrow.”

"You’ll have to pin the soft-looking one from Indemba’s home," one chuckled.

Salah rolled his eyes, but something inside him stirred. He remembered the boy's face in the forest—flushed, fierce, beautiful. "I will win," he said simply.

When the day finally came, the entire village and surrounding clans gathered. Dressed in skins dyed with ochre and beads that jingled with every step, the people danced and sang, filling the air with celebration.

Amina was kept indoors, dressed in fine blue cloths, her hair oiled and braided into intricate designs. Pendo stayed by her side, whispering blessings and smiling as guests trickled in.

Chief Suku’s arrival was grand. His warriors led the herd of cattle into the compound, followed by drums, dancers, and family. Chief Indemba rose to greet him, their clasped hands sealing more than friendship.

Simba stood near his father, watching the guests pour in. His heart dropped when he saw the familiar face of his forest rival—Salah. Dressed in royal hide and painted in warrior red, Salah’s eyes locked with Simba’s. Both froze. So this was him?

The feast began. Women carried trays of food—roasted meat, sweet yams, fermented honey drinks. Laughter bubbled around the compound. Children ran, dogs barked, and old men exchanged jokes.

Then came the performances.

The girls danced first—hips swinging in hypnotic rhythm, their feet light, their arms elegant. Fany and Feny outshone them all, their smiles captivating, their movements sharp. The crowd cheered as Wendi beamed.

Next came the wrestling. Boys from different clans competed—one by one thrown to the ground, some winning, most losing.

Then it was Simba’s turn. He stepped into the ring, chest bare, his skin glistening. He beat his chest once before taking his stance. The boys clapped. He took down his first opponent with ease. Then the second. He was focused—he had to be.

Salah stepped in too, winning his matches with effortless grace. He moved like a shadow, calm and deadly. The crowd roared for him.

Now only the two remained.

The drums grew louder. The circle widened. All eyes turned to the final match.

Salah and Simba stepped into the center. Their eyes met. Neither spoke. They circled each other, tension thick as smoke.

They clashed. The ground shook with the force of their bodies. Hands gripped. Legs locked. Dust rose. Cheers rang out.

Salah was strong—but Simba was fast. They matched each other move for move, strength for strength. On the second round, Salah slammed Simba down, nearly winning. But the third round—Simba turned the tide, using Salah’s own momentum against him.

They drew.

Now, the final round.

They charged—locking bodies. Suddenly, they fell—Salah on top, their faces inches apart. Time slowed. Salah saw Simba’s lips, his lashes, the fire in his eyes. For a heartbeat, he forgot the match.

Simba seized the moment, twisted free, and pinned Salah beneath him.

The crowd gasped. But the elders ruled it too close—another draw.

Silence fell. Then clapping erupted from both sides. Chiefs Indemba and Suku stood smiling.

"No son has lost today," Chief Indemba said proudly. "This is how warriors are made."

Simba walked away, his chest heaving—not just from the match, but from something he didn’t yet understand. And Salah watched him go, his heart pounding—not from the fight, but from the boy who had looked like a dream even in dust.

Neither spoke.

But the shadow had fallen.

And neither would forget.