Chapter 01

Chapter 01

The Art Of Doing Nothing

Baba Jallow had perfected laziness the way others perfected prayer.

In Serekunda, where the streets never truly slept and life demanded hustle by default, Baba stood out by doing the exact opposite. He wasn’t poor, wasn’t rich, wasn’t desperate—just comfortably unbothered. If life were a river, Baba lay on its banks and let the water argue with itself.

“Baba, you dey waste your life,” people often told him.

He never argued back. Arguing required effort.

That evening, the heat clung to the air like sweat that refused to dry. Baba sat outside Kairo’s Bar, a crooked wooden shack painted in fading green, a half-empty Julbrew bottle dangling lazily between his fingers. His friends surrounded him—loud, animated, bursting with plans and problems Baba had no interest in borrowing.

“Tomorrow I start business,” one of them announced for the third time that week.

“Tomorrow is a dangerous word,” Baba muttered, eyes half-closed.

They laughed, shaking their heads. Baba was always like this—sharp with words, dull with ambition. He hated complicated situations: long explanations, emotional confrontations, responsibility in any form. Life, to him, was already doing too much.

Music thumped from inside the bar. Somewhere behind them, a generator coughed and roared like a dying animal. The smell of grilled fish drifted through the air.

Later that night, the group drifted to a friend’s birthday party—a noisy compound filled with plastic chairs, cheap lights, and laughter that rose and fell like waves. Baba leaned against a wall, sipping slowly, observing rather than participating.

That was when he noticed Awa.

She wasn’t loud. Didn’t dance wildly like the others. She laughed softly, covering her mouth, eyes curious rather than needy. Somehow, she ended up beside Baba, talking about nothing important—music, bad roads, how parties were overrated.

“You’re quiet,” she said.

“I conserve energy,” Baba replied.

She laughed. That laugh stuck with him longer than it should have.

When the party thinned and the night deepened, Baba walked her home. The streets were calmer now, lit by scattered streetlights and moonlight reflecting off corrugated rooftops. They said their goodbyes at her gate.

“Text me,” she said.

“If I remember,” Baba replied honestly.

She shook her head, smiling, and disappeared inside.

Baba turned back toward the main road alone.

That was when the world ended.

He heard footsteps behind him—too close, too fast. He turned just enough to feel a sudden, brutal impact at the back of his head.

No warning.
No pain.
Just darkness.

When Baba regained awareness, it was not with pain—but with nothingness.

His body felt distant, like it no longer belonged to him. There was a humming sound, steady and cold. His eyes fluttered open briefly to blinding white light. Shapes moved above him—masked faces, gloved hands, metal instruments reflecting harsh brightness.

Voices murmured. Clinical. Unemotional.

“Drain complete.”
“Subject stable.”
“Mark the time.”

Something cold slid through his veins.

Then even the darkness abandoned him.

The next time Baba woke again, it was to the smell of rot.

Heat pressed down on him, thick and unbearable. His body lay twisted on something uneven. His mouth was dry—no, beyond dry. It felt hollow, as though life itself had been scooped out of him.

A sharp pain stabbed his side.

Peck.

Another followed.

Peck.

Baba forced his eyes open.

Above him, crows gathered—black wings, sharp beaks, eyes glinting with hunger. One landed on his chest, tilting its head, studying him like discarded meat.

Baba tried to scream.

Nothing came out.

He tried to move.

Nothing responded.

Panic bloomed, slow and heavy.

The crow pecked again, drawing blood—just a thin line. Something inside Baba snapped. A raw instinct surged through him, louder than fear, louder than reason.

With the last strength left in his fingers, Baba grabbed the bird.

It squawked violently.

Without thinking, without understanding why, Baba bit into it.

Warm blood flooded his mouth.

The world exploded.

His eyes burned as green light flared from within them, his heart slammed back into motion, and strength surged violently through his veins. The crow fell lifeless from his hands.

Baba gasped.

Air rushed into his lungs like he had been drowning for years.

He screamed.

And somewhere far away, unseen and satisfied, a man watched and smiled.

The game had begun.