Once upon a time, in the vast and vibrant continent of Nyasanda, there were many kingdoms; some rich, some poor, and some simply lost in confusion. Each had its own peculiar way of running things, but one thing bound them all together: the magnificent art of avoiding responsibility.
There was the Kingdom of Mbwembwe, where leaders came to power promising free cows and endless feasts, only to later declare that cows were a “national security threat.” Then there was the Republic of Dandora, where elections were held, but somehow, the same faces always won… even when the people swore they had voted for someone else. And let’s not forget the Sultanate of Kwavinja, where leaders built golden palaces while their citizens mastered the fine art of eating wind.
Nyasanda was a continent of contradictions, where leaders preached unity but practiced exclusion, where wealth was hoarded while the streets overflowed with hunger, and where the voices of the people were drowned out by the deafening roar of power. But amidst this chaos, there were those who still believed in something greater.
One of them was Dr Zekiye, a young and relentless woman who had spent years fighting for a better Nyasanda. She wasn’t a politician. She wasn’t a warrior. She was simply a healer… someone who had seen the pain of her people up close, who had held the hands of the dying and whispered prayers for justice in hospital corridors that smelled of neglect and broken promises.
Zekiye found herself in a hospital bed, not as a doctor this time, but as a patient, worn down by a mission that should have been simple. She had been part of a delegation traveling to one of Nyasanda’s many summits meant to bring together leaders, thinkers, and change-makers. But instead of dialogue, they were met with closed doors, armed guards, and an unspoken message: Your voices are not welcome here.
Her nurse, Tandi, was a woman who had lived through too much. She had seen governments rise and fall. She had treated children whose fathers had disappeared into prisons without trials. She had comforted mothers whose sons had been beaten for daring to ask, Why?
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As Tandi adjusted Zekiye’s IV drip, she let out a weary sigh.
“We used to believe in something called Pan-Africanism,” she murmured. “A dream where Nyasanda’s kingdoms would rise together, strong and united. But look at us now. Every leader shouts ‘Africa must unite!’ while hoarding wealth in foreign banks. They sing of sovereignty while borrowing money they’ll never repay. And we? We are left with songs, speeches, and slogans while they dine in golden halls.”
Zekiye chuckled, though even laughter hurt. “So you’re saying we were sold a dream?”
Tandi shook her head. “Not just sold. A dream was stolen from us, wrapped in expensive suits, and resold as a lie. They told us we were brothers and sisters, yet when a neighbour cries for help, our leaders are the first to shut the door. We’ve built a continent of fancy conferences and zero accountability.”
Zekiye knew this all too well. The leaders of Nyasanda loved their grand summits. They gathered in air-conditioned halls, shaking hands and posing for cameras while their people slept hungry in the streets. They signed agreements that meant nothing. They spoke of democracy while silencing dissent.
She sighed, staring at the ceiling. “We dream of a different Nyasanda, don’t we? A place where leadership means service, not privilege. A place where young people don’t have to beg to be heard. A place where Pan-Africanism is not a prop, but a practice. A place where leaders don’t hide behind bureaucracy but stand on the frontlines of justice.”
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Tandi folded her arms, her eyes burning with something close to hope. “And yet, look at us. A young doctor too exhausted to fight, and an old nurse who’s seen too much. Tell me, Zekiye… do you still believe in the dream?”
This wasn’t just about one failed summit. This was about an entire continent betrayed by its own leaders.
Zekiye and her fellow delegates had traveled to this foreign land thinking they were stepping into a space of dialogue, of shared visions. Instead, they were detained, their passports confiscated, their rights stripped away without explanation. They were not criminals. They were not threats. They were simply voices that made those in power uncomfortable.
And the worst part? The silence.
The silence of the very governments that were supposed to protect them. The silence of leaders who, instead of demanding answers, pretended nothing had happened. The silence that said, “You are alone in this.”
Tandi’s voice softened, but her words carried weight. “It’s never outsiders who break us, Zekiye. It’s our own.”
This was the bitter truth of Nyasanda. It was not foreign powers, nor imperial ghosts that kept the continent shackled. It was the greed, the fear, the hunger for control among their own.
Zekiye turned to face her nurse, her voice steady despite the pain. “I don’t just believe in the dream, I demand it. I refuse to die in a world where justice is a myth, where accountability is optional, and where young people are told to ‘wait their turn’ while the ship sinks. We are not here to inherit ruins. We are here to rebuild.”
Tandi was silent for a moment. Then, she smiled softly. “Maybe we’re the fools for thinking things will change. Or maybe, just maybe, we’re the only ones brave enough to try.”
Outside the hospital, the kingdoms of Nyasanda continued their dance of empty promises and polished lies; leaders squabbling over power, people caught in the crossfire of greed and ambition.
But inside that small hospital room, something was shifting. A quiet revolution was brewing.
The young and the bold were waking up.
And when they did, the kingdoms would never be the same again.
Do you think this is a tale, Nop…
This is a reality we see unfolding across our nations. Political leaders being silenced. Pan-Africanism reduced to mere rhetoric. Diplomacy hijacked to serve the interests of a few while the masses suffer.
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The detention and deportation of leaders in Nyasanda, the suppression of voices that demand change, this is the reality of our times. And yet, it does not have to be our future.
The young people of Nyasanda are watching. The world is watching.
Will the kingdoms of Nyasanda continue their dance of deception? Or will this generation rise to demand a new Africa, one where justice is not a privilege but a right, where leadership is not about power but about service?
The choice is ours!
Dr Nasra is available at drnasrano08@gmail.com or on X as @drnasranassor.
