by Antonio Napoli

A scent of conspiracy hovered over the heart of the African kingdom. In the flickering twilight of the clay house, the conspirators were gathered around a rough table. Their leader was late, and unease slithered among them like a malevolent wind. When he finally arrived, his mere presence was enough to quell the unrest.

“We are all here, I see,” the leader said firmly. “Is each of you ready?”

A murmur of assent spread, heavy as an oath.

“Death to the king, to the despot!” one of them shouted, and his cry rippled like an echo, as reckless as it was fierce. A sneer of contempt passed over the faces around the table, a shadow of hatred that bound them together.

The leader remained standing, unmoved.

“Do you truly understand what we are about to do?” he asked.

“We act for the city’s good!” they answered in unison.

“What good? The present or the future?”

His most trusted friend rose, eyes alight with zeal.

“You seem hesitant,” he said. “Have you changed your mind? You, who called us to this solemn day in our History?”

“Changed my mind? No.” The leader shook his head, pensive. “And yet, just now, I saw a troubling glint in your eyes… The same thirst for power that burns within him.”

A young man, the most impetuous of the group, sprang up, outraged.

“Do you dare compare us to the despot? Not a single hair of mine resembles him! Today, along with his body, his shadows shall fall as well! Death to the tyrant!”

The leader studied him for a long moment before speaking in a grave tone.

“You call him a despot, he who walks among enemies yet calls them friends in public with unusual clemency? Perhaps we have lost the meaning of words… I wonder if tomorrow will truly be different from today.”

A sharp silence fell over the room. Then, one by one, the conspirators rose. Each slid a hand beneath their cloak. Each followed the leader as he stepped toward the window, where dawn had begun to seep through the shadows.

“You,” he said, his voice hard, “will kill a despot today. But he will return in another form, to avenge himself upon you, to overturn your idea of good with violent irony. The righteous will no longer be distinguishable from the wicked. The city, like a grieving widow, will sit in the square, weeping over the blood spilled. Are you ready for this?”

He turned back toward the table.

A fierce assent answered him, sinking into his flesh like a dagger.