Author: Claudius Goremusandu

About the author: I am Zimbabwean living in Botswana and I have been working as an attorney for about 9 years now. My pronouns are he/him.

Story title: Ropa

About the story: The story is part of a larger work that centres on the Rozvi Empire in the very far future and space. My daughter Athena inspired me.

It’s hot and the marketplace crowd makes it feel hotter. Yet, there is a festive mood. Sellers peddling their wares and musicians with instruments move through the crowd. They raise their voices and improvise intricate dance moves in an effort to attract custom. Even as they shout to be heard and elbow their way through the crowd, they are met with good-natured annoyance. The first match up is about to commence. One of the competitors is kneeling as her assistant ties the ropes around her hands. Fist fighting is a revered tradition and the competitors wrap their hands in tree bark rope as was done two millenia ago. Her opponent, with his broken fingers and fighting scars, calmly regards her. No nervous energy or fidgeting. He’s very good.

She stands up to face him. There is no judge and no need for one. She brings her up hands in guard and nods her head. Her opponent mirrors her movements. The match begins. Both of them advance to the centre of the ring and begin exchanging blows. She jabs, he sways and replies with an uppercut that cuts across the side of her chin and draws blood. She counters with a short straight punch to the middle of his chest and dances away before his next fist lands. And so the dance goes. There is no scoring system, no points. The winner is not determined by the number of blows landed or evaded. The winner is determined when the loser can no longer fight back. And so it goes for an hour. She breathes harshly and blinks through a film of sweat. She’s enjoying herself. The older man is strong and has been able to withstand the strength of her blows. She’s not used to fighting with an Equal. Someone she can hit and who will hit her back without falling to pieces. Everyone else is always so much weaker, more fragile than she is. This is fun.

“Ropa”.

She loses focus only for a moment yet her opponent quickly strikes her with a right hand hook that jerks her head to the side so hard she almost breaks her neck. She sinks to her right knee and takes a moment to steady herself. She knows what the voice means, but the fight is in front of her. She stands up, brings her fists and nods. Ready. Everyone gasps and a few children point. Her opponent prostrates himself and begins to beg her forgiveness, evoking the name of her forebearers and His Name. She puts her hand to her left eye to check the contact lens she had been wearing. It’s broken in half. She takes out the right contact lens as well. No point in hiding now. Her eyes have betrayed her. Technically she has won because her opponent cannot, will not continue. The victory tastes like ash in her mouth. She strides away in disgust.

Her opponent intently studies her retreating back with an unreadable expression.

… I rush to the throne room.

I am in the Royal Enclosure and clad in armour and armed. I had dressed as I walked, or rather I had been dressed and refreshed by my attendants as I walked. The Royal Enclosure feels suffocating. None would dare attack me here. Despite that, I never let my guard down. The gold adorned fabric I wear over my armour is heavy and restricting. My Father had taught me that my imposing and brilliant ceremonial garb was Armour meant to evoke the grandeur and Majesty of the Barozvi Empire, of He who sits above us all. See me, see the Changamire my clothing proclaims.

A contingent of the Imperial Guard shadows my steps as befits my status. Courtiers in their voluminous robes hurry and bustle within and out of view. The Emperor has been in silent meditation on his throne for over a decade. As was my duty, I had slipped into the role of Regent and continued waging his ceaseless wars. I had left the less enviable and repetitive tasks of administration to the legions of clerks. Now that he had awoken, I was free to cast off my role as Regent, like soiled clothes after a night of drinking and pleasure.

The Mauto aMambo, part before me as I enter. I bow at the waist with one hand on my weapon and the other on my shoulder before the Emperor,who has his back to me.I feel a weight on my shoulders that has nothing to do with my clothing. Far too late…the High Svikiro. He chose to make me aware of his presence at that exact moment.

“Patience, child. He still needs a moment to… become more of what He is and was.” And like a breath he is gone.I am always uneasy in the Emperor’s presence. It always feels weighty with words not said and, I fear, disappointment not expressed. I study the floor intently and my crimson red eyes stare back at me. The mark of my Ascension. The deep powerful voice of the Emperor fills my entire being. “Stand at attention”.

My father, the Emperor Changamire Dombo, looks at me evenly, as if I am a stranger. There is no emotion to his glare. No distaste, no wariness. Just simple nonchalance. I am but one of his many Generals to his Armies Proper. I am also his daughter, anointed as his First, his…Future. Despite my titles, I feel all but disposable. I only ever knew Changamire Dombo, Emperor of the BaRozvi Empire. He may have been a man once, a man that could have been my Father. It made no difference now. I only have the one to whom I owe filial, if not absolute, loyalty. Who and what he is created a chasm over which no love could ever hope to cross. Barozvi lived longer than most. But we still grew old and infirm. We still died. The Changamire was beyond the weaknesses of the human form. He was a truly Immortal being, who remained steadfastly strong and immutable.

And just as suddenly he changes, as though his body is being filled with his spirit and sense of self, as if it were empty mere moments ago. He looks me in the eye and recognizes me. That is all. No words. No kind gestures. Not even a smile. He clasps his arms behind him in a relaxed posture, yet His powerful muscles cord with tension.

New Danamombe silhouettes the Emperor. Majestically colossal buildings, and artistically designed structures that defy the laws of physics and basic comprehension, compete in adorning the horizon. Multitudes of his subjects tread the streets and avenues below. Individual and collective pockets of light, from the buildings and space striders, illuminate the night skies.Before he had even dreamt of its creation, New Danamombe had been a planet of little renown, remarkable only for its peoples and the sheer immensity of its fauna and flora. To many it had not existed at all. Once it had been known by a thousand unique names, in a thousand unique languages. Once a divergent number of people, each possessing distinct cultures, languages, and ways of being had claimed a part of the planet as their home. Once the planet’s burning deserts, lush rainforests and icy landscapes had been loved and lived on by generations countless from the very dawn of time. Once was no longer the present.