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He that lives upon hope will die fasting.
–Benjamin Franklin
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2033
“Now, boy, you choose one of two fates,” a bowl of the oily soup was set in front of him, “to choose the first you must feed with the rest of us. I know the swill looks inedible,” a stiff grunt from the bloated cook, “but it is much worse than mere poor cuisine, in this stew is your entire village, and I mean this in both the metaphorical and literal sense of the term.” Mwamba began to retch, but he choked back his gags and gave them nothing.
“You remember your dear grandmother only a few hours ago being butchered? Well, a few more of your tribal kin are in this stew, and with the mighty bounty we secured from your village my army will feed for the rest of the week.
“So, in order to accept the first fate, you will eat as my men eat, eat from the blood and flesh of your own people.”
Mwamba interrupted Dingane suddenly, “just tell me what I have to do to kill you, monster.” The steely reserve of the mere child took Dingane off guard while also reinforcing that this was indeed the person who would inherit his power. He would still have to work, and suffer, for it.
“If you eat of this stew then you will take your first step to becoming one of us, you will live as one of us, suffer as one of us, hunt as one of us. I will make you feel the limits of human suffering, as well as teach you how to inflict that suffering on others. If you choose not to eat it, then I will have to…” His voice trailed off as the juice from the soup trailed down Mwamba’s chin. He had made his choice, made it so eagerly, this was certainly the one, he had finally found his ultimate student, and enemy.
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