I AM GIFT: PROLOGUE

December 1989, Lirangwe

With the letter folded in his hand, Gift Mbewe followed the familiar path through the brush, past thorny shrubs and tall grass that whispered as the wind slipped through it. Dust rose softly beneath his feet, and the air carried the dry, bitter smell of earth waiting for rain. He had walked this way many times before, yet every step felt heavier than the last.

When the hunter’s compound came into view, Gift slowed.

Something felt off.

The yard lay still, unnaturally so. The narrow footpath was almost gone, swallowed by creeping weeds. The fire pit sat cold and untouched, its ash pale and scattered. No chickens scratched at the dirt. No smoke curled into the sky. The place looked deserted, as if it had been abandoned for far longer than a few weeks.

Gift’s heart began to pound.

He approached the hut, his steps cautious now. Kneeling by the doorway, he reached to slide the letter beneath the door, then stopped. The door was not latched. The hunter always secured it with a wooden bolt, even when he stepped away for a moment.

Gift hesitated.

“Hello?” he called softly, tapping the door with his knuckles. “Is anyone home?”

Silence answered him.

Then the smell reached him. Thick and heavy. Metallic, with a sickening sweetness beneath it. His stomach turned.

“He must have left raw meat inside,” Gift muttered, though the words sounded hollow even to his own ears. Something deep in his chest tightened with dread.

He pushed the door open, and the sight that met his eyes froze him in place.

His heart slammed against his ribs, and his eyes widened. His mouth fell open as if the terror itself had stolen his words, and for a moment, he could not draw a breath. Every instinct screamed for him to run, but his feet refused to move.

The hunter hung from the central roof beam.

The rope was twisted tight around his neck, his body swaying slightly in the stale air. His face was bloated and discolored, the skin stretched and greenish. Flies filled the hut, buzzing and crawling over him, over the dark stains that soaked into the dirt floor below. A foul liquid had spilled from his mouth and nose, marking the ground like a final confession.

For a moment, Gift just stood there watching. Then a scream ripped out of him, raw and broken, a sound torn from somewhere deeper than his lungs.

“No! No!”

He staggered forward and collapsed to his knees. The letter slipped from his fingers and fluttered onto the floor, landing beside the stains beneath the hunter’s body.

“Why did you do this?” Gift cried, his voice cracking apart. His hands shook as he reached out.

“Why would you leave me again?”

Grief overtook him. And then suddenly, out of rage, he struck the hanging body with his fists, each blow weak and desperate, landing against cold, unresponsive rotting flesh.

“Coward!” he sobbed. “You coward! Why didn’t you stay? Why didn’t you fight for me?”

His cries carried beyond the hut, spilling into the village. Doors flew open. Men ran from nearby compounds. Women followed, drawn by the sound of unbearable pain. They found Gift at the foot of the hanging body, his screams raw and hoarse, echoing through the quiet compound until his voice gave out.

Strong arms wrapped around him, pulling him back, but he fought and thrashed, desperate, unseeing, consumed by a storm of disbelief. Kondwani’s voice reached him through the chaos, shaking and pleading in his ear. “Stop, Gift. Please. Stop.” But Gift could not stop crying. The man he had loved, searched for, hated, and finally begun to forgive was gone.

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