No one knows exactly when it happened. When Africa became the supernatural land of nightmares everyone knew it was. When the world turned its back on innocent children, thinking they were hazardous dangers to society. But I will try to recall those nasty memories.
My name is Kristina, simply known as Kris. I am 16 years old. The world –my world– fell apart when I was just 13, barely a teenager. Let me explain:
It all started in Nigeria, the country where I am from. My mother had passed away months after I was born and was put into care under my drunkard father who clearly had better things to do than take care of a measly little girl. He neglected me most of the time and gave me terrible punishments –locking me in the small closet, watching me dress to make me feel uncomfortable and flogging me half to death. Now he is dead, probably burning in hell. But, I owe him one. Being raised by cold eyes made me strong, made me endure the worst that was to come.
The pandemic struck like a malevolent storm. A disease that swept through the continent, leaving devastation in its wake. Adults fell ill, their bodies succumbing to the merciless virus. But for us—the children—it was different. We survived, but not unscathed. Our bodies changed, morphing into vessels of power. Supernatural abilities emerged, each child manifesting unique gifts.
They called us the “West bloods,” a derogatory term that echoed through the camps where they herded us. The world feared us, branded us as threats. And so, they locked us away, isolated within our own country. The camps became our prisons, guarded by soldiers who saw us as ticking time bombs.
There were stages to our powers. The Hydros could control water, bending rivers and raindrops to their will. The Skyweavers soared through the skies, their bodies weightless as they defied gravity. Beastwhisperers communicated with animals, forming silent alliances with creatures that roamed the wilderness. And then there were the Pskics—the mind-readers, their thoughts like open books.
But beyond these stages lay the ultimate abilities. Muhammed, the Firewave, wielded both elements, dancing between flames and waves. Neo, the Windborne, could manipulate air currents and soar like a mythic bird. Nia, the Shapeshifter, blurred the lines between human and beast.
And then there was me—Kris—the Mindbender. My gift was both a curse and a weapon. I could delve into minds, unravel secrets, and twist thoughts. They feared me most of all.
Now, as whispers of rebellion circulate among the West bloods, we four— the Firewave, the Windborne, the Shapeshifter, and the Mindbender—must band together. The world wants us eradicated, but we’ll fight back. For Africa, for our survival, and for the hope that still flickers in our hearts.
This is our story—the echoes of the silenced, rising from the ashes of a broken world.
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