He predicted that there will be bloodshed. Nothing like the nation ever saw.

A few months after his wild predictions, he died. Nobody thought much about him or his prophecies of doom.

Until ten years later. The first of his predictions was slowly turning into reality, like the seedling of a young plant indistinguishable from a close species.

“One national elections will erupt into bloodshed, so much bloodshed that there will be none like it in the nation’s history ever after it.” a presenter on a radio replayed the words. Seemed he could smell it coming.

Some listeners criticized, sneering at “these prophets of doom desperate for media and public attention”.

“Instead of praying against misfortunes, they rather want them to happen so that they get tagged as powerful.”

But no amount of criticism could stop the war drums already echoing across the nation, rousing war machines that have gone silent since independence.

It all started as a dispute, and no one thought that the prophecy of the late Nyasa pointed to the elections of that particular year.

Almost everyone was certain the ruling president had enough firepower in his arsenal to retain his seat. He wasn’t a dictator, neither was he determined to remain in power forever. He loved his people. And his people loved him. Developments were slow. But his strategy was to stabilize inflation to promote local businesses, a move his opponents disagreed with, pointing constantly to the lack of infrastructural developments.

Many already started fleeing the country, although there were no signs of any serious conflict, or looming disaster.

There were rumours that French soldiers who were supposed to act as mediators were secretly backing the opposition who now claimed they were the victors in the elections.

Slowing foreign boots were marching and increasing in the capital. There were rumours everywhere, and at the same time people were cautious of statements they made on tele.

Suddenly, there was this strange silence in the nation, like the silence of mighty waves that have surged and were about to crush against the coast. The silence before the war.

Without warning, fighting broke out in a neighborhood that housed strong supporters of the ruling government. What looked like a little fire soon erupted into neighboring vicinities. A wild fire.

Governments of nations considered ‘superpowers’ started coming out one by one to recognize the opposition. Foreign media all seemed to back the opposition.

Ideally, in the event of a dispute, elections went into runoff. But the opposition refused to go for another round of elections.

At the climax of the clashes, foreign soldiers in armoured vehicles marched to the presidential palace, to smoke out the president and install the leader of the opposition. All this while, they had stationed themselves in Mjiji, a suburb that was a concentration of foreign businesses and foreign interests. Now they had had enough of the dilemma and uncertainties of the conflict. The candidate that served their interests was bound to lose. They had to do something. And that something didn’t matter if it had to crawl on the bodies of innocent lives to reach its destination.

Millions of civilians,  out of their love for their president, surrounded the presidential palace to stop a foreign power from forcefully overthrowing their leader. They were unarmed. And this foreign army, commissioned by their colonial masters, wiped out thousands of unarmed civilians who stood in their way, crushing bones and flesh under steel wheels.

They captured the president and installed their puppet.

The fulfillment of a bloody prophecy.

Those who doubted Nyasa’s words will bow in shame when they meet him in the underworld.