Mezzezeh opened the door to his chamber and there she was, lying on the straw bed. Her hair was long and lustrous and woven into thick matted braids. He walked towards the bed and tried to put a smile on his face as he kissed her on her forehead.

“Good morning my lord,” she greeted. He did not say a word but replied with a deep breath. Naurah put her arms around him and asked, “Why are you so disturbed my lord?”

“Be careful the answers you seek; some things are better left unsaid,” he replied.

“If you permit me to speak, I would suggest you consult with Koomba,” said Naurah.

“You have spoken wisely,” he acknowledged.

Mezzezeh stepped out of his palace and was greeted by the humid air. The trees were green, tall and danced to the rhythms of the wind. He entered the hut of his third wife, Lana, and picked up his son, Onome. Onome was four years old, and as the heir to the throne he had just started his training in the craft.

The craft was considered to be the highest level of knowledge a mortal could attain and involved in-depth teaching in five areas of study: science, astrology, magic, theosophy and alchemy. Knowledge obtained from the craft was highly secretive and was taught only in the academy, and acceptance into the academy was highly selective. A kata must complete all five levels of study to become competent enough to sit on the throne, an ordeal that usually took 15 years to complete.

Onome loved the training; he was a curious and fast learner, and his father was very impressed by his performance. Mezzezeh took Onome to the academy to study as often as he could; however, that morning, when Mezzezeh set off with his son, he had other motives for going to the academy.

As they meandered their way through the bushy paths to the academy, Onome, despite his love of the training, asked, “Father, do I have to do this every day?

Why can I not learn by watching you and staying in the palace?”

“A wise kata once told me that there is more to life than meets the eye,” Mezzezeh replied. “Our world is just a manifestation of the physical dimension. How can we account for the dimensions we cannot affect and perceive? As the chosen ones we must understand all these principles and acquire knowledge to rule and guide our people.” Onome was very intelligent and felt somewhat convinced by his father’s reply.

Mezzezeh dropped Onome off with his alchemy mentor and looked on as they disappeared into the dark hallway. It was time to pay a good friend an impromptu visit. He walked across the hallway into the chambers of magic and he could smell the pungent odour of potions. As he got closer he was taken aback by the thick blanket of smoke that emanated for the room in front of him. Mezzezeh walked in and there was Koomba, meditating on a mat as he puffed gently on the white widow.

Koomba did not see his visitor but he said softly, “My lord, fear not. We shall overcome.” Koomba stood up, turned around and smiled at his kata.

Mezzezeh hardly ever visited Koomba; usually he summoned Koomba to the palace. Koomba was 80 years old and his appearance was somewhat dreadful. His eyes were as red as burning coal in the wind, and his hair was long, grey and matted up. His skin was wrinkled and his frame was very tiny, by all accounts he was a scrawny old man. Furthermore, Koomba was an albino, and this ostracized him from the society as a kid. When Koomba was 13 he ran into the forest of magic in an attempt to take his life. He ran into the forest and didn’t return until the 21st day, when he came back claiming to have been rescued by a goddess of fertility, saying she taught him everything he knew.

Koomba stirred the cauldron and scooped the boiling brew. “Drink this,” Koomba offered his king Iboga, a highly hallucinogenic drink made from the roots of the iboga tree. The essence of the iboga drink is to purify and cleanse the mind and soul. When under its powers, Iboga reveals meaningful events from the past and all the emotions associated with it to the user as if he was a third-party watching it happen.

Mezzezeh took the Iboga from Koomba and he gulped down every drop of it.
Instantaneously, he felt the potion flowing through his veins and intestines. He felt his intestines twisting and held his stomach, falling to his knees. He was in great agony. “Think good thoughts,” Koomba advised. Those were the last words Mezzezeh heard as he felt his hands and feet numbing and vision blacking out.