The children played in the tall grass, their laughter sharp and bright against the darkened sky. Ulubu, twelve, chased his younger sister, Imina, her seven-year-old frame darting like a sparrow through the overgrown weeds.

The playground, if it could even be called that, was a desolate stretch of land tangled with vegetation.

The village of Kramaka, isolated deep in the Kraka jungle of Africa, offered little else. This was the only playground for its children.

Kramaka was timeless, its people bound by traditions as old as the trees that loomed over their lives. Their God, Kraa, ruled everything, his will manifest in the festival held every three years.

Time moved differently in Kramaka; 500 days marked a single year, each cycle a slow march toward the next festival.

Ulubu loved playing with Imina, loved her laughter and her small, quick steps. He would protect her, always. But as they played, their mother’s voice cut through the joy.

"Ulubu! Imina! Where are you?" The desperation in her cry shattered the night.

She appeared, panting, her face drawn tight with fear. When she saw them, relief gave way to fury. She stormed toward Ulubu and struck him, her hands trembling with anger.

"What are you doing here at this time? Don’t you know tomorrow is the festival? What if something happened to her?" Her voice cracked, a mixture of terror and rage.

Ulubu looked down, his eyes tracing the path of a beetle scuttling across the ground. "No, Mother," he murmured. "I would never break the rules."

Her expression softened, though her voice remained firm. "Good. Now come home. Tomorrow is her special day."

---

The festival began as the sun climbed over Kramaka, its golden light failing to warm the chill in Ulubu’s chest. The villagers gathered around the towering statue of Kraa, its shadow stretching long over the ceremonial rock at its base. The rock, worn smooth by time and blood, waited for its meal.

Imina, radiant in her innocence, was lifted high by the villagers. Her small frame passed from hand to hand, her laughter silenced by the solemn chants that filled the air.

The song was silently haunting, its melody a dirge that rose and fell like the heartbeat of the jungle.

At last, Imina was placed on the rock. The villagers stepped back, forming a circle around the scene. A man, massive and scary, emerged from the crowd, a hammer in his hand.

He washed the hammer with animal blood. He raised it high as the chants reached a crescendo.

With one swift motion, the hammer crushed her head. Imina's innocent face turned into blood. And Ulubu's heart felt the pain.

---

Ulubu is twenty two now. The festival is starting.

And Ulubu is holding a hammer.