The air in Bujumbura had taken on a strange stillness, a breath held too long. For Imani, it was more than just the usual afternoon quiet. A weight pressed down, not physical, but something that settled deep in her bones, a cold premonition that the world was tilting on its axis.
She paused from sorting the vibrant fabrics in her small shop, her hands stilling as she listened.
Usually, the market square was a symphony of sounds – bartering voices, children's laughter, the rhythmic thud of pestles. Today, silence reigned, heavy and absolute.
She stepped outside, shading her eyes against the harsh sun. The sky, usually a brilliant, boundless blue, was muted, almost gray, as if a film had been drawn across it. People moved like shadows, their faces turned down, conversations hushed, almost nonexistent.
A vendor she knew, Mama Zola, usually boisterous and full of jokes, sat behind her fruit stand, shoulders slumped, staring blankly ahead.
"Mama Zola?" Imani started, her voice sounding loud in the unnatural quiet.
The older woman turned slowly, her eyes distant and unfocused. "Imani," she responded, her voice a mere breath. "Did you feel it?"
"Feel what?" Imani frowned, stepping closer. "The quiet? It is…unusual."
Mama Zola shook her head slowly. "Not just the quiet. Something… changed." She looked up at the muted sky, a flicker of something akin to fear crossing her face. "He is… different."
Imani felt a chill despite the heat. "He?" she questioned, a knot forming in her stomach. "Who is different?"
Mama Zola only gestured upwards, her gaze fixed on the dull sky. The gesture spoke volumes, even without words. Imani understood. He. The one they seldom spoke of directly, the one who was everything and everywhere. The creator.
Dismissing it as the worries of an older woman, Imani tried to smile reassuringly. "Maybe it's just the weather, Mama Zola. A storm coming perhaps."
But Mama Zola didn't respond, her gaze still locked on the sky, a silent, unnerving dread hanging between them. Imani retreated back into her shop, but the unease followed her inside, clinging to her like the humid air.
She tried to busy herself, arranging the colorful cloths, but her mind kept returning to Mama Zola's words, to the strange stillness, to the sky that seemed to have lost its vibrancy.
Later that evening, as the sun began its descent, painting the sky in bruised purples and somber oranges instead of its usual fiery hues, the radio crackled to life. The national station, usually filled with music and news, was overridden by static, then a voice began to speak.
It wasn't the familiar, comforting tone of the usual announcers. This was different, resonant, and powerful, yet edged with a chilling coldness that made the hairs on Imani's arms stand up.
"People of Earth," the voice declared, and even through the radio's speakers, it felt like the sound was resonating within her very skull, vibrating her teeth. "I speak to you now not as a benevolent father, but as a just judge."
Imani froze, her heart hammering against her ribs. She recognized the voice, in a way that wasn't through hearing, but through something deeper, something innate within her being. This was His voice, the one whispered in prayers, sung in hymns, the voice of creation itself.
"For too long, I have watched your failings," the voice continued, each word ringing with an authority that brooked no argument. "Your wars, your greed, your destruction of the very world I gifted to you. Your pleas for forgiveness have become hollow echoes in the vastness of space."
The chilling pronouncements filled her small room, each word a hammer blow against her hope. She wanted to turn it off, to shut out the sound, but she was frozen, trapped by the sheer impossible reality of what she was hearing. This was God speaking on the radio. And He sounded… angry.
"I offered you paradise," the voice continued, devoid of warmth, replaced by a terrifyingly clinical tone. "You turned it into a wasteland. I gave you love, and you answered with hate. I bestowed upon you free will, and you used it to inflict suffering upon yourselves and my creation."
The broadcast continued, painting a grim picture of humanity's sins, each accusation a painful truth. The voice, once envisioned as gentle and loving, was now a cold instrument of judgment, echoing with a wrath that seemed to shake the very foundations of the world.
Imani felt a tear trace a path down her cheek, not just from fear, but from a profound, soul-deep sorrow. Had they failed Him so completely?
"Therefore," the voice declared, the single word hanging in the air like a death sentence, "I pronounce judgment. Humanity has proven itself unworthy. Your time is over."
The static returned, swallowing the divine pronouncement, leaving Imani in a silence that was even more deafening than the preceding broadcast.
The weight in the air intensified, pressing down, suffocating. Outside, she could hear dogs barking frantically, their cries sharp with terror. Even the insects had gone silent.
She stumbled to her window and looked out. The bruised sky was darkening further, the somber colors bleeding into a deep, ominous purple. A strange, unnatural wind had picked up, swirling dust and debris through the deserted streets.
The very air seemed charged, electric with a terrifying anticipation. People began to emerge from their homes, their faces pale, their eyes wide with a dawning horror. They had all heard it. They all understood.
The first sign was subtle, almost imperceptible. A tremor in the ground, so faint it could have been imagined. But it intensified, growing stronger, more insistent, until the very earth began to vibrate.
Houses rattled, windows shook, the ground beneath Imani's feet pulsed with an ominous energy. Panic erupted. Screams pierced the unnatural quiet, replacing the earlier silence with a different kind of terror.
People poured into the streets, running aimlessly, searching for safety that didn't exist. The tremor grew into a violent shaking, throwing people off their feet. Buildings groaned, cracks spider-webbed across walls, and then, with a deafening roar, the first structures began to crumble. Dust and debris filled the air, turning the already dim light into near darkness.
Imani was thrown against a wall as her shop bucked and swayed. Shelves crashed down, fabrics tumbled, and the air filled with the smell of dust and splintered wood. She scrambled to her feet, coughing, her lungs burning from the dust-filled air.
Outside, the screams were louder now, mixed with the sounds of collapsing buildings and the terrifying groans of the earth itself tearing apart.
She pushed through the wreckage of her shop, stumbling out into the street. The world had transformed into a nightmare landscape of dust and destruction.
Buildings were collapsing all around, the sky was obscured by a thick cloud of debris, and the ground continued to heave and shudder. People were running, falling, screaming, their faces masks of utter terror. There was no escape, no refuge. The very world was turning against them.
Through the dust and chaos, she saw Mama Zola, struggling to stand, her face etched with a deep, heartbreaking sorrow. Imani fought her way towards her, pushing through the panicked throngs of people.
"Mama Zola!" she yelled, her voice barely audible above the din of destruction. She reached the older woman and helped her to her feet. "We need to get somewhere safe!" she shouted, though even as she spoke, she knew there was no such place.
Mama Zola looked at her, her eyes filled with tears. "Safe?" she repeated, her voice cracking. "There is no safe place anymore, child. He has forsaken us."
Another violent tremor threw them both to the ground. The air grew thicker with dust, making it hard to breathe. Imani coughed, struggling to clear her lungs. She looked up at Mama Zola, seeing not just fear, but a profound resignation in her eyes.
"What do we do?" Imani choked out, her voice trembling.
Mama Zola reached out, her hand finding Imani's in the swirling dust. Her grip was surprisingly strong. "We pray," she whispered, her voice barely audible. "We pray for mercy, even when we know it will not come."
And in the heart of the collapsing world, amidst the screams of terror and the roar of destruction, Imani and Mama Zola knelt in the dust, clasped hands, and prayed. They prayed not for salvation, for they knew that was no longer possible.
They prayed for forgiveness, for understanding, for some semblance of peace in the face of annihilation.
The shaking intensified again, becoming violent, cataclysmic. The ground beneath them cracked open, fissures snaking across the earth. Buildings were no longer collapsing piece by piece; they were being ripped apart, swallowed whole by the earth's fury. The sky, visible now through the thinning dust cloud, was no longer purple. It had turned a terrifying, blood red.
Imani looked up at the sky, at the angry, crimson expanse above. She didn't see a benevolent creator looking down upon his creation. She saw a force of unimaginable power, a being consumed by wrath, intent on destruction. And in that moment, she understood. Mama Zola had been right. He had changed.
The earth roared again, a sound that was not just heard but felt, vibrating through every fiber of her being. The ground beneath them opened completely, a gaping chasm appearing at their feet. Mama Zola squeezed Imani's hand, her eyes filled with a strange mixture of sorrow and acceptance.
"Go," she whispered, her voice barely audible above the cataclysm. "Run, child. Maybe… maybe you can…" her voice trailed off as the ground gave way completely beneath them.
Imani felt herself falling, the ground disappearing beneath her. She saw Mama Zola's hand slip from hers, the older woman disappearing into the abyss below. Darkness rushed up to meet her, the roar of the earth filling her ears, the image of the blood-red sky burned into her retinas.
She landed with a sickening crunch, pain exploding through her body. Darkness pressed in, heavy and suffocating. She was trapped, buried beneath tons of earth and rubble. Panic clawed at her throat, but her body refused to respond.
She could feel the crushing weight of the earth, the sharp edges of debris pressing into her skin. The air was thick with dust, and it was becoming harder to breathe.
Through the pain and the darkness, a single thought pierced through her terror. Mama Zola's last word: "Run." Run where? There was nowhere to run.
The whole world was ending. And yet, in that moment of utter despair, a spark of defiance ignited within her. She wouldn't just lie here and wait to die. She would fight. She would try to survive. Even if it was futile, even if it was hopeless, she would not surrender.
With a surge of adrenaline born from desperation, she pushed against the weight above her, ignoring the searing pain in her body. She clawed at the earth, digging with her bare hands, tearing her nails, scraping her skin.
Slowly, agonizingly slowly, she managed to shift some of the debris, creating a tiny pocket of space. Air rushed in, stale and dust-filled, but life-giving nonetheless.
She coughed, gasping for breath, her body screaming in protest. But she didn't stop. Driven by a primal will to live, she kept digging, kept pushing, kept fighting against the crushing weight of the earth. Hours, or perhaps only minutes, passed in the suffocating darkness.
Time had lost all meaning. There was only the pain, the dust, the darkness, and the desperate, unwavering urge to survive.
Finally, after what felt like an eternity, her fingers broke through to open air. She pushed with renewed strength, widening the hole, until she could squeeze her head and shoulders through.
She gasped, gulping in the relatively fresh air, her lungs burning with every breath. She was alive. For now.
Pulling herself free from the earth's grasp, she stumbled out onto the ravaged landscape. The world was unrecognizable. Bujumbura was gone, replaced by a wasteland of rubble and dust. The blood-red sky still hung overhead, casting an eerie, apocalyptic light over the devastation. There were no screams now, only silence. A silence heavier and more profound than before. The silence of death.
She was alone. Completely and utterly alone. Everyone she had known, everyone she had loved, was gone. Mama Zola, her family, her friends, all swallowed by the earth, victims of His wrath. She was the only one left.
The sole survivor in a world destroyed.
She looked around at the desolate landscape, at the ruins of her city, at the blood-red sky that seemed to mock her survival. Tears streamed down her face, not tears of fear, but tears of grief, of loss, of utter, inconsolable sorrow.
She had survived, but at what cost? Everything she held dear was gone. Her world, her life, everything had been taken from her.
And then, amidst the ruins, amidst the silence of death, she heard it. A faint sound, barely audible above the ringing in her ears. A sound that made her blood run cold. Laughter. Distant, chilling, and undeniably joyful laughter.
It echoed from the blood-red sky, from the very heavens themselves. His laughter. The laughter of a being who had destroyed his creation and found amusement in its demise.
Imani sank to her knees in the dust, the sound of His laughter washing over her, a final, brutal confirmation of the world's new, horrifying reality.
She was alive, yes. But she was alive in a world ruled by a God who had become evil, a God who laughed at the suffering of his creations. And in that moment, survival felt not like a triumph, but like a cruel, unending curse. Her unique, brutal sadness was this: she was the only one left to hear God laugh.