village-capture (May-2025)

There was no fight, not that we would have stood a chance. He came one day six moons ago. A messenger sent by the great emperor Madkesha III accompanied by a band of riders. They had the bodies and faces of men that never had to hunger a day in their life and wore headscarves and garments of yellow silk that made our clothes look like dull rags. The messenger told our elders of the wisdom of their great civilization, they knew how to craft saddles and tame the wild shebrons, they knew how to build roads, how to harvest and plant cacti and even techniques to irrigate the usually dry desert sands to grow crops. Moved by his promises of wealth and protection the elders quickly decided to join their great realm. They were allowed to keep their roles as leaders if they followed all orders from the great capital.

Things changed quickly. Small huts made way for towers of sandstone, a great road was built and traders from all across the square bought goods we had never seen before. Our simple grey clothes were replaced by the yellow attire typical for the realm and farms were built that fed our people that used to barely scrape by.

However for all this prosperity we also paid a price. Our gods were replaced, our traditions were forbidden. The village that had become a city was given a new name in the tongue of our overlords and it was ordered for our children to be given traditional oumaji names and for them to learn the language spoken in the capital. Those who disobeyed were banished to the empty desert. Our ways were lost to fill our stomachs