There was a distant rustle betraying movement in the thick of the night—something, or someone was approaching.

The chief exhaled slowly, steadying himself.

The rustling grew louder, and soon, Elijah’s figure emerged from the shadows. His movements were confident, almost brazen, betraying none of the hesitance one might expect given the tense circumstances. The second-hand army fatigues he wore seemed out of place against the traditional Maasai garb of his brother. The fatigues bore the marks of wear and time, a stark contrast to the pristine crimson and ochre that adorned Wilson’s frame. Elijah’s face, partially illuminated by the dying embers of the fire, was set in an expression of mock defiance, his lips curled in a smirk that was both challenging and dismissive.

‘Sopa,” Wilson spoke first, his voice devoid of affection, when his younger brother stepped into the dim light cast by the fire.

Elijah smiled mockingly, loathing having to use his maternal tongue but he replied to the Maa greeting as was customary, “Ipa”.

“I have heard of your actions,” Wilson launched without preamble. “The news has reached me like a venomous snake. You are desecrating the land you should be protecting.”

Elijah’s smirk faltered slightly when he saw Wilson’s expression, not accustomed to hearing anger in his older brother’s voice. He snorted trying to exude the arrogance of someone who believed himself untouchable.

“Brother,” Elijah interrupted smiling, feigning warmth that felt like a slap.

Wilson took a sudden step forward, his eyes sharp as flint. “Don’t call me that,” he spat. “Not after what you’ve done.”

Elijah’s smile faded, replaced by a sneer. “What I’ve done? I’m feeding myself. What are you doing? Bowing to outsiders, pretending their animals are more important than our people?”

Elijah’s derisive laughter echoed against the night. “Look at you,” he sneered, “Clinging to your traditions and your colourful cloth like they will save you from what’s coming. Do you really think a piece of fabric holds any power in the world we’re living in?”

Wilson’s eyes narrowed; the intensity of his anger barely contained. “This ‘piece of fabric’ represents our heritage, our identity. It’s more than just clothing; it’s a symbol of respect and honour.”

“Respect and honour,” Elijah scoffed. “Words for those who have the luxury of choice. We need to adapt, Wilson, or we will be left behind. Your precious customs won’t put food on the table or protect us from the real threats out there.”