The firelight flickered, casting shadows that danced around them, as the tension mounted. Elijah’s face, twisted in contempt, reflected a man who had turned his back on his roots, while Wilson stood as a guardian of their legacy.

“I’m done with your lectures, yours and that woman’s at the foundation who orders you around!” Elijah spat, his defiance palpable. “You can keep your traditions. I’ll keep my survival.”

Wilson’s fists clenched at his sides.

“You think this is about animals?” His voice rose, raw and fierce. “It’s about respect. For our land, our future. You’re poisoning it for a quick profit.”

Elijah stepped closer, their faces inches apart, tension crackling like dry leaves underfoot.

“You don’t understand,” Elijah growled. “You sit on your little throne, but you know nothing of struggle.”

Wilson didn’t think. His fist connected with Elijah’s jaw, snapping his head back. Elijah stumbled, wiping blood from his lip, his eyes blazing with shock and rage. In turn, he lunged.

They crashed to the ground, a whirlwind of fists and fury, years of resentment and betrayal boiling over.

Elijah landed a punch to Wilson’s ribs, knocking the wind from him, but Wilson retaliated, fuelled by righteous anger. He pinned Elijah down, his forearm pressing against his brother’s throat.

“You are my brother,” Wilson hissed, breathless. “But I will not let you destroy what we stand for.”

Elijah struggled beneath him, then went still, his chest heaving. His eyes, dark and wild moments before, softened just slightly, hinting at the boy Wilson had grown up with.

Wilson released him, standing slowly, his chest rising and falling with laboured breaths.

“Leave this path, Elijah,” he whispered. “Before it takes everything from you.”

Elijah didn’t respond. He simply lay there, staring at the starry sky, as Wilson turned and walked away, the weight of family and duty pressing down heavier than ever.

It took Elijah a few minutes before he stirred again. He slowly pushed himself up from his prostrate position, his movements were sluggish, weighed down by something deeper than mere fatigue or pain. His head hung low, his breathing uneven, eyes fixed on the ground as if reluctant to face the world just yet.

Then, as his fingers flexed against the dirt, he noticed it, poking out of the ragged cuff of his shirt – the familiar weight on his wrist, the slight, reassuring pressure of woven beads against his skin. The bracelet.

He drew the sleeve back as if seeing it for the first time even though he had never once taken it off. The intricate colourful patterns still held the echoes of home—the whispers of voices long past, the hands that had tied it around his wrist, the stories it carried. It was a tether, a silent promise, a reminder of who he was before everything had changed.

His finger caressed the beadwork slowly, hovering over each coloured block in turn.

Red for bravery, unity, and blood; Blue for energy and the sky; Orange and Yellow for hospitality; Green for health and land; White for peace and purity; And Black for the people and the struggles they must endure.

The black beads rested in a cluster in the middle of a white block, on the bracelet. But this block held together a different significance.

“Meituraa oloitiko isirat,” he whispered, the words his grandfather had pronounced when he had tied the bracelet around his wrist. It meant, a Maasai without culture is like a zebra without stripes.

A breath shuddered through him, something deep and unspoken settling in his chest. His fingers continued to brush over the bracelet, tracing its familiar ridges, grounding himself in the past even as the present loomed over him. His pride had prevented him from telling Wilson but Elijah was struggling with his current life. The violence he was witnessing almost daily did not just stop at animals; the gangs he frequented were equally ruthless with turncoats.

He had made his bed and now he needed to lay in it however uncomfortable it had become.