I still remember that morning as though it happened yesterday. The sun was barely up, casting a pale light over the streets, and the city hummed with its usual pre-dawn sounds: vendors setting up their stalls, the soft chatter of people moving about, the clink of coins, the distant hum of vehicles. But in that instant, none of it mattered. For me, and for hundreds of other youth, that day was more than the start of another workday. It was a reckoning.
The city had been tense for weeks. We were living in the shadow of Kasongo's regime—a man who had once been celebrated as a liberator, but who had now become a tyrant. His rule was a plague, infecting every corner of our lives with fear and oppression. The media was censored, the schools were controlled, and the police and military had free reign over anyone suspected of dissent. People whispered in dark corners, speaking in hushed tones about their hopes for change, but few dared speak openly. Fear had grown like an unshakable fog, settling over every neighborhood, every home.
But on that morning, something changed.
It was the youth, the ones who had grown up with the weight of Kasongo's oppression, who took to the streets first. It wasn't planned. It wasn't organized. But somehow, through the haze of fear, we found each other. Social media platforms—those that were still accessible—exploded with messages, and within hours, hundreds of us gathered in the central square, all wearing the same defiance in our eyes. We were going to demand our rights: for education, for freedom, for a future that was ours.I was one of the first to speak. My name is Keza. I was 19 years old at the time—too young to be so angry, too young to understand all the consequences of what we were doing. But as I stood there, feeling the weight of all our voices behind me, I felt like I could change the world. My friends and I had rehearsed these words in our dorms, in our kitchens, in our bedrooms, speaking them softly in the darkness when no one was listening. But now, I was speaking them out loud, in front of thousands.
"We are not your prisoners!" I yelled. "We are not your slaves! We will not be silenced!"
The crowd cheered, and for a fleeting moment, I believed it. I believed we could win. That was before the sirens wailed.
Before the black SUVs appeared.
Before the soldiers came.
Chapter Two: The Cage
The van doors slammed shut behind me with a resounding bang. I was thrown into the cold, dark interior, my head hitting the metal wall with a sickening thud. I tried to move, but my hands were tightly bound behind me, cutting off any chance of regaining control. My body was stiff from the shock, my face still damp with sweat and tears from the violence of the raid.
The others were thrown in alongside me—struggling, crying, groaning, but no one dared speak. We all knew the consequences. Kasongo's regime was notorious for making people disappear. It wasn't a question of whether we would be hurt. It was only a matter of how bad it would be.
As the van began to move, I tried to steady my breath, to block out the pain in my head, in my arms, in my chest. I could feel the blood on my clothes, sticky and cold. The reality of it hit me hard: we were prisoners now. We weren't in control anymore. We were at the mercy of men who believed that their power was absolute, who saw us not as citizens with rights, but as threats to be crushed.
The road was long and winding. The van bounced over potholes, sending sharp jolts of pain through my already battered body. I glanced over at the others—faces pale, eyes wide with terror. I could feel the fear radiating off them, a palpable thing that made the air seem thick with dread.
After what felt like hours, the van finally came to a stop. The doors opened, and we were dragged out by our arms, too weak to fight back. There were too many of them, soldiers in dark uniforms with guns slung across their shoulders. They moved like shadows, silent and cold, as they shoved us into a small, dimly lit room. There were no windows, no doors except the one we had just entered, and a single chair in the center of the room.
I was thrown to the ground, my face scraping against the rough floor. My captors didn't bother to speak to me. They didn't need to. Their silence said everything.
I looked around at the other prisoners. Some of them were older, some of them younger, but they all had the same look in their eyes: hopelessness. We were broken already. The brutality of the soldiers had already crushed our spirits before they had even started the real torture.
I was dragged to the chair, my legs aching, my muscles too weak to resist. They tied me to it, harsh ropes cutting into my skin as they pulled me tight. The others were forced to kneel in the corner, their eyes lowered, their heads bowed in a shared defeat.
One of the soldiers stepped forward, his boots clicking on the hard floor. He was tall, broad-shouldered, with a face that was almost too perfect, too clean. His eyes were cold—black, hollow—and I could tell he was the one in charge.
"You've caused us a lot of trouble," he said, his voice smooth, like he was explaining something simple, something unimportant. "But that's about to end."
I tried to keep my voice steady, though my heart pounded in my chest. "We're not afraid of you."
He smiled, but it wasn't a smile of amusement. It was cold. Calculating. "You will be."
He nodded to the others, and within moments, a sharp, electric pain shot through my chest. I gasped, my body convulsing as they shocked me. The pain didn't stop, didn't let up—it was unbearable. I could feel my heart racing, my breath coming in ragged gasps, but still, I refused to give in. I refused to scream.
I wasn't alone in this.
I couldn't let them break me.
Chapter Three: The Torture
The days blurred together. The same routine. The same cold walls. The same soldiers.
They had a pattern: first, they beat us. The blows were measured, calculated—not enough to kill, but enough to hurt, to remind us of their power. Afterward, they would ask questions—questions about the protests, about our plans, about the people who supported us. But I never answered. The questions were meaningless. I knew what they wanted: names, information, confessions.
I gave them nothing.
But there were times—dark moments—when the pain threatened to consume me. The electric shocks, the constant barrage of violence—it took everything out of me. I couldn't sleep. I couldn't eat. I was too weak to stand, too afraid to close my eyes.
One night, they brought in a new prisoner—a girl, about my age. Her eyes were wide with terror, and her face was pale. She was shaken, trembling, but there was a fire in her eyes. She wouldn't break. I could see it in her gaze.
They pushed her into the same room, shoving her into the chair next to me. She didn't speak at first, just sat there, her body shaking. And then, one of the soldiers stepped forward, holding a pair of pliers.
"You will speak," he said. "Or we will make you."
But she wouldn't break.
She held her head high, eyes fierce, even as they began to torture her. She didn't scream. She didn't cry out. She just stared at them, unwavering.
In that moment, something changed inside me. Watching her resist, watching her hold onto that last shred of dignity—it gave me strength.
I couldn't let them win. I couldn't let them break me. We were the future. And the future would never bow to Kasongo's tyranny.
Chapter Four: The Escape
It happened in the dead of night. I don't know how it started. Maybe it was the cumulative exhaustion or the quiet in the air, but something inside me shifted.
They had left me alone for hours, a strange and rare moment of peace in that hellish place. I had been left alone in my cell, bruised, exhausted, but still alive. My body ached from the beatings, but my mind—the thing they couldn't touch—was still my own.
I had been searching the walls for any sign of weakness, any crack or crevice that might allow me to escape. And then, I found it—a small, barely visible crack at the base of the stone wall.
With trembling hands, I dug. I scraped at the mortar, feeling it give way slowly, bit by bit. Hours passed as I worked, the sound of my breath mingling with the silence.
Finally, I broke through.
The hole was small, but big enough for me to crawl through.
I didn't hesitate. My heart hammered in my chest as I forced my body through the narrow opening, every muscle screaming in pain, but I pushed forward.
I was free.
Chapter Five: The Resistance
I stumbled into the night, gasping for air, feeling the weight of the world lift off my shoulders. But I couldn't stop. I couldn't let them catch me.
It wasn't over.
The resistance had begun, and we would keep fighting. The future was ours to claim.
End of Chapter Two: The Cage