23/07/2025
The King of Thieves of Chikalipa Hills
Story Script by Rock-like Technology. and PM Business & Design Hub
The King of Thieves stood tall at the edge of the great insaka in the middle of the Chikalipa Hills, his dark chitenga robe fluttering in the cool evening breeze. The firelight danced off the worn-out spear by his side, and his voice was honeyed with a dangerous kind of politeness.
“It only remains for me,” he said, with a sly grin, “to explain to my dear guests the social terms under which I have extended them the pleasure of tonight’s hospitality.”
He turned slowly, his eyes glinting as they landed on the group of tired, bewildered captives seated before him — a mix of travelers, traders, and a few unexpected visitors. The villagers watched from a distance, too afraid to interfere.
“I need not waste time on the ancient ritual of kulipila — ransom, for those unfamiliar with the term — which tradition demands I uphold,” he continued. “And even this… only applies to a part of the company.”
He pointed with his walking stick to the Catholic priest, Father Mubita, and the young local poet, Muscari Mwaba, who sat quietly by the fire, both of them noticeably calm.
“Father Mubita and the poet Muscari,” he declared, “shall be released tomorrow at dawn. I shall es**rt them myself to the border of my kingdom, for what, after all, can one squeeze out of a man with vows of poverty… or from a poet whose riches are in the clouds?” He chuckled dryly, while Father Mubita adjusted his glasses and began to listen more intently.
The King of Thieves then lifted a worn-out ledger from a nearby stool, handed to him ceremoniously by one of his lieutenants — a tall woman known only as Mama Leopard, feared across five villages.
“My other intentions,” he went on, “are clearly laid out in this public proclamation, which will be nailed to every tree in the valley and tied to every anthill at the crossroads.” He tapped the ledger. “I will spare you the legal formalities, since this is no Parliament. The summary is simple.”
He raised his voice.
“I have captured the great Harare-based businessman, Mr. Tembwe Nshindano, who is known in Lusaka as ‘the Bull of Finance.’” Gasps could be heard. The man himself, sweaty and trembling, looked around as if seeking invisible protection.
“I have found, on his person,” the King said slowly, “a sum of K350,000 in cash and loan documents worth K2 million which he was transporting for 'safe keeping.' He has kindly agreed to hand them over to me.”
The King paused, smiling darkly. “Now, since it would be quite immoral to lie to the good people of the valley, to say I received this money if I did not, I suggest, Mr. Nshindano, that you make that transaction now — under the watchful eye of the Chikalipa moon.”
Tembwe opened his mouth to protest, but found no words. Instead, he reached into his inner coat pocket and withdrew the bundle of crisp notes, each note seemingly heavier than the next.
The King of Thieves accepted it with a low bow. “Thank you. Your contribution to the development of our humble hills is most appreciated.”
And then, with the dignity of a true monarch, he stepped back and announced, “This money shall fund the bridge across the Malundu River. My people shall no longer risk their lives crossing by log.”
Father Mubita blinked. Muscari smiled faintly.
The bandits cheered.
Tomorrow, at every junction, under every tree, and beside every dusty village footpath, a worn but neatly written proclamation would hang:
“Let it be known that the people of Chikalipa Hills have received compensation for the suffering caused by the rich, through the hands of their humble servant, the King of Thieves.”
And with that, the King of Thieves returned to his seat, the flicker of the fire painting shadows on his face like the mask of an old spirit.
