Darkest Africa

[London, 1890]

The rain outside fell in a gentle patter against the high, arched windows of the Murray estate in London. Inside the spacious drawing room, the air was thick with the scent of old leather and polished mahogany. Shadows danced along the walls, cast by the flickering gas lamps and the roaring fireplace. It was a room meticulously designed to display triumphs, and it succeeded brilliantly. Every surface was adorned with treasures wrested from Darkest Africa: Zulu spears, golden idols, intricately carved masks, and tusks of ivory that gleamed like bones stripped clean.

[Sir Robert Murray] sat in his high-backed chair, a cigar balanced between his thick fingers, his expression a mask of self-satisfaction. He was a famous explorer, celebrated for amassing a fortune by bringing rubber, ivory, and priceless African artifacts to England. For his services to the British Empire, he had been knighted by Queen Victoria herself. At sixty, Sir Robert carried the weight of his success in the girth of his waist and the deep lines etched into his face. His red hair had long since turned gray, but his green eyes still burned with an explorer’s ambition. He gestured expansively toward the array of artifacts.

“All this, Charles,” he said, his voice rich and commanding: “is but a fraction of what Africa has to offer. And it is ours for the taking.”

His son, [Charles Murray], sat across from him, perched on the edge of a velvet armchair, his tea long forgotten on the table beside him. At twenty-four, Charles had the lean build and clean-shaven face of a man still untested by the world, though his blue eyes mirrored his father’s intensity. He had grown up under the weight of those words, “ours for the taking,” and now, for the first time, he would learn what they truly meant.

“You’ve spoken of Africa for as long as I can remember, Father,” Charles said, his voice brimming with youthful enthusiasm: “To finally accompany you… it’s all I’ve ever dreamed of.”

“Dreams, my boy, are the seeds of empire,” Sir Robert said with a chuckle, exhaling a plume of smoke: “But Africa is no place for the faint-hearted. It is raw, untamed, dangerous. Filled with black savages and cannibals! But for those who can seize it, the rewards are boundless.”

Charles’s gaze wandered to the largest piece in the room: a grotesque statue of some tribal god. The figure was humanoid but warped, its proportions impossibly stretched, its face a leering amalgamation of animalistic features. It seemed almost alive, its black eyes glinting in the firelight.

“What’s this one?” Charles asked, rising to examine the statue more closely.

Sir Robert’s expression darkened for a moment before he waved his hand dismissively: “A trinket from one of the viler bunch of savages. A tribe of naked cannibals who eat and sacrifice their own. They spoke of curses and gods that watch from the shadows.” He laughed, the sound booming. “Nonsense, of course. But the workmanship is fine, wouldn’t you say?”

Charles nodded, though he couldn’t shake the feeling that the statue was watching him, its unnatural form whispering secrets his mind could not grasp: “Why did they let you bring their statue to England, Father?”

“The dark-skinned savages don’t let you bring anything, you need to take from them,” Sir Robert scoffed. “They are closer to apes than men. We are doing them a favor, taking artifacts like these from them, and bringing the resources they are too simpleminded to use. Their dark continent would never amount to anything without white men bringing the light of civilization.”

[Lady Lavinia Murray] entered then, a proper Englishwoman. Her blonde hair, now turned gray, was styled impeccably, and her ample frame was swathed in silk. Lady Lavinia was a proud woman, as dominating as the treasures her husband collected: “Robert, do leave the boy alone with your ghost stories. Charles, dear, come speak with your sisters. They’ve been **** to hear of your plans.”

Charles glanced back at his father, who waved him off: “Go on, then. You’ll have plenty of time for adventure soon enough.”

As Charles followed his mother, he stole one last glance at the statue. It seemed to leer at him, its shadow stretching unnaturally across the room.

Charles followed his mother to the adjoining parlor, where his sisters waited. [Lily], nineteen, was a delicate beauty with soft blonde curls, like Charles she had inherited their mother's blonde hair, while [Mary], twenty-three, had inherited their father’s fiery red hair and sharp tongue. Both were dressed in the latest fashion, their jewelry expensive and tasteful.

“I’m leaving with Father for Africa,” Charles announced, trying to sound more confident than he felt: “Pray for me, sisters. I’ll be sure to bring you back something splendid.”

Lily smiled warmly: “Of course, we will pray for you, Charles.”

Mary’s expression was more guarded. “Just be careful,” she said: “Father may speak of adventure, but everyone knows Africa is full of danger.”

Later that night, long after the house had fallen silent, Charles lay in bed.

He imagined himself standing in the heart of the jungle, machete in hand, uncovering wonders that would make his father proud. Yet beneath that vision lay another, unbidden: the statue’s cold, black eyes, watching, waiting.

Outside, the rain continued to fall, a steady rhythm that seemed to echo some distant, unfathomable heartbeat.