I can't believe that i ended up in this positition, just three weeks ago I was in jamaica, enjoying my pension in the house i built through hardfought dedication. And now, this. I sat in my office.
Not that of my school, thank god. I'm done with students slouching through my lectures. No this office, the office of the previous governer general of Newland, was one were i was supposed to help build a new nation.
It was pretty nice actually, spacious, a big wooden desk, laminate flooring. All the things that would make a provisional president feel the part.
Except for the towering stacks of paper.
I sighed.
There was knocking at the door, I called them in. Carl Jennings, tall figure with a soft moustache on his lips. He walked toward my desk with the kind of stride that told you he already knew the answer to the question he was about to ask. He leaned on the desk.
"Please tell me some good news."
He smiled, "They've agreed to meet you, friday they'll be here " I sat back in my chair. "That's one thing done." Jennings sat down in the chair opposite to mine. "You know that we've only just begun right." I closed my eyes, "I know."
It was about a week ago when it happened, the transition. One moment i go to sleep and when i wake up i found myself in someone else's bed. Someone named James Sayson. The memories were slow to come, so for the first hour, I just wandered around the house in a daze, trying to figure out if I'd lost my mind.
Then Carl burst in, frantic, dragging me into a suit and straight into a meeting like I'd been doing it for years.
Long story short, he now is my first man. I made position up, besides me we don't really have titles.
When I opened my eyes i saw that he was studying me. "What?" He pursed his lips, "I know it's difficult James. But now is not the time to wobble... The country needs us." I rubbed my temple, he's right, I'm exhausted but he's right. I know this story too well.
A former colonial country gaines independance but curroption, crime and poverty always stay prevelant. I got the oppertunity to do something real here. "Don't you ever think that i'll wobble Jennings. Cause I won't." Jennings got up, he grinned,
"Great, we have a meeting in thirty minutes by the way." and with that he left.
About twenty minutes later, I left for the meeting. It was held not far from my office — in the same old district they called the Red Flower, named for the deep red brick that made the buildings look almost like a castle.
For hundreds of years, this had been the seat of colonial rule. The House of Royals. The House of Representatives both present here.
Or at least, that's what they used to be.
Now, the old halls were empty. The elites had fled — most of them retreating overnight, their flags packed away with silverware and ledgers. They left behind ornate columns and gilded doors… and a power vacuum so wide, even the echo of their boots hadn't faded.
The space felt too large for what we were.
And yet, this was where we would try to build something new.
I walked into the old House of Representatives, where 50 men turned their heads in unison to look at me. All in suits of various dark colors, all of them expectant. Watching, weighing.
These were the men who had chosen me.
Or rather, chosen James Sayson.
From what I've gathered through his memories, James was an interesting man. One of the few Mesa people to finish school and get into university. It was there that he formed connections with professors, underground organizers, editors and joined parties openly opposing colonial governance.
Three years ago, he published a book viciously attacking the state: its injustice, its economic cruelty, its moral hypocrisy. It turned him into a symbol.
When protests escalated into bombings, he led some of the attacks. Some called him a terrorist and some a hero.
He became the face of a movement. In some ways, James was their George Washington.
"Gentlemen," I said, pitching my voice to carry confidence.
Nods all around. A few men murmured, "President." Others gave quiet "Mr. Sayson" greetings. One just muttered, "Ehh, yeah," and held out a hand.
Some shook my hand. A few patted my shoulder. All of them measured me, comparing the flesh-and-blood man to the legend they'd built in their heads.
Jennings was already present, standing off to the right, mid-sentence when I entered. Looked like he'd been keeping them busy before I arrived.
Before long, I stood where I could see the whole room. Long benches stretched out below me in neat rows, filled with men in suits clustered in their factions. They stared.
I hadn't even opened my mouth yet, and already I could feel the weight pressing in. How do I even start this? What words do you use when you're trying to invent a country?
Luckily, Jennings saved me, as always.
Standing just a step to my side, he clapped his hands once, sharp and loud. Heads turned. Conversations stopped.
"Gentlemen," he began, his voice crisp and firm. "Welcome.
This is our second convening since the transition, and we have much to cover today: the ongoing territorial dispute, the creation of a cabinet, and the matter of the nation's direction moving forward."
He paused, letting that last phrase hang for a moment.
"Our president will be taking the lead on these issues. But as always, your insight is welcome. We build this together."
A few men nodded. Others shifted in their seats. One scratched behind his ear, clearly unimpressed.
I stepped forward anyway.
"Concerning the territorial dispute," I said, "both Patrice Lamuka and John Steward have agreed to meet with me four days from now."
"What would your goals be at that meeting?"
I didn't immediately recognize the man who asked. Mid-thirties, shirt sleeves rolled up, scribbling in a worn notepad, press, most likely.
I raised an eyebrow. "Isn't it obvious?"
I let the silence stretch for just a moment.
"Militias are holding key mining regions. One of them is trying to declare an independent state. That's not just bad for the country it's bad for everyone's business."
He kept writing. I kept going.
"I want to convince them that Newland a nation that belongs to all of us is worth fighting for, not against."
Someone interjected, "These men are warlords. How are you going to convince them of anything?"
"I'll simply have to," I said, standing straighter. "One nation with a shared history is stronger than three divided factions. We're already tied, economically, culturally. Unity isn't idealism. It's practicality."
"And what if they don't listen?"
That came from Allen Baptiste, legs crossed, voice smooth. A former bureaucrat from the colonial elite. The kind of man who always survives regime change. He had elegance, yes, but also sharpness, like a knife wrapped in silk.
"Then we'll all be poorer, Mister Baptiste," I said flatly.
He raised an eyebrow — slow, deliberate, dangerous. "Are you willing to let them break away, Mister Sayson?"
I felt a silence grow in the room. This was the line I had to walk: not weak, not reckless.
"I'm not willing to let this country splinter," I said carefully. "I'm open to autonomy, temporary, negotiated. But the pursuit of a unified Newland is my top priority."
I met his gaze.
"It's not a dream I'll abandon easily."
It was silent for a moment, quick nods of approval. Then I continued talking, there were a few things that I deemed necessary.