In the small town of DOGON DUTSI, a whistle resounded through the air.

This whistle heralded the arrival of someone unexpected, a visitor who had spent both night and day in the town.

It was a whistle that could send shivers down the spine of anyone caught off guard, for no one knew about the impending arrival of the formidable LION SARAKAI in the town of the long mountain.

Almost involuntarily, the town’s king stirred from his slumber and cast his gaze upon the messenger who had brought the news of the KING’S LION team’s impending arrival.

Mikewa stood atop the palace roof, scanning the horizon in all directions—east, west, south, and north.

Halkali awoke and demanded, “Zabga, what do you see on the horizon? Men, gather all the pieces, and if the Mayor of our town should decide to flee, I will hold you all accountable!”

Amid the commotion, the palace underwent a quick inspection, ensuring that nothing was amiss. Yet, even in this frenzy, there was a sense of something missing, something essential, but they remedied all that was necessary.

As the palace filled with people, the king hurriedly acquired new attire and a crown. His heart weighed heavy with the knowledge of what he had brought upon his town by inviting ZAKIN SARAKAI.

Suddenly, horses began to approach, and a cannon shot rang out, echoing loudly in all directions—east, west, south, and north—reverberating in the sky. Cavalrymen advanced, their horses kicking up dust as they moved to the side, accompanied by the rhythmic sound of algaita instruments.

A tall man, dressed in attire reminiscent of a sarong but with a unique style, drew attention. His shirt extended down to his hand, and his legs were wrapped in distinctive attire. With a resounding *HURRRRRR*, he parted his legs, producing an alligator horn that he placed in his mouth, and the resulting whistle sent tremors through the king’s bowels.

“GO!” he exclaimed.

A member of royal blood immediately knelt, not with hands and forehead to the ground but with knees on the ground and head bowed, a gesture of profound respect.

Behind the four horses, a procession of cars followed, forming a line amidst the gathering crowd. The palace, already spacious, had attracted people from outside, making it teem with onlookers.

JIRWAI presented the town’s king with a long Dutsi head, which could be seen from the back of an open car.

Upon arrival, the tall man bent low and began speaking, “Arriving safely, departing safely, dear Saraka, I welcome you with great health and joy to the town of DOGON DUTSI, *OUMOUGHLOUK ITIBEL*. May God bless your benevolence, renowned throughout the world, for it has brought me here today to meet Adalin Sarakai.”

It took him at least five minutes to deliver his greeting, and then he took another step forward. His attire, resembling that of a Sarakai, gleamed like the sky itself. He appeared delighted as he selected a stitch of black thread with a touch of yellow shimmer, threading it through a needle. His footwear was fit for a king, adorned with ornaments and covering his entire foot, leaving no part exposed. His hand, extended for a handshake, was bright and untanned. He held it to his forehead, shielding his eyes from the scorching sun, and with his skin glistening, he straightened and exited the vehicle, leaving not a single body inside.

“Justice prevails here, O king of my land. He who comes with the power of God, who takes pride in God’s verses, our envoy is not here to challenge anyone. He is God’s appointed emissary, not chosen by man. I DECLARE BEFORE OUMOUGHLOUK ITIBEL in your presence!” The man with the commanding voice continued to speak, his expression a mixture of emotions that further stirred the hearts of those quick to feel fear.

The king, who had been kneeling, met his gaze. The only part of his face visible behind him were his eyes, which glinted with anger. He shifted his gaze to the left, where his attendants stood, including the king of the dark room, clad in black garments, his ominous presence heightened by the Sharbebiyar knife in his hand, its sharpness evident in the glinting blade.

In the depths of the journey laid out by God, it was not a journey of humiliation. It was a journey ordained by God and delivered through his bloodline. He had been appointed not by himself, but by the people of his town, RAWANI, during a time of adversity and under the governance of OUMOUGHLOUK ITIBEL. This title, the Lion of Kings, was not self-proclaimed, but rather bestowed upon him by the SARAKAN tradition, a testament to his courage and prowess. He was not the strongest, but his name was synonymous with respect and honor. He was *ANNEMOKAL*, a title deserving of praise.

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