AFRO SYNTHETIC SHORT STORY : AFTER THE CLOUDS

After the clouds

Azibo stood atop the Atmoscraper’s glass balcony, a synthetic desert wind whispering in his ears as he surveyed the city below. He was thirty, newly ascended to the role of Weatherman, and still carried the stunned disbelief of a man ordained too early into greatness. The new capital city—KyaNuru, once a barren edge of a forgotten land—now glimmered with greenery, flowing rivers, and orderly seasons, all balanced and choreographed by his kind.

Decades earlier, Africa’s governments had decided to tame the climate to ensure prosperity. They had built Weather Stations that could coax the rains from clouds, hold back droughts, and usher in warm breezes instead of stifling heat. Over the years, the Weathermen—engineers turned celebrities—emerged as heroes: sculptors of a near-perfect climate. Azibo’s predecessor, Itoro, had led KyaNuru’s weather patterns so precisely that the harvests had doubled every year he served. Itoro’s image still shimmered on hovering holo-banners and was painted on children’s school bags.

But the old reverence had soured. Whispers coiled through the corridors of power and rumor: Azibo’s predecessor, Itoro, had been murdered. The one before him had met the same fate. Two Weathermen taken before their time, their secrets buried. Now Azibo carried their legacy on trembling shoulders, knowing he might be next.

A soft chime echoed along the corridor behind him, drawing Azibo’s attention to a slender figure approaching from the shadows. Agent Inandi. Her eyes were keen, her questions sharper still. She was known for her precision and relentlessness, always wearing a quiet tension like a blade concealed under silk. Her gaze cut through the glass reflection, meeting Azibo’s eyes before he even turned.She stepped onto the balcony with careful grace.

Her reflection hovered in the glass pane, framed by low-floating city drones that measured air quality and moisture content. Inandi tilted her head. “Your predecessor preferred a heavier morning mist. He believed it nourished the soil’s deeper layers. Just a difference in style, I suppose.” Her words fluttered about, seemingly innocent. Yet Azibo felt them land heavily, hinting that she knew more—about preferences, about hidden knowledge.

He cleared his throat. “Itoro was meticulous. I learned from his old forecasts. He was an artist. And yet…” He swallowed. “And yet someone decided he had to die.”

Inandi’s eyes lingered on him. “There are theories,” she said quietly, her bracelets chiming as she grabs her old fashioned paper notebook. Paper can’t be hacked. “Some say the Weathermen grow too powerful. Others say they discover something unsettling—maybe a flaw in the system or a truth about where these stations really get their power.”

Azibo felt a shiver slink down his spine. He remembered an old rumor he’d dismissed as a child: that the optimal weather patterns weren’t merely engineered from the air, but siphoned from distant lands left barren. A carefully guarded secret that a gentle rain here might mean drought elsewhere. Had Itoro uncovered a moral cost behind their climate utopia?

“I’ve seen schematics,” Azibo offered carefully, “hints in the code. Certain patterns we’re required to maintain, certain shifts we’re never allowed to implement. The Council demands adherence without explanation. Perhaps Itoro asked too many questions.”

Inandi nodded. “Yes, questions,” she said, her tone cryptic. “Questions can be dangerous. You do know the woman before Itoro also died under strange circumstances, don’t you? One small deviation in a seasonal pattern and suddenly she was gone. The official record claims it was a robbery. But the timing—”

“So they kill anyone who peeks behind the curtain,” Azibo cut in. His voice was low, steady. “I want to know what secrets cost a life. Is it about power? Control? Or is the system failing and they don’t want us to know?”

For a moment, the only sound was the hum of distant drones and the controlled wind that Azibo himself had summoned hours ago. “If the perfect weather falters,” Inandi said at last, “so does the illusion of prosperity. And some would do anything to maintain that illusion.”

Azibo turned back to the console. On its holo-interface, vibrant streaks of data swam beneath his fingertips. He traced patterns in the wind, nudged clouds into desired formations. With a flick of his wrist, he could green a desert or starve a field. The enormity of that power pressed into him. If he dug deeper—if he dared to tweak something forbidden—would he meet the same fate as Itoro?

Inandi took a step closer. “I believe Itoro found out that these ‘perfect storms’ aren’t perfect at all. That for every rainfall we provide, another region’s skies are robbed. A zero-sum cycle of climate theft. And I think he tried to stop it.”

Azibo’s heart pounded. He imagined places far beyond KyaNuru’s horizon, desiccated and lifeless, sacrificed so this city could flourish. If that was the truth, no wonder Itoro had been silenced. Controlling the weather wasn’t just a service—it was a secret war fought quietly above the clouds.

He turned to face her, voice hushed. “And you, Inandi? Are you here to warn me or to watch me be silenced?”

She offered him a sad smile, neither confirming nor denying. “I am here to see how this story ends, Azibo. Will you follow the script, keep the city happy, and turn a blind eye? Or will you risk your life to expose the truth?”

Azibo’s throat tightened. From below, the people waved, ignorant of the moral burdens drifting above their heads. He could remain beloved, respected, even worshipped. He could maintain this climate bliss without shaking the status quo. Yet how could he live, knowing the paradise he provided came at a terrible price?

The sky around them glowed with the promise of tomorrow’s gentle showers. But inside Azibo’s chest, a storm raged. He saw now why Itoro was killed—he had tried to break free from the cycle of deception. Azibo felt the weight of that legacy press upon him. If he stepped out of line, he would be snuffed out quietly, like a whisper in the night.

As Inandi faded back into the corridor’s shadows, Azibo remained at the balcony, caught between duty and conscience. He imagined himself altering the next day’s codes: shifting winds to carry a hidden message, or cutting off the life-giving rains until the Council was forced to reveal their hand. But the consequences were too dire, the noose too tight.

He was trapped, and he knew it. A pawn playing god, knowing that any attempt to reveal the truth would cost him everything. The city shimmered in the twilight, a jewel suspended by lies. Azibo pressed his trembling fingers against the glass, wondering how long he had before a quiet footsteps in the dark ended his story, too.

No one would ever know if he was murdered for his silence, or for daring to speak. No one would ever see the hidden storms brewing behind his carefully designed calm. And so he stood, a Weatherman crowned in false glory, haunted by secrets that poisoned the gentle rain—and by the looming question of how long he could survive before the same fate that claimed his predecessors came for him.

Above him, the engineered clouds drifted in perfect formation. Below him, the people dreamed of harvests and gentle seasons. Azibo remained in between—dangling, uncertain, terrified—knowing that his life, and the truth he carried, were as fragile as a single drop of rain.