He woke up as the foolish son of a tribal chief on the southwest coast of Africa.
Time, 2001.
The indigenous people here believe in witchcraft, gods, and that my father can bring rain by just roaring.
Of course I believe it too.
It's just that they don't know that my "god" is called "artificial rainfall"; the "steel behemoth" across the grassland relies on "diesel engines"; and the "blessing" that can bring good harvests in saline-alkali land comes from the "fertilizer industry".
While the world's giants were still wrangling over the ownership of several oil fields at the negotiation table, none of them noticed that a monster with infrastructure as its belief, industry as its totem, and arms as its voice had quietly opened its eyes in this forgotten land.
They all call me Chief, Leader, and even Son of God.
But I prefer another name for myself:
CEO of this continent.
