I woke up as the simple-minded son of a tribal chief on the southwestern coast of Africa.
The year was 2001.
The locals here believed in witchcraft and gods, and that one loud shout from my father could bring the rain.
Of course, I believed in them too.
They just didn't know that my “god” was called “cloud seeding,” that the “steel beasts” crossing the grasslands ran on “diesel engines,” and that the “blessing” bringing bountiful harvests to saline soil came from the “fertilizer industry.”
While the world's giants were still squabbling at the negotiating table over who would get a few oil fields, none of them noticed that a monster built on faith in infrastructure, with industry as its totem and arms as its voice, had quietly opened its eyes in this forgotten land.
They called me Chief, Leader, even Son of Heaven.
But I preferred another title:
CEO of this continent.
