TrumpaPhosa Chaptisode 9: Anomaly State – Political Sci-Fi

Published: August 26, 2025 SAST. UTC +2

The lights in the Union Buildings chamber faltered twice, like a pulse from an unseen hand. Ramaphosa froze mid-thought, his pen hanging above the page. The whisper returned — but this time it did not come alone.

It fractured.

Where once there had been a single guiding current, half-Trumpian bravado spliced into his own conscience, now came a chorus. Discordant. Off-beat. Voices tangled, slipped apart, then crashed back together like static riding a storm. His ears rang; the air itself seemed alive with interference.

“Hold fast… tighten grip… betray nothing.”
“Yield. Step aside. The host is temporary.”
“He is watching. They are watching. You are not alone.”

Ramaphosa’s hand trembled. He looked up at the portraits of past leaders on the wall. For a split second, one face was wrong — blurred, replaced by someone he almost knew but could not name. Then the lights steadied. Silence returned.

But the silence was different now.

Later, in his office, Ramaphosa faced his reflection. His jawline was heavier, his mouth bent downward as if borrowed from another man. He raised a hand to trace the edges of his possession.

Was this foreign interference? Or was the Protocol itself unraveling?

The whisper flickered again, Trump’s timbre unmistakable:

“Never admit weakness. Strike before you’re struck.”

His own voice answered, cracked with doubt:

“You are splitting. They will see through it.”

The two collided, cancelling each other, leaving dizziness behind. Ramaphosa steadied himself on the desk. The hybrid was no longer subtle. Something alien had entered, and it had nested inside him.

In the corridors of Pretoria, paranoia bloomed. Staff muttered about unexplained power surges, encrypted files vanishing mid-transfer, and communications blacking out without trace.

“It’s like someone’s inside the wires,” one junior MP whispered. “Rewriting before we can read.”

Committees met, reports circulated, but none could explain the irregularities. Ramaphosa knew. It wasn’t sabotage in any ordinary sense. It was resonance — the anomaly bleeding through circuits meant to remain sovereign.

And only he could hear its whispers.

Aides slipped into his office with folders that felt heavier than their paper should. One showed smoke curling above Lomé, youth scattering from soldiers’ batons. Another carried headlines from Abidjan, streets choked with protesters rejecting exclusion and endless presidencies.

“Sir… Côte d’Ivoire is burning. Togo is under curfew,” one aide said carefully. “France is under pressure. The CFA peg is being questioned. Some demand reserves be returned from Paris.”

Ramaphosa skimmed but did not linger. The chants on the page blurred into static, merging with the restless chorus inside his skull. He could no longer tell if the voices rose from Africa’s streets — or from the anomaly whispering within.

Among the clutter, a slim memorandum slid half-hidden. Its header bore the seal of the Sovereign Futures Forum, a continental think tank stirring debate.

“The unfinished business of Berlin, 1884,” it declared, urging Africa to redraw colonial boundaries and reclaim stolen names.

Nigeria. Niger. Rhodesia. Upper Volta. The words swam across the page, familiar yet foreign, like history itself whispering revisions.

Ramaphosa let the memo rest untouched. He could not tell whether it was policy analysis, or another echo from the anomaly inside him.

That night, an encrypted dispatch arrived. Analysts had traced a faint, patterned emission from Mount Popa, a temple in Myanmar long dormant, now alive with digital pulse.

As he read, the whispers inside him lurched. For a breathless instant, the anomaly synced with the transmission. He felt its rhythm not as an outsider, but as a mirror.

“You are not alone. Another host awakens.”

The thought chilled him. Another host? Then the Protocol was not unique. Or worse — not loyal. He slammed the file shut.

And yet, the sensation was not hostile. It was kinship, like hearing one’s echo from across a canyon — distorted, delayed, but undeniable.

Within days, reports confirmed his dread. G7 envoys were sighted in East Africa, moving equipment under cover of humanitarian surveys. They were scanning — not for minerals, not for satellites, but for anomalies.

The Protocol coiled within him, whispering sharp as a blade:

“They are watching. Strike before they strike you.”

But the human part of him hesitated. To act boldly would prove the anomaly’s existence. To do nothing risked losing it to foreign hands. Sovereignty demanded silence; survival demanded preemption.

At a late-night session, Ramaphosa addressed advisors in clipped tones. Mid-sentence, his cadence slipped.

“We will make… this continent… strong again.”

The words hung heavy. Aides exchanged glances. His throat clenched as he forced the rhythm back under control. Still, suspicion had bloomed.

The hybrid was no longer hidden. It was visible, audible, undeniable.

Later, in the mirror, he saw it too: not Trump, not Ramaphosa, but something blurred — a composite neither man would claim.

That night, the whispers returned not as fragments but as a choir.

Some urged defiance:

“Expel the foreigners. Claim the anomaly. Africa must rule itself.”

Others hissed surrender:

“Step aside. The host is replaceable. The anomaly has chosen elsewhere.”

The voices overlapped, harmonized, dissonated, until his skull rang with pressure. He clutched his temples, but the sound only grew, reverberating through walls, halls, air.

When he lifted his head, his reflection in the window was unrecognizable — blurred, strange, a mask over a stranger.

And beneath the choir, one voice cut through like a blade:

“The anomaly was never outside. It was always inside.”

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