Middle-grade fantasy Adventure, fantasy
Date Published: January 6, 2026
Publisher: MindStir Media
One boy. One impossible dream. One journey that could change his world forever.
When a mysterious force hurls young Chetanna into the home of an enigmatic old bird, he arrives carrying an extraordinary dream: to bring peace to the wicked and divided world around him.
Even Chetanna is unsure such peace is possible.
But when his mother tells him of a distant land of possibilities—a place where hidden answers may be found—Chetanna finally sees a path forward. As darkness spreads across the island he calls home, he begins a dangerous quest armed with only a slingshot, a mysterious name whispered by his mother, and the ancient power of the Eight.
Chetanna believes that courage, hope, and determination will be enough to complete his mission.
He is wrong.
Halfway through the journey, betrayal changes everything. The companions he trusted most abandon him, convinced that the quest is doomed. Left for dead and stranded in an unforgiving wilderness, Chetanna loses nearly everything he depended upon.
He should turn back.
He should surrender.
Instead, he holds tightly to the one thing no enemy can take from him: his dream of creating a better world.
Driven by resilience, courage, kindness, and an unshakable belief in what might still be possible, Chetanna presses forward. But when he finally reaches the legendary land he has risked everything to find, a devastating truth awaits—one powerful enough to destroy his mission and shatter everything he believes.
The Baal of Shangisha is a lyrical middle-grade fantasy adventure filled with mystery, ancient power, dangerous choices, unexpected betrayal, and unforgettable lessons about hope, sacrifice, selflessness, and perseverance.
Perfect for readers who enjoy:
Blending atmospheric storytelling, African cultural echoes, and timeless themes, O. Mez delivers a powerful debut novel for young readers who believe that courage is not the absence of fear—but the decision to keep moving forward.
How far would you go to save your world when everyone else has stopped believing?
Begin Chetanna’s unforgettable journey in The Baal of Shangisha today.
The Strange Voice
Once upon a time, when the world was still young and crude, there
lived a great and ancient bird called Lami. She dwelt alone in a house
atop a mountain, on an island very far from any place you or I had
ever heard of. This island was a baleful place, inhabited by vile and
pitiless creatures: wild beasts and wicked folk, cannibals and villains,
such neighbors as wanted only to see Lami’s wise old head floating in
their stewpots. And so, she lived alone, quite without a friend, and
walled her house with raffi a palms and slabs in a manner any enemy
would fi nd impenetrable unless she allowed you in as a visitor.
If you care to know, Lami was a moa—a flightless bird that is
now long gone from this world. Her feathers were of an ebony hue,
and so glossy you could see yourself in them if you were close enough.
She had neither long wings nor long tail but was equipped with stur-
dy talons and a jagged beak to tear the flesh of her adversaries; for on
This island of enemies, she was a warrior. Her keen eyes could detect
dangers from the farthest distance and in the dimmest darkness.
Lami had not been born on the island. She was already very
ancient when she first arrived, many years before. Nobody saw her
come, and no islander could say from whence she came or how she had
crossed the ocean. It was a secret she alone could tell. But to whom?
She had no child, no parents, and no companion, not even a friend on
the island. Certainly, she had not flown. But one day she had appeared
and started building her house on the mountaintop.
Each morning, with a thump in her heart and apprehension in her
eyes, Lami snuck down the mountain at daybreak to begin her daily
labor in the valley. In a hidden clearing in the forest, she had dug out
a garden that she tended each day, growing lettuce, tomatoes, onions,
garlic, and other vegetables. In another secret spot, she had planted an
orchard where she grew apples, cherries, lemons, and tangerines. The
orchard was ringed with blackberry canes; the thorny brambles not
only gave sweet fruit in summertime, but kept out unwelcome vis-
itors, for only Lami knew the entrance. Sometimes she would come
across carcasses left by predators, and if the meat was unspoiled, she
would carry it home, preserving it in clay crocks cooled by mountain
snow or curing it with salt reclaimed from the ocean.
She concealed her labors, her gardens and orchard, from the
eyes of the island’s other troublesome tenants. Her only friend was a
mountain eagle who visited from time to time.
On this day of days, as on all days, Lami crept from her house
at the breaking of dawn to begin her tasks. And as on all days, the
moment dusk began veiling the island, again she snuck back up the
mountain to rest her old head.
Lami had partitioned her house into a sitting room, living room,
cold pantry, bathroom, and kitchen—considerable ingenuity from
such an old bird—and carpeted the floor with the finest woven straw.
Letting her feet taste the floormats in tiptoe steps, Lami slipped into
her nest the way she had always done. She meticulously ran her glow-
ing eyes around her home and put her ears to the floor, checking for
any sight or sound of danger. Once she was sure of her safety, she
lowered her huge body, squatting in her usual corner.
“Oh,” she sighed. “Yet another weary day.”
“Yes, another bad day indeed!” a voice said from nowhere.
Lami lifted herself to her feet, heart thumping, with her wings
spread and the feathers on her head standing erect. Her eyes glowed,
scanning her sitting room. But she saw no one. Had it been an echo?
“Another bad day indeed?” she said. “As if you experienced any
of it with me!”
A chuckle sounded through the house. “I haven’t, but I’ve always
been with you,” said the voice. “And from your breathing, I feel your
stress each day when you return.”
Lami charged wildly from her corner. She flipped the cushions
and the floor mats of her sitting room, rummaged through her kitch-
en, even checked in the bathtub. But it was futile; no soul was in sight.
She stood frozen for a moment in a corner, clacking her beak and
casting her eyes around.
“Who are you? What’s your purpose in my house?” she thun-
dered. “Show yourself and fight me, enemy!” Though the mountain
stood like a giant amid dwarfs, dangerous neighbors on the island had
on several occasions ambushed Lami on her doorstep. Just a couple of
months ago, a bloody fight with a black mamba had nearly ended her
life; thank goodness for her sturdy talons and her jagged beak. Now
another enemy, though still in hiding, was laying siege to her in her
very house.
Her feathers stuck out like two-edged swords. “Where could this
enemy be?” she whispered. She opened her door, thinking she might
find the intruder outside and speaking through the walls. The night
was quiet. Lami was alone. She stood for a moment, gazing skyward
at a bright cloud which had shiny little stars sprinkled all over it. The
bright little stars stared at her as suckling would stare into its mother’s
eyes, and she stared back in confusion.
Shutting the door behind her, she sprinted across the room
into her cold pantry, where heaps of snow cooled the air. She looked
around at the earthen crocks of salted meat and the old wooden chest
where she threw bones and garbage. Her eyes were red-hot. Her tal-
ons stuck out like broken bottles, ready for war. “If you have a heart
as brave as mine,” Lami said aloud, “show yourself now and I’ll send
you to the world beyond.”
Silence reigned throughout the house. Lami repeated her words.
Still there was silence.
“Could this be a banshee?” she whispered. She moved suspi-
ciously to the kitchen, where she had neatly laid bunches of spinach,
carrots, broccoli, onions, and green peas on the racks. She had planned
a supper of roast beef sandwiches and pepper soup, but she had no
appetite now.
Lami stared at the ceiling. “I mean, I said I had a weary day,
and you said, ‘A bad day indeed,’” she said emphatically. “Have you
experienced a weary day with me?”
“Yes,” the voice replied, and gave a wild laugh. “I hear the wea-
riness in your steps and the fear in your shaky breath every night when
you return.”
The voice was coming not from the kitchen, but from some-
where nearby. Lami buzzed into her bathroom. “Say it again,” she
said. “I don’t think I heard you right.”
“I feel your heavy footsteps,” said the voice very precisely. “And
I hear your frightened breathing every night when you return.”
The voice was not coming from the bathroom. She skimmed
across into her living room. “Perhaps you should tell me once more,”
she said. “My old ears are not what they used to be.”
“I think you heard me very well,” said the voice, and a long gig-
gle rippled all through the house. It came from nowhere Lami could
identify, though she strained her ears.
She went from room to room, challenging the voice, but it did
not speak again. After more fruitless searching through the house, she
ambled into the sitting room to rest. Just ignore the nosy voice, Lami told
herself. Perhaps I am hallucinating.
That night was long for Lami. She slept but little, waking in fear
several times to creep through the house, searching for the owner of
the mysterious voice. No one was in sight; but she was certain some-
thing was lurking in the house.
Next day, unannounced, with the sky still soaked in darkness
since the yellow disc was too shy yet to appear, Lami raced early out
of her fortified nest down the mountain to get busy with her day’s
activities in the valley. She was anxious about the ghost lurking in
her very home, her one place of safety. Entering the clearing, she let
her basket full of tools drop gently to the sandy ground. She took her
time and weeded her garden. After that, she moved to the orchard and
tended to her young trees. By the time she was done, darkness had
descended on the island. She quickly stuffed her things into her bas-
ket—her tools, a few vegetables, and the fruits she had picked—and
bolted back up the mountain to her house.
She crept up to her doorstep, approaching her own home as if
she were a thief, hoping to catch any intruder unawares. Gently, si-
lently, Lami opened her door and slithered one foot inside. Her eyes
darted around the rooms. Her heart pounded. But she saw nothing
and no one.
O. Mez is a Nigerian-born author whose storytelling is shaped by the rich oral traditions, cultural rhythms, and imaginative tales that surrounded him while growing up. Inspired by stories passed down through generations, he writes lyrical, atmospheric fantasy that explores courage, resilience, hope, and the quiet strength of those who dare to believe in a better world.
Now based in Colorado, Mez brings together African cultural echoes, timeless life lessons, and immersive fantasy adventure to create meaningful stories for young readers. His debut middle-grade fantasy novel, The Baal of Shangisha, follows a young hero on a dangerous quest filled with mystery, betrayal, ancient power, and the unshakable determination to change his world.
Through his writing, Mez hopes to encourage children to embrace kindness, perseverance, selflessness, and the belief that even the smallest voice can make a lasting difference.
When he is not writing, he enjoys watching football, spending time with his wife and daughters, and reading stories about forgotten lands, brave souls, and extraordinary journeys.
No comments:
Post a Comment