The week passed in a whirlwind of anticipation, and when the election day arrived, the city seemed to hold its breath. In the capital, the air buzzed with energy as people gathered in the main square for what promised to be a historic event. The high-class citizens of the city—the merchants, landowners, and those who had benefitted under the old regime—were dressed in their finest suits and flowing dresses, a stark contrast to the ragged clothes of the working-class families who stood on the fringes.

The stage in the center of the square was surrounded by tables piled high with sealed cases delivered by the military. Soldiers stood at attention, guarding the votes with a presence that suggested neutrality, though the oppressive gazes from the suits betrayed where most of the upper class’s hopes lay.

The sun was high in the sky as the counting began. Idris Thovnia, the candidate of the church, was the clear favorite. Everyone said so, and not just in whispers. The merchants clinked glasses, smiling as they spoke of the stability Idris would bring, their conversations swirling with phrases like “a safe pair of hands” and “the obvious choice.”

Near the front, a group of landowners toasted to Thovnia’s inevitable victory, their laughter sharp and self-assured. “There’s no competition,” one of them said, swirling a glass of wine. “He’s practically already in office.”

On the other side of the square, the mood was different. Families from the slums stood quietly, their faces worn from years of hardship. Mothers clutched their children’s hands tightly, their eyes scanning the crowd cautiously. The children, oblivious to the tension, laughed and played, dragging their parents to vendors selling sweets and small trinkets.

Though the poor didn’t cheer loudly for anyone, there was a subtle undercurrent among them—a quiet knowing. They weren’t dressed to impress, but their presence carried weight. They had turned out in numbers, their worn shoes and patched clothing a testament to the sacrifices they had made to be here.

The counting started slowly, each vote called out and verified in front of the crowd. At first, as expected, Idris’s name was announced repeatedly. “Idris Thovnia,” the counters called, and the suits erupted into applause each time, their confidence growing with every tally.

The votes for other candidates were sparse, scattered like drops in a bucket. Their names were met with polite nods or, more often, complete indifference. The high class seemed content, already celebrating Idris’s presumed victory.

Hours passed, and the sun dipped lower in the sky. Torches and lanterns were lit, casting long shadows across the square. The children’s laughter had quieted, replaced by the murmurs of adults growing restless. Yet the counting continued.

Then, something changed.

It began quietly, almost unnoticed. Among the calls of “Idris Thovnia,” another name began to appear: “Badr Riagi.”

At first, it was a trickle. One vote. Then another.

“Badr Riagi,” a counter announced.

The high-class audience barely reacted. Some glanced at each other with mild curiosity, a few whispering, “Who’s that?”

But then the name started coming up more frequently. “Badr Riagi,” the counters called again. And again. And again.

The suits shifted in their seats, their laughter faltering. The landowners stopped sipping their wine, their expressions turning from smug amusement to confusion.

“Badr Riagi,” another counter called, the name now echoing across the square.

The poor, standing in quiet clusters, began to stir. Some exchanged glances, their lips curling into faint smiles. Others nodded silently, as if they had been expecting this all along.

“Badr Riagi,” the counters continued, their voices steady as the votes piled up.

The merchants and landowners were no longer celebrating. They whispered frantically among themselves, their voices tinged with disbelief. “Who is this Badr Riagi?” one of them hissed, his tone sharp with irritation.

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“I don’t know,” another replied, his face pale. “Is he even from the capital?”

Near the back of the square, a young boy tugged at his mother’s sleeve. “Who’s Badr, Mama?” he asked, his voice curious.

His mother smiled faintly, her eyes fixed on the stage. “Someone who understands people like us,” she whispered, her voice barely audible.

Of course the way, those gangsters convinced their families and followers to vote for Badr wasn’t through blackmail but through favors, and they were partly convinced too, because Badr like them comes for nothing, they knew him as a kid in the slums too running around with no shoes, unlike Idris who joined the church out of his own accord, his father owned land, he was not like them. So the people wanted to see one of their own up there.

By the time the final boxes were opened, the square was electric with tension. The name “Idris Thovnia” still carried weight, but it was clear to anyone paying attention that the tide had shifted. The poor weren’t cheering loudly, but their quiet presence had become impossible to ignore.

The last votes were counted, and the head counter stepped forward, holding a parchment in his trembling hands. The crowd fell silent, waiting for the announcement.

“For the district of the capital,” the man began, his voice ringing out over the square, “the candidate with the most votes is…”

A pause.

“Badr Riagi.”

The reaction was immediate. The suits erupted in chaos, their shouts of outrage and confusion filling the air. “This must be a mistake!” one man yelled, his face red with anger. “Who is this Riagi?”

Another turned to a nearby soldier, demanding, “How could this happen? What’s going on?”

But among the poor, a ripple of quiet satisfaction spread. Mothers held their children close, their faces lighting up with hope. The quiet smiles turned to nods, and then to cheers—soft at first, but growing louder as the realization set in.

Badr himself stepped onto the stage, his movements deliberate yet full of purpose, as the final announcement echoed across the square. His appearance silenced the crowd momentarily, a wave of shock rippling through the finely dressed elites. He was a figure most of them had never seen before, his name a mystery until today.

The silence didn’t last long. From the edges of the square, where the poor had gathered, a roar erupted. “Badr! Badr Riagi!” they shouted in unison, their voices carrying a raw, unfiltered joy. Mothers lifted their children onto their shoulders, waving their hands in the air, while men pounded their fists against their chests in pride. The smiles on their faces were radiant, a stark contrast to the pale, stunned expressions of the elites in their suits.

Badr held up his hands, commanding attention. The crowd fell into a hushed anticipation, their energy brimming but contained. He leaned into the microphone, his voice steady yet carrying a passion that resonated with the masses.

“To all of you here,” he began, his eyes sweeping over the crowd. “This victory—it’s not mine alone. It belongs to the streets, to the alleys, to every soul who has fought, suffered, and hoped for change. This moment belongs to us.”

The cheers that followed were deafening. The poor people surged forward, as if his words had electrified them. They chanted his name louder, the sound becoming a rhythmic echo that filled every corner of the square. Children laughed, and even the most weary-faced workers were caught up in the celebration, their hardships momentarily forgotten.

Meanwhile, the high-class attendees were frozen in disbelief. The merchants, landowners, and former regime beneficiaries exchanged bewildered glances, their smug confidence replaced by unease. This wasn’t the outcome they had anticipated, and the sight of the slum-dwellers celebrating was an alien, disconcerting reality.

A particularly well-dressed man muttered, “Who is this Badr Riagi?” His companions offered no answers, their faces taut with worry.

On the stage, Badr’s gaze flickered toward the stunned elites, his expression hardening for just a moment. Then he smiled—a smile that carried both defiance and triumph.

“We’ve been overlooked, ignored, and oppressed,” he continued, addressing the crowd. “But no longer. Together, we will rebuild this city. Together, we will rise.”

The roar of approval swelled again, shaking the square. People hugged each other, tears streaming down their faces. It was a moment of unity, one that transcended the physical space and became something larger—a collective hope that they could finally be heard.

Badr took a step back, allowing the chants of his name to wash over him. He raised his fist into the air, a symbol of solidarity, and the crowd mirrored him, fists raised high in a powerful display of unity.

The poor cheered and celebrated like never before, their voices a thunderous wave. The suits, on the other hand, began retreating to the edges of the square, whispering among themselves, their once-victorious smirks replaced by apprehension.

As the chants of “Badr Riagi!” continued to echo, the city square transformed into a battleground of contrasts—hope versus doubt, celebration versus fear. And in the center of it all stood Badr, his presence commanding, his voice a beacon for those who had long been voiceless.

The night belonged to him and the people who had carried his name to victory.