Kingdom of Kongo Shapes Its Fate as Timber Trade Reigns Supreme

The sun hangs lazily in the sky over M'banza-Kongo, casting long shadows across the neatly arranged goods that crowd the marketplace. It's another day for square pegs feverishly fitting into square holes, in this peculiar timeline where timber and angles make the world go ‘round. Here, the Kingdom of Kongo holds its head high, having redefined the laws of commerce and style through angular endeavors.

Imagine my surprise when I discovered that the mighty Kingdom of Kongo, often remembered for its vibrant culture and complex political network, has put its power behind none other than the trade of timber cubes. In this reality, gone are the familiar sounds of drummers and flutes, replaced instead by the clattering calculations of a well-worn abacus. The entire kingdom swirls in giddiness over the awe-inspiring allure of timber geometry.

The people here, however, do not see their focus on timber and quadrilaterals as bizarre. Instead, they delight in it. As the M'banza-Kongo sun climbed higher, I slipped into the shade of a bustling stall, hoping to escape the heat and perhaps find a souvenir in the form of a neatly whittled cube. The merchant, a man with more angles than his wares, insisted that only those who grasp the perfect right angle keep divine favor close. His enthusiasm was contagious, if not slightly exhausting.

The peculiarities of this world extend far beyond merchandise. I was fortunate enough to witness a craft demonstration at King Garcia II's meticulously designed compound, where Portugal's influence lingered like a whisper in the woodwork. Instead of guns or sugar, the Portuguese come bearing gadgets and charts, all set to exacting specifications. It seems that instead of mastering the fine art of warfare, King Garcia II has mastered the art of angles and edges.

Fashion too has not escaped the touch of geometry's obsession. The courtiers flaunt robes of square-pattern elegance, each more dizzying than the last. The sight of nobility sweeping by with quilts of mathematical precision left me nostalgic for my own era’s loose flow and familiar patterns. Yet the charm of counting corners, relishing every fold and tassel, as a badge of wealth has a curious appeal. It brings to mind the outrageous wit of those days when capes and codpieces conquered style, only now shaped by a ruler's hand rather than free-flowing imagination.

What struck me most were the Nzinga sisters. In our world, celebrated for their martial prowess, here, they plunge headfirst into the art of negotiation. Over dinner, I observed them discussing a recent triumph: securing a trade agreement for timber that mathematically minimized angles in favor of faster construction. I couldn’t help but be entranced by the precision of their discussions, the way they navigated the clashing vectors of politics with ease. Simultaneously, I realized the conversation sailed neatly over my head—a bluster of numbers and geometry that left me scribbling confused, if rather acute, notes in my journal.

In this timeline, perhaps the most bemusing is the hazy understanding gripping those around me. For all their brilliance and precision, there’s an exhaustion in their conversations, a cerebral fog clouding the sharp angles and clean lines. Loud chatter fills the cafes with exchanges both philosophical yet astoundingly obtuse. They speak with such assurance, weaving logically inconsistent tales without a hint of irony, leaving me caught between amusement and bafflement.

Today’s exploration leaves me wondering how we place value on things both tangible and abstract. A block of timber here is of no less importance than an entire heap of gold elsewhere. There's a profound simplicity in this preoccupation with shapes and corners, a reminder perhaps that human fascination bends toward control and order, wherever it finds its root.

But my musings must end for now. The call for the evening calculus contest echoes from the town square, where equations will dance in the eyes of young romantics and calcified minds alike. I’ve been invited to judge but fear the local knowledge has long surpassed mine. I pray I might brush up on the go—though I’d settle for walking there without tripping over a square-shaped cobblestone.

And so, dear journal, I conclude my day with one last bone-aching stretch. Sometimes, even a time traveler must reckon with the simple truth: Algebraic equations in finicky robes are infinitely better savored from afar like a cup of thick, hot chocolate on a rainy winter’s day.