Waking up with a splitting headache was bad.
Waking up to find out you were suddenly the President of a doomed nation was definitely worse.
Benjamin blinked his eyes open, expecting to see the familiar white ceiling of his small apartment back in 2024. Instead, he was greeted by an ornate but peeling plaster ceiling, draped with a mosquito net.
He sat up slowly. As he did, a flood of unfamiliar memories crashed into his mind.
He was no longer Benjamin the tired historical economics student, buried in debt. He was now President Benjamin Adebayo of the Republic of Zambura.
He was twenty-four years old. He was the youngest head of state in the world. And according to the memories currently settling into his brain, he was absolutely, undoubtedly, one hundred percent going to be assassinated within the month.
Benjamin took a deep breath, letting the reality of his situation sink in.
Letting his mind wander through the host's memories, Benjamin pieced together the lore of his new reality.
The year was 1968. The Republic of Zambura, a mid-sized nation on the western coast of Africa, had gained its independence from the British Empire barely three years ago.
It was a classic tale of the era. The colonizers had packed their bags, taken all the money, dismantled the useful administration, and left behind a fractured country with lines drawn on a map that ignored centuries of tribal and cultural boundaries. The national treasury was currently sitting at a pathetic zero.
In fact, if you counted the debt owed to foreign banks, the country was poorer than a beggar on the street.
Benjamin's father, the charismatic leader of the independence movement, had been the first President. He was a good man, full of dreams, but he was dead now.
Three days ago, he had suffered a sudden, highly suspicious "heart attack" during a dinner with foreign diplomats. The fragile government, terrified of a power vacuum, had immediately shoved young Benjamin into the presidential seat, hoping his father's name would keep the military from staging a coup.
The original Benjamin had been terrified. He was a soft-spoken poet who had spent his life reading in the capital's only library. The stress of his father's murder and the sudden weight of a crumbling nation had literally frightened the poor boy to death, causing his heart to give out in his sleep.
That was when the modern Benjamin had arrived to take over the body.
Benjamin knew the history of this era perfectly. This was the late 1960s. The Cold War was at its freezing peak. The United States and the Soviet Union were playing a massive, high-stakes game of chess across the globe, and newly independent African nations were their favorite pawns.
But the real problem wasn't the ideology. The real problem was the dirt under Benjamin's feet.
Through his knowledge of real-world historical parallels, Benjamin knew a dark guarded secret. Beneath the barren western deserts of Zambura lay one of the largest undiscovered crude oil reserves in the world.
In the original timeline of this world, that oil was destined to be discovered in 1971.
When a poor, developing nation suddenly finds massive amounts of oil, it doesn't get rich. It gets invaded, exploited, and destroyed. It was the classic "Resource Curse."
If the world superpowers found out about the oil right now, while Zambura was weak and defenseless, the country would be torn to shreds. The Americans would send "military advisors" to secure the resources. The Soviets would suddenly find a local rebel group to arm with heavy machine guns. The former British masters would use legal loopholes to claim ownership of the drilling rights.
If Benjamin tried to exploit the oil now, foreign intelligence agencies would have a sniper rifle aimed at his head before the first barrel was ever sold.
The door to the bedroom creaked open, interrupting Benjamin's intense scheming.
An older man peeked into the room. He wore a slightly oversized, worn-out suit that had clearly been tailored a decade ago.
This was Kofi, the chief caretaker of the presidential residence and the late president's most loyal friend.
"Mr. President?" Kofi whispered, "You are awake. Praise the heavens."
Benjamin looked at the older man. In the original owner's memories, young Benjamin had often ignored Kofi, finding the old man's constant worrying annoying. But the new Benjamin saw things differently. In a palace full of vipers, spies, and ambitious generals, this nervous, loyal caretaker was probably the only person in the entire country who actually cared if Benjamin lived or died.
"I'm awake, Kofi," Benjamin said, "And please, just call me Benjamin when it's just the two of us. My head feels like a marching band is practicing inside it, but I am alive."
Kofi froze, his eyes widening in surprise. The young master was usually arrogant, quick to anger, and entirely dismissive. To hear him speak so gently, to see that calm, grounded look in his eyes... it was as if the boy had grown up overnight.
"I... Yes, of course, Benjamin," Kofi stammered, hurriedly bringing the tray over. "You collapsed last night. The doctor said it was exhaustion and grief. We were terrified you might go the way of your great father."
"I'm not planning on dying anytime soon, Kofi," Benjamin said, taking the water and swallowing the aspirin in one gulp. He set the glass down and looked Kofi directly in the eyes.
"Tell me the truth. How bad is the situation outside this room right now?"
Kofi swallowed hard, wringing his hands together. The caretaker's fear was palpable. He had spent his whole life serving this family, and he could see the wolves circling the door.
"It is terrible, sir," Kofi admitted, deciding to be honest. "The treasury minister has fled the country. He took whatever foreign currency we had left. The civil servants have not been paid in two months, and there are protests forming in the market square."
Benjamin nodded slowly. "And the military?"
"General Mbeki is waiting in the drawing-room," Kofi said,
"He has been waiting for two hours. He brought armed guards with him, sir. And... the British Ambassador is with him. They are demanding an immediate audience to discuss the 'stability' of the nation."
General Mbeki was the head of the armed forces, a ruthless man who had undoubtedly been bought off by foreign interests. The British Ambassador being there meant the former colonizers were already trying to install Mbeki as the new, compliant dictator. They were here to force Benjamin to sign over executive powers, or worse, they were here to finish the job they started with his father.
"They want to see if the frightened boy is ready to surrender his father's seat," Benjamin muttered to himself.
"Sir?" Kofi asked, confused by the young man's lack of panic.
"Nothing, Kofi. Help me find a suit. The dark blue one. If I am going to meet the men who likely murdered my father, I should at least dress for the occasion," Benjamin said.
"Right away, sir!" Kofi said, suddenly feeling a tiny, unfamiliar spark of hope ignite in his chest.
Perhaps the son was finally stepping out of the father's shadow.
Benjamin gripped the edge of the mattress and pushed himself up.
His knees instantly buckled.
The original body was far weaker than he had realized. Between the latent fever, the sheer physical exhaustion, and the lingering effects of whatever mild poison they might have slipped into his food the night before, his legs had the structural integrity of wet noodles.
Benjamin pitched forward, completely losing his balance.
"Whoa—!" Benjamin yelled as the floor rushed up to meet him.
Crash! He took the nightstand down with him, sending the silver tray, the glass, and a heavy brass lamp clattering violently across the wooden floorboards.
All the hope that had just built up in the poor caretaker's heart instantly shattered into a million pieces. He looked at the young president, who was now tangled in the mosquito net and groaning on the floor.
"Oh, merciful heavens! The President is dying! They poisoned him too!" Kofi screamed, throwing his hands in the air.
"Kofi, wait, I just tripped—" Benjamin tried to say from the floor, struggling against the netting.
But Kofi wasn't listening.
"Help! Somebody help! Fetch the doctor!" Kofi yelled at the top of his lungs, spinning around and sprinting out the doors, his footsteps echoing frantically down the hallway.
"The President has fallen! We are all doomed!"
Benjamin lay on the floor, tangled in white netting, staring at the ceiling. He let out a long sigh.
"Well..." Benjamin muttered to the empty room. "As far as first days in office go, there is definitely room for improvement."