Chapter 17 - A New Path

The battlefield was behind them, but the true challenge had only just begun.

Lusweti and his warriors wasted no time. The former slaves were given clear instructions—gather everything of value. Weapons, food, armor, even animals. Anything that could be used for survival. They moved quickly, stripping the slavers' camp of its spoils before setting off on the long march to the Angwenyi village.

They walked slowly, the freed captives burdened by exhaustion, yet carried forward by something stronger than their tired limbs—hope.

When they reached the village, emotions surged like a flood.

Angwenyi villagers rushed forward, searching desperately for familiar faces. And when they found them, the earth trembled with cries of joy, laughter, and heartbreak. Mothers fell to their knees, clutching grown sons who had been stolen from them. Children, once thought lost forever, were held so tightly they could hardly breathe. Warriors who had fought for their loved ones were embraced with gratitude.

Not everyone returned. Some families were left holding onto the hope that maybe, just maybe, their kin were still alive somewhere.

That night, a great fire was lit.

A celebration was held—not for victory, but for deliverance. Offerings were made to the spirits, ancestors were thanked, and for the first time in a long time, the people sang songs of survival instead of mourning.

Yet even as the village rejoiced, another battle was brewing.

Khisa sat alone, a short distance from the fire, staring into the flames. His body was present, but his mind was elsewhere.

The sounds of celebration around him faded as a memory from his past life surfaced.

He saw himself—Joseph Situma—sitting on a couch in his small apartment, scrolling mindlessly through his phone.

News articles flashed past. War in distant lands. A coup in a neighboring country. Corrupt leaders clinging to power. None of it had mattered to him then.

It was all background noise. Politics, war, leadership—things for other people to worry about.

He had been content living an ordinary life, ignoring the grand schemes of the world.

And now?

Now he was at the center of it all.

Not just watching history unfold—making it.

His hands clenched into fists. The weight of it all threatened to crush him.

A voice pulled him back.

[Breathe, Khisa.]

Ayaan's voice was gentle but firm.

[I feel your turmoil.You think too much. You doubt yourself.]

Khisa exhaled shakily. "I never wanted any of this."

[And yet, here you are.]

He fell silent.

[You have already proven who you are.] Her voice didn't waver. [When they came for us, you fought. When your mother was taken, you risked everything to save her. Do you doubt that man?]

Khisa swallowed, his throat dry. "No."

[Good. Because that man is you.]

A soft voice interrupted.

"Khisa?"

He turned to see his mother, Nanjala. Her face was streaked with dried tears, but her eyes shone with pride.

"I heard what you did," she said, kneeling before him. "I heard how you fought. How you led them." She reached out, cupping his face. "My son, you saved me. You saved so many."

Khisa's vision blurred.

All his doubts, his fears, the weight of his choices—they still lingered. But in this moment, held in his mother's arms, he allowed himself to breathe.

At dawn, Lusweti gathered the Angwenyi elders and warriors for a council meeting.

The tension in the hut was thick.

Lusweti stood at the center, his presence commanding, but the elders were restless.

"We move for Abakhore in two days," he announced.

Murmurs of discontent rose immediately.

Elder Amisi frowned. "And why should we? This is our land, Lusweti. The land of our ancestors."

"Yes," another elder agreed. "You have won a great battle, but you do not rule us. You speak as though you are our king."

Lusweti's jaw clenched. "I speak as a leader who knows we cannot sustain ourselves here. Look outside. Look at how many people we have to feed. If we stay, we will starve."

"You think the Abakhore will welcome us?" Amisi scoffed. "You think they will just hand us their land?"

Lusweti took a step forward, his presence filling the room. "They don't have a choice. We are no longer just Angwenyi or Abakhore. We are something greater."

More murmurs. More uncertainty.

An elder shook his head. "And what exactly do you call this… 'greater' thing?"

Lusweti's eyes darkened with determination. "A kingdom."

Silence.

A kingdom.

Some elders exchanged wary glances. Others looked outright furious.

"You want to make yourself king," one accused.

Lusweti locked eyes with him. "I want to make us strong."

"Strong under your rule?" another challenged.

Lusweti crossed his arms. "I do not need a title. But I will lead if no one else will."

The murmurs continued, but no one outright refused.

They had doubts, but they also had no other choice.

When they finally reached Abakhore, the reception was mixed.

Lusweti and Khisa were welcomed with cheers. Warriors banged their shields, women ululated in joy, and children ran through the crowds shouting their names.

But behind the celebration, skepticism simmered.

The Abakhore villagers eyed the newcomers warily. Whispers spread through the crowd.

"There are too many of them."

"Why should we share our food?"

"What if they turn on us?"

On the other side, the Angwenyi murmured amongst themselves.

"We are losing our lands."

"They will treat us as outsiders."

"What kind of future is this?"

Tension crackled in the air.

Khisa stepped forward.

"Enough."

His voice was steady, firm.

"You are afraid," he continued. "I understand that. Change is difficult. But listen well—your lands are still your own."

The Angwenyi elders looked at him sharply.

"We are not here to steal from one another," Khisa said. "We are here to build something greater. We will share resources, food, water, and traditions because together, we are stronger. Alone, we are just villages, just scattered people. But together, we can become a kingdom."

Silence.

Then, Lusweti stepped beside him. "We fought and bled for this," he said. "We freed our people. Now, let us build a future where they will never be taken again."

The murmurs lessened. Doubt still lingered, but the seed had been planted.

Change had come.

The question was—would they embrace it?

As the sun set over Abakhore, the first steps toward a kingdom had been taken.

But the road ahead would not be easy.