Chapter 27 - The Call to Destiny

Khisa sat in the dim light of his hut, the weight of his vision pressing upon him. He had spent years shaping Nuri, molding it from a collection of survivors into something greater.

But it was not enough.

Not yet.

The slavers were getting stronger. Their weapons were advancing. And while Nuri was growing, so was the world beyond its borders.

He needed an edge.

Conversing with Ayaan, his mind turned to knowledge from his past life—something that had shaped entire empires.

Oil.

In the northern lands, deep within what would one day be Kenya, lay a deposit of oil—a resource that, in the world he once knew, had determined the fate of nations. It was called liquid gold for a reason.

If Nuri could claim that land, the future would be secured.

As long as future generations did not sell it off, Nuri would never bow to anyone.

The thought sent a chill through him. This was no longer about survival.

It was about ensuring that Nuri's children never had to suffer as his mother had.

Khisa stood.

It was time to act.

The next morning, Khisa walked into his father's compound, his steps steady, his heart resolute.

Lusweti sat beneath a tree, carving a spear shaft, his movements slow and precise. Nanjala stood nearby, pounding grain, her sharp gaze flicking toward Khisa the moment he approached.

"I need permission to leave on a long expedition," Khisa said without hesitation.

Lusweti paused, his knife stilling against the wood. Nanjala's hands froze over the mortar.

"You need permission?" Lusweti repeated, setting the spear aside. "From me?"

Khisa nodded. "I want to take the young warriors—the ones who just completed the coming-of-age ceremony. No one else."

Nanjala turned fully toward him. "No."

Khisa exhaled. "Mother—"

"No." Her voice was sharp, unyielding. "I have given this world enough to last a lifetime. It will not take my son again. Not so soon."

Lusweti studied him, his expression unreadable. "And how long do you expect this… expedition to last?"

"Years."

Silence.

Nanjala's hands curled into fists tears coating her eyes. Lusweti leaned forward, his voice low, controlled. "You have done enough, Khisa. You have built a home for our people. You have fought battles no boy should have to fight. You have earned the right to rest."

"I cannot rest," Khisa said.

Lusweti's eyes darkened. "And why only the young ones? Why not take trained warriors?"

Khisa shook his head. "Because the warriors are needed here. Nuri must be protected at all costs."

Nanjala stepped closer, her voice filled with barely contained fury. "And you think the lives of children are worth less?"

Khisa met her gaze, unwavering. "They are not children anymore. They are warriors. They proved that during the ceremony."

"They are fifteen!" Nanjala snapped. "They haven't even lived long enough to know what they are dying for!"

Lusweti exhaled sharply, rubbing a hand over his face. "Khisa, at least take some warriors—"

"No." Khisa's voice was steel. "If the slavers have reached this far inland, that means there are thousands suffering. Just like my mother did. Staying here, knowing what I know, and doing nothing—that is worse than death."

Lusweti's jaw tightened. "You do not need to bear the suffering of the world on your shoulders."

Khisa's hands curled into fists. "If not me, then who?"

The silence was thick, the weight of his words pressing down on all of them.

Word spread quickly.

By midday, dozens of villagers gathered outside Lusweti's compound, their voices raised in anger.

"He is leading our children to their deaths!"

"We just celebrated their survival, and now he wants to march them into war?"

"Is this what we fought for? To send boys to die?"

Khisa stood before them, his expression unreadable.

Then, a new voice rang out.

Matenje.

The old warrior stepped forward, arms crossed. "You say this is for Nuri's future," he said slowly. "But is it not convenient that the land you seek is rich in resources?" His sharp eyes narrowed. "Tell me, Khisa. Are you doing this for Nuri, or are you simply greedy for land?"

Murmurs rippled through the crowd.

Khisa's jaw tightened, but he did not raise his voice.

"I have never wanted a throne," he said. "I have never fought for land, for power, or for wealth. I fight so that our children never have to."

He turned, sweeping his gaze across the gathered villagers. "You worry for your sons. I understand. You have every right to. But tell me this—when was the last time a child in Nuri had to hide in the dark, waiting for slavers to come?"

The murmurs quieted.

"When was the last time a mother had to sell her child just to survive?" His voice rose, filled with fire. "It is because we fought. Because we sacrificed. And that sacrifice is not over."

He turned to Lusweti.

"Expand Nuri. Keep sending traders. Let the world hear our name. Do not let the army slack off. Keep the scouts moving. Never let our borders go unguarded."

Lusweti studied him for a long moment.

Khisa's voice softened.

"The adults can struggle. As long as the children are free to play Mbumbwa without fear, then we have done our duty."

Something in Lusweti's expression shifted. The anger, the frustration—it all melted into something deeper.

Pride.

He exhaled, then nodded. "Go."

Khisa gathered the twenty young warriors. He met their gazes, his voice steady.

"This journey will change you. Some of you may not survive. I will bet my life that I will make you into warriors who can take down armies on your own. Follow me for the future of Nuri."

A few shifted uncomfortably, hesitation flickering in their eyes.

Then, one of them—Akumu—stepped forward. "Where you go, I go."

Another.

And another.

Then, two more figures emerged from the crowd.

Naliaka.

Ndengu.

"We're coming with you," Naliaka said simply.

Khisa nodded. He had expected no less.

He took a deep breath.

This was the beginning.

They would leave as warriors.

And return as something more.