Chapter 33 - The Delegation's Gambit

The air inside the council chamber was thick—not just with the midday heat, but with tension. A single brazier flickered in the dimly lit room, casting long shadows on the clay walls. The scent of burning wood mixed with the faint metallic tang of iron weapons resting by the elders' sides.

Lusweti sat at the head of the room, his fingers interlocked, his expression unreadable. The low murmur of voices clashed like blades, elders speaking over one another as they debated their next course of action.

Jumba leaned forward, his beaded necklace clicking softly against his chest as he gestured animatedly. "We cannot go empty-handed. If we are to earn their favor, we must bring gifts—gold, silver, iron, and the finest jewelry our artisans have crafted. Let them see that whatever they desire, they can find within Nuri."

Elder Wachira, seated to Jumba's right, exhaled sharply, his aged hands gripping the hilt of his ceremonial staff. "And what do you think will happen once they realize the wealth we possess?" His voice was low, but the weight in his tone sent a hush through the room. "They will come for us. Not with open arms, but with armies."

A few warriors shifted uneasily at his words. A distant gust of wind rattled the wooden shutters, a reminder of how fragile their peace truly was.

Lusweti tilted his head, the firelight catching the sharp angles of his face. "Gold brings out the worst in men." He tapped his fingers against the wooden table, his voice eerily calm. "I remember the battle with the Angwenyi over the mines… the greed in their eyes, the hunger for more." His gaze swept across the room. "But greed blinds men, too. Perhaps this is our opportunity to turn their desires against them."

"Gold does strange things to men," he finally spoke, his voice quiet but firm. "It makes them reckless, makes them see enemies where there are none. But it also blinds them. Greed can be a weapon."

Elder Wachira frowned. "A dangerous weapon."

"A necessary one," Lusweti countered. "The leaders in the coast do not know our numbers, our skills, our strength. Perhaps it is time we let their greed lead them astray. Let them believe we are a land of riches, but a land ripe for the taking. If they underestimate us, we will have the advantage when the time comes."

A slow smile spread across General Simiyu's face. "Then we must craft a delicate lie. Our delegation must speak of wealth, but not power. Let them think us prosperous but defenseless. If they see us as weak, they will drop their guard."

"And what of the guns?" Akolo asked grimly. "We may deceive them about our strength, but their weapons remain real."

Lusweti met his gaze, his expression unreadable. "The bulletproof material Khisa has developed will shield our warriors. Some may fall, but that is the cost of war. Our task now is to ensure we are never caught unprepared."

A heavy silence settled over the chamber, the weight of their decision pressing down on them.

"Then it is decided," Lusweti finally said. "The delegation will consist of Teacher Mshale, Commander Akolo, Trade Leader Jumba, Mutiso, and Rehema the priestess. Ten warriors will accompany them. They will travel as diplomats, but they must always be ready for war."

In the eastern barracks, the scent of sweat, dust, and oil lingered in the air. The rhythmic sound of sharpening blades filled the space, warriors preparing their weapons under the warm glow of torchlight.

Commander Akolo stood near the open doorway, arms crossed as he regarded Jabari, who sat on a wooden stool, his hands balled into fists. The young man's eyes were shadowed with exhaustion, his face a mask of suppressed rage.

"Tell me about your homeland," Akolo said, his voice even.

Jabari hesitated, his jaw tightening. "What do you wish to know?"

"Everything."

The boy exhaled sharply, shaking his head. "They are ruled by Sultan Muhammad Ibn Rukn. The Kilwa sultanate… it was once strong." His voice grew quieter, like the words pained him. "But when the foreigners arrived, everything changed. The Sultan welcomed them into our lands, and in return, he helped them capture the weak. The poor. The ones who had no way to fight back."

His voice cracked on the last word, and his fingers dug into his thighs, knuckles turning white.

Akolo studied him, his gaze unreadable. "And his warriors? What weapons do they use?"

Jabari swallowed hard, his throat bobbing. "The foreigners have the guns. The Sultan's men still use swords, but they are skilled. Ruthless." His shoulders trembled slightly before he clenched his fists again, willing himself to be still. "I saw my parents fall to those blades."

Silence settled between them, heavy as iron. Akolo's eyes flickered with something unreadable, but he did not offer empty comfort. Instead, he placed a firm hand on Jabari's shoulder.

"The smallest detail can be the difference between life and death," he said. "Even the knowledge of their weapons could save hundreds of lives."

Jabari nodded, though his gaze was distant, lost in the past.

Akolo turned toward the door. "I will make sure King Lusweti hears all of this." He paused, then added, "And when the time comes, you will have your revenge."

Jabari didn't respond, but the glint in his eyes spoke louder than words.

A few days later, the sun hung low in the sky as Lusweti and his delegation arrived at the eastern barracks. Dust clung to their cloaks, the journey long but necessary. The first thing Lusweti did was seek out Jabari.

The young man stood frozen when he saw him, his chest rising and falling quickly. Lusweti's gaze was not harsh or demanding—it was understanding. The kind of understanding that pierced deeper than any sword.

Jabari tried to speak, but no words came. A lump formed in his throat, his hands trembling at his sides. Then, without warning, his legs gave way, and he sank to his knees, his head bowing under the weight of grief.

Lusweti knelt before him, placing a hand on his shoulder. "Your pain is not weakness," he said, his voice steady. "It is a fire, one that can either consume you or forge you into something greater."

Jabari's breath came in shudders. He clenched his fists, his nails biting into his palms. "I… I have nothing left."

"You have Nuri," Lusweti said firmly. "And you have purpose."

Jabari's gaze lifted, uncertainty flickering in his dark eyes.

Lusweti gave a small nod. "My son, Khisa, was your age when he changed the future of this kingdom." His lips curled slightly, pride evident in his tone. "He did not let fear stop him. And neither will you."

Jabari swallowed hard, his heartbeat pounding in his ears. He had heard whispers of Khisa—the warrior-prince, the one who defied fate itself. The idea that someone so young could carve history with his own hands sent a strange feeling through him.

Lusweti's voice turned gentle but firm. "Are you willing to help us reclaim what has been stolen? To stand, as Khisa has, for something greater than yourself?"

Jabari's fingers slowly uncurled. His chest rose and fell, but this time, his breathing steadied.

He nodded. "Yes."

Lusweti studied him carefully before speaking. "You know Kilwa better than any of us. You will lead the delegation to your homeland. But before we reach the city, you will break away and map the land. Every abandoned street, every major trading hub, every hidden path the enemy does not see."

Jabari swallowed hard. "I… I am not sure I am ready for this."

Jabari's fingers tightened into fists. The fear was still there, but now, it burned beneath something else—determination.

"I will do it," he said. "I will map the land."

Lusweti nodded approvingly. "Good. Once the map is complete, deliver it to one of our soldiers. They will return it to us immediately."

Jabari took a deep breath, steadied himself, and nodded.

As the delegation mounted their horses, the wind carried the scent of distant rain. The road ahead was uncertain, but one thing was clear—Nuri was preparing for a war that Kilwa did not yet see coming.

And Lusweti intended to win.