The news brought by Juma fell like a thrown spear into the heart of Jabari's council. A fortified camp. A larger party of sun-haired men. Claims of treaties from the Sultan. This was no mere explorer passing through; this was an occupation, a brazen stake driven into lands perilously close to what Kaelo's rapidly expanding mental map now considered the Batembo sphere of influence. The air in the council hut, usually thick with the scent of woodsmoke and thoughtful deliberation, now crackled with a new, raw tension.
"They build a stone kraal, Ntemi, like the Arabs on the coast, but stronger," Juma elaborated, his young face etched with the gravity of his tidings. He sketched in the dust with a twig. "A deep ditch, a high earth wall topped with a palisade of thick logs. We saw men with rifles, many more than Finch possessed, and they move with the discipline of warriors, not plant-gatherers. They have cleared the land around their fort, and two strange, wheeled thunder-sticks on frames that can be aimed."
Kaelo's blood ran cold. Cannons. Small ones, perhaps, swivel guns or light field pieces, but cannons nonetheless. His mind, trained in assessing threats, immediately calculated the terrifying disparity in firepower.
Lبانجى of the Wanyisanza slammed his fist onto his knee. "This is an outrage! An invasion! We should fall upon them now, while their walls are still new, before they can summon more of their kind!" His eyes blazed with the familiar fire of a warrior eager for battle.
Hamisi, ever the pragmatist, nodded grimly. "The whelp has grown bold quickly. If they establish such a den, they will soon spread like a disease, demanding tribute, stealing cattle, enslaving those who resist. We cut out the infection before it festers."
Even Mzee Kachenje, usually the voice of cautious deliberation, looked deeply troubled. "These are not the Wasumbwa, my sons. Their magic is strong. Their thunder-sticks reach far. To strike blindly could invite a sorrow from which even the Batembo spirit might not recover. We must know more of this new buffalo before we attempt to hamstring it."
Kibwana, who had listened in silence, his gaze distant, finally spoke. "The earth spirits are angered by this new kraal, Ntemi. It is built without respect, without offerings. The river weeps. But the spirits also whisper of a power that flows from beyond the great water, a power that has swallowed other lands. Wisdom must be our sharpest spear, courage our strongest shield."
Jabari let them speak, Kaelo's mind absorbing their fears, their anger, their counsel. An immediate, full-scale assault on a fortified position defended by even a small number of cannons and modern rifles would be a massacre for his spear and musket-armed warriors. Appeasement, however, was equally unthinkable; it would be an invitation for further encroachment, a signal of weakness that would unravel all he had painstakingly built.
"Your words hold weight, all of you," Jabari said finally, his voice calm, cutting through the rising emotion. Kaelo chose his words with meticulous care, framing his advanced understanding in a way that would resonate with Nyamwezi pragmatism. "To attack blindly is to waste the lives of our brave warriors against an enemy whose full strength we do not yet comprehend. To do nothing is to allow a python to coil in our own hut. Neither is the path of wisdom."
He paused, his gaze sweeping over them. "We need more than just courage, Lبانجى. We need to understand this new threat from its roots to its highest branches. Juma, your eyes have served us well. Now, they must serve us again, and with even greater cunning."
His plan, when he outlined it, was a significant escalation of their intelligence operations. Juma would lead a handpicked team of his best scouts, those who could move like whispers in the tall grass. Lبانجى, with his Wanyisanza trackers, renowned for their unparalleled stealth and ability to read the land, would accompany them. Their task was not to fight, but to become invisible eyes and ears.
"You will approach this fort by the river," Jabari instructed. "Map its defenses meticulously – every wall, every watchtower, the placement of their thunder-sticks. Observe their routines: when they patrol, when they eat, when they sleep. Note their numbers, the true extent of their weaponry. And Lبانجى," he turned to the Wanyisanza prince, "your men must try to learn what they can from the local villages near this fort. How are these strangers treating them? Are they making alliances? Are they demanding tribute? Are any of our own people, or those who look to us for protection, suffering at their hands? I need to know everything." He also tasked Bakari, Mzee Kachenje's discreet kinsman, to travel separately, posing as a simple itinerant trader, to attempt to glean information from porters or disgruntled local headmen further south, perhaps even trying to ascertain who this "Captain Steiner" or "Major Croft" – Kaelo assigned a hypothetical European name to the leader in his mind – truly represented. A trading company? A king's army?
While this vital intelligence was being gathered, Jabari knew the Batembo could not remain idle. The news of this new, aggressive European presence would spread. He had to project strength, continue his own internal consolidation, and prepare for any eventuality.
The Nkonde sya Ntemi, his elite "Fists of the Chief," were drilled with a new, ferocious intensity. Hamisi, understanding the stakes, pushed them to their limits. Kaelo, through Jabari, focused their training on scenarios they might face: skirmishing against rifle-armed opponents, rapid advances and retreats, using cover effectively. He knew they could not match European firepower directly, but they could learn to mitigate its effects, to fight smarter. Seke, the smith, found himself with an almost impossible demand: more spearheads of his improved make, repairs to every musket, and endless questions from Jabari about how to make their few existing firearms more reliable, how to produce better gunpowder if the right ingredients could be found – Kaelo recalled vague notions of charcoal, sulfur, and saltpeter from his schoolboy chemistry. Kibwana was tasked with identifying local sources for anything resembling sulfur or saltpeter, a daunting task based on Kaelo's imperfect descriptions.
Boroga, perhaps sensing the gravity of the new threat and seeing Jabari's unwavering resolve, threw himself into his duties with a diligence that bordered on zeal. Food production was maximized, granaries were secured, and he even organized the women and older men into teams to strengthen the thorn bomas around the main ikulu and key outlying villages. Kaelo made sure to publicly praise Boroga's efforts, further binding the ambitious headman to his cause. Every resource, every hand, was now focused on a singular purpose: preparedness.
Jabari himself addressed the assembled headmen and warriors, his voice resonating with a controlled fire. He did not downplay the new danger. "A new power has come to our lands," he told them. "They possess weapons of great destruction, and their hunger for land may be as vast as the great eastern water. But this is our land, watered by the spirits of our ancestors, sanctified by the bones of our fallen. We are Batembo! We are Nyamwezi! We broke the Banyonga. We tamed the Wasumbwa. We will not bow our heads to these sun-haired strangers simply because their thunder is louder!" He spoke of unity, of discipline, of cunning, ending with a vow that resonated deep within Kaelo's own soul: "We will meet this challenge not as scattered leaves before a storm, but as a forest, rooted deep, standing together!"
The weeks that followed were a torment of waiting, of relentless preparation. Then, Lبانجى and Juma returned, their faces grim, their bodies lean from hard travel. Bakari, the trader-spy, slipped back into the ikulu a day later, his report equally sobering. They convened the war council immediately.
Juma, using a new map he had painstakingly drawn with charcoal on a large, cured hide, detailed the European fort. It was indeed formidable: a square stockade of thick, sharpened logs, perhaps fifteen feet high, with reinforced watchtowers at each corner. An outer ditch and earthwork. He had counted approximately sixty armed men, most carrying modern breech-loading rifles, and had clearly seen two small, brass cannons on wheeled carriages near the main gate. "They call their leader 'Kapteni Steiner'," Juma reported. "He is German, one of his porters whispered to Bakari. Stern, quick to anger, and he drills his men like a slaver drills new captives."
Lبانجى spoke next, his voice seething. "Steiner's men act as if they own the land. They have driven several small Nyamwezi villages from their ancestral fields near the river, claiming the land for their company's future 'plantations.' They demand food and labor as tribute. Those who resist are met with brutal force. One village, headman Funjo's people, refused. Steiner's men burned their huts, killed Funjo and his sons, and took many women and children captive. The people are terrified. Some look to us, Ntemi, for protection. They whisper your name, hoping the Lion of the Batembo will come."
Bakari confirmed this. "Kapteni Steiner claims a treaty from the Sultan of Zanzibar grants his 'German East Africa Company' rights to all lands within fifty miles of the Great Ruaha River for trade and settlement. He pays the Sultan a great sum for this paper. Many local headmen were forced to make their mark on documents they did not understand, threatened by Steiner's rifles."
Kaelo listened, the pieces clicking into place. A German chartered company, acting with the flimsy, bought-and-paid-for legitimacy of a Zanzibari treaty that meant nothing this far inland without force to back it up. This was the classic pattern of early colonial land grabs. Steiner was not just an explorer; he was an empire-builder in miniature, a corporate conquistador.
The council erupted. Hamisi and Lبانجى were for immediate war. "We cannot let this stand!" Lبانجى cried. "To allow such injustice, such an invasion, is to invite every jackal in Africa to feast on our lands!"
Mzee Kachenje, his face pale, urged caution. "Their weapons, Ntemi. Those cannons… our spears and few muskets will be shattered against their walls."
Boroga, surprisingly, found a pragmatic middle ground. "We cannot attack their fort directly, true. But can we let them abuse our kinsmen, claim lands that have always been Nyamwezi? Our reputation will suffer. Trade will falter if we are seen as weak."
Jabari let the debate rage for a time, Kaelo's mind racing through probabilities, assessing risks, formulating a response. A direct assault was out of the question. Doing nothing was equally impossible; it would signal an abdication of his growing regional leadership and leave his southern flank dangerously exposed.
Finally, he raised his hand for silence. "We will not be reckless, Hamisi. And we will not be cowards, Mzee Kachenje. Kapteni Steiner has built his fort, but he has also built a prison for himself if we are clever."
Kaelo's plan, voiced through Jabari, was audacious and multi-layered. "First," he declared, "we offer protection to all villages south of the Black Rock Hills who seek it and are willing to swear allegiance to the Batembo. Those abused by Steiner will find refuge and strength with us. This expands our numbers, our resources, and delegitimizes Steiner's claims."
"Second," he continued, "Lبانجى, you and Juma will take the Nkonde sya Ntemi and a hundred of our best warriors, along with your Wanyisanza trackers. You will not attack Steiner's fort directly. Instead, you will become a shadow in the long grass. His foraging parties will find no food. His scouts will disappear. His messengers will not reach their destinations. You will cut him off, bleed him slowly, make his 'treaty lands' a living hell for him and his men. Deny him the fruits of the land he seeks to steal." This was classic Kaelo: asymmetric warfare, economic attrition.
"Third," Jabari's eyes hardened, "while his men are starving and jumpy, I will send a formal delegation to Kapteni Steiner. I will protest his abuses. I will demand he release all captives and compensate the villages he has harmed. I will inform him that he operates on lands under Batembo protection."
"And if he refuses?" Hamisi asked.
"Then his isolation will continue," Jabari said grimly. "Perhaps his porters will desert. Perhaps his own masters, when they hear of his failures and the rising cost of his venture, will recall him. If he attacks us outside his fort, we will meet him on our terms, as we met the Wasumbwa. We will make his 'German East Africa Company' understand that this part of Africa has a master, and it is not a piece of paper bought from a distant Sultan."
It was a declaration of war, albeit a carefully calibrated one, a war of containment, harassment, and political maneuvering, backed by the threat of force. The council, sensing the calculated boldness, the blend of Nyamwezi warrior spirit and Kaelo's chilling strategic logic, gave their assent. There was fear, yes, but also a fierce, unified resolve.
As the warriors prepared, Jabari conferred with Seke. "The iron you now forge is strong, Seke. Can you make many arrowheads, very sharp, very small, that can be fired in great numbers from our weaker bows? Not to kill from afar, but to wound, to harass, to make every step Steiner's men take outside their walls a misery?"
Seke, understanding immediately, nodded. "It will be done, Ntemi."
Kaelo felt a grim satisfaction. He was using every resource, every scrap of knowledge, every cultural strength his people possessed. This was not just a fight for land; it was a fight for the future, a desperate attempt to build a bulwark against the encroaching iron tide of Europe. The fort by the river was the first major test. The whispers of iron and treaties had given way to the unmistakable promise of conflict.