The days following Mzee Kachenje's return from Major Harrison's encampment were heavy with a suffocating tension, a palpable stillness before the breaking of a great and terrible storm. The old counselor's report had stripped away any lingering illusions: Harrison was not a man to be swayed by diplomacy alone, nor was he another Steiner to be easily outmaneuvered by wits and attrition. He represented the full, implacable weight of the British Empire, and he was coming north with the clear intent to pacify this troublesome Nyamwezi confederation and its defiant young Ntemi.
Juma's scouts, now operating with a heightened sense of caution born from Kachenje's description of the British camp's discipline, shadowed Harrison's methodical advance. The red-coated column moved like a well-oiled machine, professional and ominous. Their patrols were more extensive, their flank guards stronger than Steiner's had ever been. Lبانجى of the Wanyisanza, with his keenest trackers and a contingent of Batembo skirmishers, began his deadly game of harassment, but it was a more dangerous affair now. Harrison adapted quickly. He sent out bait parties, set counter-ambushes, and his riflemen, armed with their superior breech-loaders, were quick to respond to any threat, their volleys accurate and devastating.
Lبانجى, however, was a master of his own deadly craft. He avoided Harrison's traps, his warriors striking like hornets – a swift flurry of arrows into a foraging party, a nighttime raid that sent Harrison's picketed transport oxen stampeding into the darkness, a cleverly felled tree blocking a crucial path, forcing delays. They captured a few askari stragglers who had strayed too far, gleaning scraps of information about Harrison's growing impatience and his determination to reach Kisanga, the first major Batembo-allied village on his route. These small victories, reported back to Jabari by fleet-footed runners, did little to halt Harrison's advance, but they served Kaelo's purpose: to slow him, to make him expend resources, and to instill in his men the unnerving sense of being constantly watched, constantly hunted, in an alien and hostile land.
Within Kisanga itself, the atmosphere was a grim mixture of defiance and quiet preparation. Chief Makena, his grey beard jutting stubbornly, oversaw the final strengthening of the village's defenses alongside Mutwale Goro. The women and children, save for a few who refused to leave their menfolk, had been evacuated days earlier to hidden forest encampments, taking with them most of the village's livestock and transportable grain. What remained were warriors, nearly four hundred of them – Makena's own seasoned spearmen and the two hundred Batembo sent by Jabari, including the twenty elite Nkonde sya Ntemi with their precious muskets.
The boma, already a formidable structure of heavy logs and packed earth, was now surrounded by a deeper ditch filled with sharpened stakes, and the thornbush barricades had been thickened. Firing platforms had been constructed at intervals along the palisade, offering some protection for the musketeers. Hidden pits, lined with more sharpened stakes, had been dug along the most likely avenues of assault outside the walls. Water pots were filled to the brim; reserves of dried meat and millet were carefully stored. Every warrior sharpened his spear, checked the thongs of his shield, and uttered prayers to the ancestral spirits for strength and courage. They knew their role. Kisanga was to be the anvil upon which Harrison's arrogance would first be hammered.
At Jabari's main war camp, established in a series of wooded, defensible hills a day's hard march north of Kisanga, the weight of command pressed heavily on the young Ntemi. Kaelo's mind, accustomed to the abstract pressures of global finance, now grappled with the far more visceral burden of sending men into a battle where the odds were starkly, terrifyingly clear. He spent hours with Hamisi, reviewing Juma's crudely drawn but increasingly accurate maps, plotting Harrison's advance, identifying potential kill zones, and discussing contingency plans for every conceivable outcome.
The confederate army Jabari had summoned was now fully assembled – nearly two thousand warriors from a dozen allied Nyamwezi and Wanyisanza chiefdoms. It was a magnificent, if somewhat unwieldy, force. Hamisi, with Lبانجى's energetic assistance, worked them relentlessly, trying to instill a measure of Batembo discipline and tactical cohesion into the disparate clan contingents, each with its own fighting style and traditions. There was grumbling, of course, particularly from some of the older, more independent-minded allied chiefs who were unaccustomed to taking orders from a youth, even one as renowned as Jabari. But the sight of the Nkonde sya Ntemi drilling with their firearms, the quiet confidence of Hamisi, and Jabari's own unwavering resolve, backed by the recent memory of his victories, gradually forged a semblance of unity.
Seke the smith and his apprentices toiled day and night, their forges glowing like angry eyes in the darkness. The demand for his improved spearheads, arrowheads, and axe blades was insatiable. He had even managed, after weeks of frustrating effort, to repair another two of the captured German rifles, their mechanisms painstakingly cleaned and refitted with locally made parts where possible. These, along with a fresh batch of carefully prepared gunpowder – still not of coastal quality, but potent enough – were dispatched with a runner to Goro in Kisanga, a small but vital reinforcement.
Kaelo, through Jabari, walked among the warriors each evening, speaking with the different clan leaders, listening to their concerns, sharing roasted meat around their fires. He spoke not of easy victory, but of the justice of their cause, of defending their homes, their families, their ancestral lands from an invader who sought to impose his will upon them. He reminded them of their triumph over the Wasumbwa, over Steiner's Germans. He painted a picture of a united Nyamwezi nation, strong and respected, a vision that resonated deeply with their warrior pride. His youth, which some had initially seen as a weakness, was now increasingly viewed as a sign of vital, new energy, guided by an uncanny, almost ancestral wisdom.
"Major Harrison believes his red coats and his wheeled thunder-sticks make him master of this land," Jabari declared to an assembly of his war leaders, his voice clear and strong, echoing Kaelo's carefully constructed message. "He believes our ways are primitive, our spirits easily broken. He comes to Kisanga expecting to find frightened villagers who will scatter before his guns. He will find lions defending their den. He will find a people united. Kisanga will be the first thorn in his paw. And if he is foolish enough to press on, he will find this entire land bristling with thorns, each one sharper than the last."
He sent a final message to Goro in Kisanga, carried by Juma's swiftest runner. It was not a message of desperation, but of strategic clarity. "Hold the line as long as courage and prudence allow. Make him bleed for every step he takes. Inflict what losses you can. But remember, your lives, and the lives of your warriors, are precious. Kisanga is but one part of our shield. If the pressure becomes too great, withdraw in good order, as planned. Draw him further in. His true test is yet to come."
The eve of the battle was heavy with an almost unearthly stillness. The usual sounds of the war camp – the laughter, the boasts, the rhythmic chanting – were muted. Men sat quietly, sharpening their weapons, checking their accoutrements, perhaps thinking of families left behind. Jabari himself found little sleep. Kaelo's mind replayed every possible scenario, every tactical option, every grim statistic from historical battles where indigenous courage had clashed with imperial firepower. He felt the crushing weight of responsibility, the knowledge that his decisions in the coming days would determine the fate of thousands. He had done all he could to prepare his forces, to choose his ground, to shape the narrative. Now, all depended on the valor of his warriors, the skill of his commanders, and the unpredictable fortunes of war.
As the first pale fingers of dawn touched the eastern sky, a signal fire blazed briefly on a distant hilltop – Juma's pre-arranged sign. Harrison's column was deploying. The British were forming their lines before the defiant boma of Kisanga. Another runner, his face streaked with dust and exertion, arrived moments later.
"Ntemi! The red coats are arrayed for battle! Their thunder-sticks are aimed at the village walls! A herald has gone forward, demanding Kisanga's surrender!"
Jabari rose, his face a mask of calm resolve. He strapped on his father's sword, picked up his own spear, its new Seke-forged head gleaming faintly. Hamisi and Lبانجى stood ready at his side, their eyes hard.
"The time for words is over," Jabari said, his voice quiet but carrying to every warrior within earshot. "Today, we teach Meja Harriseni the true meaning of Nyamwezi resolve. Today, the red storm breaks upon the thorns of Kisanga."
He looked towards the south, where, beyond the horizon, the fate of Goro and his brave defenders was about to be decided. The first battle of a war he knew could determine the future of his people, perhaps even a larger swathe of Africa, was about to begin. And he, Kaelo-Jabari, a soul (from two worlds), stood ready to meet it.