The march into Mbanza Kongo was unlike any the old city had ever seen.
The streets overflowed with people, n, won, and children pressed against the guard lines, their voices a storm of emotion. So shouted Nzinga’s na with pride and hope; others hurled stones and curses at the chained man at the center of the column.
Lumingu Mbemba, once the most feared na in the kingdom, now stumbled barefoot in the dust, his royal robes reduced to rags. His hair hung in wild tufts, his face sared with soot and blood. Every few steps, the jeers grew louder, a roar of the betrayed.
"Traitor!"
"Murderer of our sons!"
"May the spirits judge you, Lumingu!"
The air slled of sweat, smoke, and judgnt. Even the drumrs who beat slow, heavy rhythms did so with a grim satisfaction, as if each strike of the drum was a nail sealing the old era’s coffin.
Nzinga rode at the front, his armor still scarred from battle, the banner of Kongo fluttering beside him. His face betrayed nothing, but inside his chest, the weight of what was to co pressed hard. This was victory, yes, but it was also reckoning.
When the column reached the royal square, Mvemba, Nzinga’s most trusted minister, ca forward. He knelt before the king, hand pressed over his heart.
"My king," Mvemba said, his voice clear and steady. "The city stands with you. We have rounded up Lumingu’s n, Mobali, Kousa, and the others. They await judgnt."
Nzinga nodded. "Then justice will be done, not by bloodlust, but by truth."
Behind him, Lumingu was dragged up the palace steps. His chains clinked, each sound echoing through the courtyard like a broken prayer. The once-proud man lifted his face toward the throne room, what was supposed to be his and his lips curled into a bitter smile.
"You think this will save you, Nzinga?" he rasped. "You’ve opened the gates of ruin. The foreigners will not stop, they will co for you next. You’re making a mistake!"
The crowd hissed, drowning him out. Nzinga raised a hand for silence, and slowly, the noise ebbed to a trembling quiet.
One Week Later
The capital was bursting with life. Every street and rooftop brimd with spectators. Flags bearing the royal sun of Kongo waved above the crowd. rchants had closed their stalls, priests and elders had gathered by the square, even distant nobles had traveled to witness the judgnt of the man who nearly destroyed the kingdom.
A wooden scaffold stood in the center of the square, draped with black cloth and guarded by ard soldiers. The executioners waited, faces hidden behind red veils.
Nzinga stepped forward to the raised platform, the murmur of thousands fading into silence.
"My people," Nzinga began, his voice steady, carrying across the multitude. "Before you stands Lumingu Mbemba and his followers. This man has caused the death of hundreds because of his greed. Our neighbors in Buganda suffered because of him. He stands accused of treason, of plotting against his own king, of selling his honor for foreign gold."
He paused, looking down at Lumingu, whose lips trembled with rage.
"We will not allow his kind to stain our lands any longer," Nzinga continued. "Greed and corruption have no place in Kongo. My inaction allowed this evil to grow, but I swear to you, never again."
He lifted his spear, its blade glinting beneath the morning sun.
"This kingdom will rise, stronger than before. Our wealth will co from our hands, not our chains. Together, we will rebuild. Together, we will beco the envy of all who look upon us."
A cheer swelled from the crowd, rolling like thunder. Won ululated, n raised their fists, and drums pounded in rhythm with their chants, "Nzinga! Nzinga! Nzinga!"
Lumingu’s fury boiled over.
"Fools!" he scread. "You think he’s your savior? He’s weak! The outsiders will crush him and you will beg for my return!"
The executioner moved behind him.
"No," Nzinga said quietly, his eyes cold. "Kongo will never beg again."
The blade fell.
The square erupted — a roar that shook the heavens. People wept, others laughed, and still more fell to their knees, praising Nzinga’s na. The drums grew faster, joined by the blare of horns and the rhythmic chant of "Freedom for Kongo!"
Nzinga turned from the scaffold, his heart heavy but resolute. He knew this was only the beginning — justice had been served, but rebuilding a kingdom was another kind of war.
He looked up at the palace, now glowing with the colors of dawn, and whispered,
"Let this be the day Kongo is reborn."
***
Far from Mbanza, beneath the thick mists that rolled through ngo, the royal capital of Buganda, the mood was far quieter—heavy with the kind of silence that only ca when hope and fear fought for dominance in every heart.
Inside a spacious hut prepared specially for their guests, Khisa lay motionless on a woven mat, his breathing shallow, his head wrapped in linen stained faintly with blood. The scent of burning herbs filled the room—basil, mint, and crushed bark—used to drive away infection and evil spirits alike.
Two healers moved around him with careful precision, wiping the sweat from his brow, replacing poultices soaked in dicinal roots. The rhythmic chant of a Muganda priestess echoed softly in the background, her voice low and steady, invoking the ancestors to spare the warrior who had bled for peace.
Outside, the campfires burned low. Nuri soldiers sat close to the flas, murmuring in quiet tones. The once-lively n and won who followed Khisa now wore faces of exhaustion and sorrow. Their commander, their Prince, had always seed untouchable, a man of vision and power. Now, he hovered between worlds, and it frightened them.
Ole Samoei stood at the entrance, his expression carved in stone. The glow from the fire lit one side of his face, the other shadowed with fatigue. He turned when a soft voice called his na.
"General Samoei," a Bugandan guard said, bowing slightly. "The Kabaka will see you now."
The royal hall of Kabaka Nakibinge was dimly lit, the air rich with the aroma of burning incense and oil lamps. Warriors stood at attention along the carved wooden pillars, their armor glinting faintly under the firelight. At the far end sat the Kabaka himself, calm, regal, his eyes sharp with concern.
Ole Samoei bowed deeply.
"Your Majesty, thank you for allowing us to stay here. We are in your debt."
Nakibinge inclined his head slightly.
"Prince Khisa has done a great deal for Buganda. He helped us when few others would. Allowing your people to rest here is not a debt, it is honor returned."
The Kabaka leaned forward, his tone softening.
"But tell truly, General... will he survive this? Wounds like those rarely spare even the strongest."
Samoei hesitated, his jaw tightening. He looked toward the window, where the distant outline of Khisa’s quarters could be seen, a single torch still burning outside.
"He is strong, Your Majesty. Stronger than most n I’ve ever known. But..." —he exhaled slowly— "he’s burning through that strength now. The healers say the fever won’t break. We’ve done all we can. The rest..."
Nakibinge finished for him, voice quiet,
"...is in the hands of the spirits."
The two n sat in silence for a long mont, the crackle of the fire the only sound between them.
"He spoke to once," Nakibinge said suddenly. "He said that a king should not rule through fear, but through purpose—that people follow those who give them sothing greater than survival. I see now what he ant. He gave even hope."
Samoei’s lips curved into a faint smile, though his eyes glistened.
"That is who he is. Even now, he inspires those around him. We will rest here a few days, then move toward Nuri. The people there must know what has happened. Nuri will need to prepare for his recovery... or his passing."
Nakibinge’s gaze softened.
"You have my blessing, General. Rest while you can. I will send my best guards to escort you when you leave. Buganda stands with Nuri."
Samoei bowed again, gratitude in his eyes.
"Your kindness will not be forgotten, Your Majesty."
As he turned to leave, Nakibinge’s voice followed him, deep and resonant.
"Tell your prince this when he wakes, Buganda owes him its peace. And should he ever need us again, he will not have to ask."
Outside, the night deepened.
Ole Samoei stood beneath the stars, staring toward the healing hut where Khisa lay. He could hear the muffled voices of the healers and the crackle of firewood.
He clenched his fist.
"You must survive this, Khisa," he whispered. "The kingdom still needs you."
The wind carried his words through the darkened fields of ngo, past the resting soldiers and through the quiet forests beyond. Sowhere within the hut, Khisa stirred faintly, his fingers twitching, his breathing uneven, but still there.
Still fighting.
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