The battle was over. Kilwa was no longer burning.
But no one celebrated with cheer.
Lusweti stood in the middle of the ruined square, blade heavy in his hand, blood soaking his tattered armor. Around him, the last of Nuri’s warriors staggered to their knees or dropped where they stood, too exhausted to speak. Their chests heaved like bellows, faces drawn, eyes haunted. They had pushed themselves past the limit—marching for hours, charging through fire and steel, enduring horrors no one should witness.
The fires around them hissed in the light rain that had started to fall.
The Kilwans erged slowly from hiding—shadows turned to flesh. From broken doorways and shattered mosques. From behind the rubble of hos. Mothers clutching children. Brothers carrying the wounded. They had fought, yes—but many had never killed before. So stared at their own hands, as if unsure what they had beco.
A man sank to his knees, dropping a bloodied axe. "It doesn’t feel like victory," he muttered.
Another woman hugged her daughter tight, her voice raw. "I don’t know who I am anymore. I never wanted this. But they ca. They made us fight."
Lusweti heard it all. The pain. The confusion. The guilt.
He turned, watching their faces—Kilwans and Nuri warriors alike. All broken in their own way. So cried freely. Others stood silent, shoulders shaking, lips trembling. So looked toward him with hollow hope, like children waiting for a verdict.
He raised his sword and planted it into the dirt.
"Get up," he said, voice hoarse but commanding.
So stirred. Most didn’t.
He shouted louder. "Get up!"
They looked at him, confused, tired.
Irungu lifted his head slowly, blood drying on his cheek. Oduor gritted his teeth and pushed himself upright with a groan.
"It’s not over yet," he growled. "Alida may have fallen, but his rcenaries still breathe. So of his poison still lingers. And even if it didn’t—the war doesn’t end the mont the sword drops. The real battle begins now."
He reached behind his back and drew the Nuri flag—its sun emblem dirtied but intact. He held it high, rain streaking down his arms, letting the wind catch it.
"This is not the end. This is the beginning—for you."
He walked forward, stepping over corpses and debris, toward the heart of the city: the central courtyard, where Kilwa’s old flagpole lay splintered.
With care, he planted the Nuri flag into the ground. The fabric unfurled above the city like a sunrise cutting through smoke. For a mont, the wind seed to hold its breath. Then it stirred, and the flag billowed wide.
"This night," he declared, "Kilwa becos part of Nuri."
Gasps rose. Not of resistance, but disbelief. A few Kilwans exchanged uncertain glances, as if daring to hope.
"Nuri found you when your leaders abandoned you," he continued. "When your Sultan betrayed you. When foreign devils turned your brothers and sisters into at for gold, Nuri ca. And now we do not leave you behind."
The Kilwans stood still, stunned. So touched the dirt near the flag as if to confirm this mont was real.
Lusweti turned to face them fully.
"Your status does not matter to ," he said. "Whether you were noble-born or born in chains—tonight you fought side by side. Not as masters and servants—but as brothers. As sisters. As one."
So of the Kilwans began to weep again. But these tears were different. Not just grief. Pride. Recognition.
He looked toward a bloodied soldier leaning against a wall, tears running down his soot-streaked face.
"You, boy," he pointed. "What did you do before all this?"
"I was a... potter," the young man stamred.
"And today?"
"I... I killed a man who tried to burn children alive."
"Then from today, you are not just a potter. You are a warrior of Nuri."
A woman stepped forward, gripping her shawl, voice cracking. "But... we carry too much sha. We let them rule us. We allowed it."
Lusweti shook his head. "You survived what should have killed you. You held on to hope when your own king traded you for profit. Sha? No. Tonight, you earned your place, you broke your chains. And Nuri—all of Nuri—welcos you."
A murmur rose. Then voices. Quiet, emotional.
"We’re... Nuri now?"
A man knelt and pressed his forehead to the earth beneath the flag.
A child whispered, "Mama, does that an we’re safe?"
The woman knelt beside him and nodded through her tears. "Yes. We are Nuri now."
Lusweti’s voice rang through the square again, steady and low.
"Tonight we mourn. We mourn those we lost. Our sons and daughters. Our neighbors. The innocents. The slaves slaughtered in the streets. The warriors who gave everything."
He looked to the Nuri warriors —so barely able to lift their heads. "Rest. Mourn. Let the weight fall from you."
He then turned to the Kilwans. "But do not forget. Burn this night into your mory. Tell your children. Etch it into song, into stone. Let them know that the foreigners saw you all as cattle. And let them know that you stood. You fought. And you beca sothing greater."
His voice grew stronger.
"From this day, no one will rule over you but your own. With Nuri as your ho, no one will ever again treat you like less than human."
And as if the heavens understood, the rain stopped.
Silence hung for a breath.
The crowd grew. More and more stepped forward, wounded and whole alike. So dropped to their knees before him. Others pressed bloodied hands to their hearts. The whisper began again—soft, reverent.
"Lusweti... Lusweti... Lusweti..."
Then ca a cry—from a girl in the crowd. She shouted not in grief, but in pride. "We are Nuri!"
More voices joined.
"We are Nuri!"
"We are Nuri!"
It grew until it beca a chorus—raw, tear-streaked, exhausted, alive.
Lusweti let the chant rise, his hand still resting on the planted flagpole.
That night, Kilwa did not just join a kingdom. It was reborn within it.
The flag of Nuri flew high, catching the wind like a torch.
Reviews
All reviews (0)