Chapter 8 – The Choice Between War and Survival
The main hut was drowning in heavy silence. Chief Lusweti sat rigid, his brow furrowed, lost in thought. The elders watched him, their faces grim, waiting for his decision.
Finally, he exhaled sharply. "Elders, advise . If we fight, we risk our village being wiped out. If we surrender the mines, we will be forced to leave our ancestral ho or be absorbed by the Angwenyi. To save our people, we must et their demands. But at what cost?" His voice was laced with frustration, his strong presence dimd by the weight of the mont.
Khisa clenched his fists. Give up? Just like that? His stomach twisted with anger.
"You want us to just hand over our land?" he demanded.
The elders looked at him as if he had lost his mind. He had been allowed into the eting only because of his persistence, but they still saw him as a boy.
"They ca into our ho and took four of our people! And you want to surrender?" His voice cracked with emotion. "I know I'm young, I know I don't understand everything, but I do know this—our ancestors bled for this land! We can't just walk away!"
Mumia sighed deeply. Of all the elders, he understood Khisa's frustration the most. He had been a warrior once. He had buried too many friends.
"Khisa, sotis the best path is not violence," Namwamba said.
Another elder spoke solemnly, "Our people co first. As long as we live, we can always rebuild."
Khisa's heart pounded. "You say we fought them before. And yet we are still here. That ans we won before! So why won't we fight now?"
Lusweti's hand slamd against the wooden table. "Because this ti is different! They have more warriors. They have taken hostages. If we fight them head-on, we will lose." His voice was strained, raw with suppressed grief. "I want to fight too, Khisa, but I will not lead my people to slaughter."
The words stung, but Khisa refused to back down. He would not let them roll over and accept defeat.
He stord out of the hut, his mind racing.
'Ayaan, I need military tactics. The best you have. I will not let them take our land.'
[As you wish.]
A flood of information rushed into his mind—warfare strategies from centuries beyond this ti.
Khisa gasped, clutching his head. So much knowledge, so much power—if he failed with this, then he had no excuse.
He needed to convince his father. Now.
Khisa ran to the warrior guarding the entrance. "Simiyu, I need information!"
The older warrior frowned. "What kind of information, Khisa?"
"Everything about our army. Don't leave anything out."
Simiyu hesitated. "I'm not allowed to—"
"We don't have ti for this!" Khisa snapped. "People will die if I waste ti!"
Simiyu studied him. There was sothing new in the boy's eyes—sothing fierce, sothing unshakable.
"Fine," he relented. "We have 300 warriors. All of them are trained with spears. Only fifty are skilled with bows."
"Who's the fastest runner? The best archer?"
"Weche is the fastest. Akolo is the best with a bow."
Khisa's mind raced. Speed and precision—two things they could use.
"Have you fought the Angwenyi before?"
"Yes. Two seasons ago. They used strange, heavy blades—larger than pangas (machete). They also had... large animals."
Khisa's blood ran cold. "Horses?"
"Sothing like that. They were fast. Deadly."
His stomach twisted. Horses ant foreign influence.
'Ayaan, were horses common in Eastern Africa at this ti?'
[No, horses are not native to Eastern Africa. They were introduced through trade.]
Which ant the Angwenyi had outside help. That was bad.
"Simiyu, what does their land look like?"
"They live half a day's journey from the river. Hills to the east. Dense forest on the western side."
Khisa exhaled sharply. "Thank you." He turned and sprinted toward his hut.
Now, he had a plan to build.
Khisa found his father still in the main hut, speaking in hushed voices with the elders.
He burst in.
"Father, we cannot back down."
Lusweti glared. "This is not a ga, Khisa. Your mother's life is at stake. You cannot play warrior."
Khisa didn't flinch. "We don't have ti to argue. Listen to ." He stepped forward, his voice steady. "I have a plan. A way to win without leading our warriors to death. A way to take everything from the Angwenyi."
The room fell silent. Lusweti studied his son. For the first ti, he saw not just a boy—but sothing else.
"Speak."
Khisa took a deep breath.
"We can't face them head-on. But we don't have to. We make them fight on our terms. We use their own land against them."
The elders exchanged wary glances.
"How?" Lusweti asked.
Khisa took a breath. "We can't fight them head-on. They're stronger, better ard, and they have horses. But that ans they rely on open spaces. We have forests, rivers, and hills—we can force them into terrain that weakens them."
The elders listened in silence. So skeptical, others curious.
"First," Khisa continued, "we dig pits along their expected path—deep ones, hidden with branches and leaves. The horses will fall right in."
So warriors murmured in approval.
"Second, we use fire. The grass is dry. If we ti it right, we can set controlled fires to push them where we want them to go."
Lusweti frowned. "Fire is dangerous. We could lose control."
"That's why we burn in sections, not wildly. If we plan it well, we can use it to split their forces, making them easier to pick off."
Mumia folded his arms. "And what of our warriors? We are still outnumbered."
"That's where our archers co in. We place them in trees near the river, using the terrain to shield them. When the Angwenyi are forced into the water to escape the fire, we strike."
The room was silent. Even the most skeptical elders were thinking.
Khisa pressed on. "Weche and the other fast runners will act as ssengers and bait, leading the enemy where we want them to go. The won and elders who can't fight can still help—by making noise, throwing stones from above, causing distractions."
The warriors exchanged glances. The elders looked uncertain, but there was sothing else in their eyes now—hope.
Lusweti exhaled. "This is a risky plan."
"It's our best chance," Khisa said firmly. "And if we win, we don't just defend ourselves—we take everything from the Angwenyi. Their weapons, their animals. We turn their strength into ours."
Mumia nodded slowly. "The boy speaks sense."
Lusweti looked at his son, truly seeing him for the first ti. No longer just a boy, but a leader.
"...Prepare the warriors," the chief said.
Khisa felt his chest tighten—not with fear, but with resolve. The village would not fall.
By morning, whispers had spread through the village.
"We're going to war?"
"That boy convinced the chief?"
"He's just a child!"
So were afraid. Others were skeptical. But a few—especially the younger warriors—felt sothing stirring in their chests.
Hope.
For the first ti, the people were not preparing to flee. They were preparing to fight.
And Khisa stood at the center of it all.
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