The village had never felt so still. Even with the quiet murmurs of gathered villagers, an oppressive tension clung to the air like the first signs of a coming storm. Mothers clutched their children close, while warriors sharpened their weapons with rigid jaws, trying to mask their unease. Fires crackled low, casting restless shadows on the ground.
Inside the main hut, the elders sat in a semicircle, their expressions a mixture of wariness and exhaustion. Lusweti stood at the center, his broad shoulders weighed down by the burden of his next decision. Khisa, arms crossed tightly over his chest, stood before them, his young face carved with frustration.
"We cannot win against a thousand warriors, Khisa," Namwamba finally said, breaking the silence. "Our numbers are too few. Our people—too vulnerable. This is not just about warriors. We must protect the elderly, the children, and those who cannot fight."
Khisa clenched his fists. "And what will we do if they come for us again? If we run now, we will never stop running. We will be hunted until there is nothing left of us!"
Murmurs rippled through the elders, but it was Mumia who spoke next. "Do not mistake our hesitation for cowardice, boy. We have fought before, and we have bled for this land. But every battle has its cost."
Lusweti exhaled heavily, rubbing his temple. "I do not wish to surrender, but I will not throw my people into a battle we cannot win."
"Then we must ensure that we can win," Khisa countered firmly. "We do not have to fight them head-on. Let me show you another way."
Silence. The elders exchanged uncertain glances. A few warriors standing at the hut's entrance frowned, their skepticism evident.
"You are still just a boy," an older warrior, Ochieng, muttered under his breath. "What can you teach us about war?"
Khisa ignored the sting of the words. He knew this would happen. He was young, inexperienced in their eyes. But he had knowledge—knowledge none of them could even begin to understand.
"Trust me," Khisa said, his voice unwavering. "We will not fight like warriors who only know brute strength. We will fight like hunters, like the land itself is our weapon."
Lusweti studied his son for a long moment, his unreadable gaze flickering with something unfamiliar. Then, with a slow nod, he stepped aside. "Then speak, Khisa. Show us how we win this war."
Khisa moved to the center of the hut, his mind racing as he laid out his strategy. "First, we must control where the battle happens. The Angwenyi rely on their numbers and their speed. We must take those advantages away from them."
He gestured at the dirt floor, tracing rough lines with his fingers. "Their warriors move quickly on horseback, but horses struggle in thick brush and uneven terrain. We will lead them to the densest part of the forest, where their mounts become a weakness instead of an advantage."
A few warriors exchanged glances.
"That is true," Simiyu admitted. "Our land is uneven, filled with roots and steep hills. If they charge in blindly, their own horses may turn against them."
Khisa nodded. "Exactly. We will create barriers—hidden trenches, sharpened stakes, and fire traps to disrupt their movements."
"Fire?" an elder asked warily.
"Not to burn our land," Khisa reassured. "But to control their path. Smoke and flames can drive them where we want them to go. We will use their numbers against them, force them into choke points where they cannot overwhelm us."
The hut remained tense, but some of the warriors were beginning to listen, their skepticism faltering.
"Weche is our fastest runner," Khisa continued. "We will use him and others to lure their scouts into false positions, drawing their forces where we want them to be. The battle will not be about who is stronger—it will be about who is smarter."
Lusweti crossed his arms. "And what of the village? If this fails, what will happen to those who cannot fight?"
Khisa had already thought of this. "We will create hidden escape routes, places where the elderly and children can flee if needed. Those who cannot fight will not be left defenseless."
Namwamba leaned forward, his expression unreadable. "And if this plan fails?"
Khisa met his gaze without hesitation. "Then we lose everything."
The weight of his words pressed against everyone in the room. But there was no fear in his voice—only certainty.
Word of the decision spread quickly, and the village erupted in whispers. Some were relieved that they would not surrender without a fight. Others were terrified.
"They are just sending us to our deaths," one woman murmured.
"A boy is making the battle plans? What madness is this?" another scoffed.
Elders debated in hushed voices, some still questioning Lusweti's decision.
"This is reckless," one said. "A child leading us? Have we fallen so low?"
Another shook his head. "I do not trust it, but I trust Lusweti. If he has given his son a chance, perhaps we should as well."
Among the younger warriors, there was a different sentiment.
"He is right," one of them muttered. "We cannot keep running. This is our home. If we do not fight for it now, we never will."
Lusweti stood by, listening. The uncertainty in their voices cut deep. He had spent his life making the best decisions for his people. Now, he was entrusting that burden to his son. Had he done enough to prepare him? Would this gamble cost them everything?
Mumia approached him, watching the villagers carefully. "They doubt him," he said simply.
Lusweti sighed. "I do not blame them."
Mumia studied him for a moment. "Do you?"
Lusweti didn't answer.
As the sun dipped below the horizon, the villagers gathered in the center of the village. The drums began—a slow, steady rhythm that echoed deep in their bones.
The warriors were painted with sacred markings, symbols of protection and strength. Women sang songs of ancestors long past, calling upon their spirits to stand with them. The scent of burning herbs filled the air, carried by the wind to the gods who watched over them.
Lusweti raised his hands, and silence fell. "Tonight, we do not go to war alone. We walk with those who came before us. We fight not just for ourselves, but for those who will come after us."
A warrior stepped forward, a carved wooden bowl in his hands. "Drink," he said, offering it to the first in line. "Let the ancestors guide your hands."
One by one, the warriors drank, their expressions solemn. Khisa watched, his heart pounding. This was not just a battle. It was the turning point of their future.
The time for hesitation was over.
The war had begun.