The air in Lusimba was fresh and cool, carried from the great lake that bordered the western reaches of the Nuri Kingdom. Queen Nanjala walked calmly through the settlement, her regal presence bringing a sense of ease to those she passed. The market bustled with activity, children played in the shade of wide acacia trees, and elders shared stories on carved wooden benches. But Nanjala’s mind was focused. She had mediated three land disputes, arranged food for a caravan of newcomers, and was now working with her advisors to finalize irrigation plans for the coming dry season.
As she crossed the threshold into the shaded community court, two young women—Kaya and Nyaruai—fell into step beside her. They were junior advisors, brilliant and bold, and never missed a chance to tease their queen.
"So," Kaya said lightly, "which was worse—convincing Kifworo to share his mango tree or listening to old Mama Koto pretend she didn’t plant maize on her neighbor’s plot?"
"I’d say the mango tree," Nanjala said dryly. "But only because Kifworo cries when he’s angry."
Nyaruai snorted. "Next time, we should arm you with honey cakes and a stick."
"Maybe both," Nanjala replied. "Diplomacy works best with options."
Then came the Watcher—barely out of breath but clearly agitated.
"My Queen," he said, bowing. "There are visitors at our gates. Strangers, not from Nuri. They crossed the lake to get here. They are... distressed."
Nanjala’s brows narrowed with concern. "Are they foreigners? Dutch? Portuguese?"
"No, my Queen. They are Africans. Only one among them speaks Swahili, the rest speak a language I did not recognize."
She nodded. "Escort them to the guest quarters. Give them food and water, and see to it they are welcomed with warmth. I will meet them there shortly."
Within the hour, the strangers were seated in the shaded guest wing, eyes wide with wonder. They were clearly shaken, their clothes marked with the dust of long travel, but even in fatigue, their posture held dignity. The visitors examined the stone walkways, the structured homes, the solar-heated water basins with expressions that wavered between awe and disbelief.
Queen Nanjala arrived in a simple cotton robe embroidered with gold thread. Her presence silenced the room.
One man rose and bowed. "I am Bakemba, a humble trader from the Kingdom of Buganda. I will act as translator. These are my people—Kawesa, our chief spirit-mender, Nabirye, an herbalist, Mukasa, a hunter, and several others. We come seeking aid, your Majesty."
She took a seat and gestured for water and fruit to be brought. "You are welcome in Nuri. Speak freely."
Bakemba’s voice trembled slightly. "Our land... it is afflicted. A curse, perhaps. A disease. We do not know. Our people are dying. Our rituals, our medicines, even the old prayers—nothing has worked. We came across the lake in desperation. We bring what we could—goats, cattle, ivory, bark cloth. We do not seek charity."
Nanjala leaned forward, eyes steady. "How long has this been happening?"
"Many moons. It began in the southern villages, then spread north. Now even the royal court is uneasy. Crops wither around the afflicted. The air smells of rot. The healers burn herbs, but nothing helps."
A tall, grizzled man with narrow eyes scoffed. He wore a necklace of bones and carried a gourd tied with leather straps. Bakemba translated his words.
"This is Kasirye," he said reluctantly. "He is our most senior healer. He says... he doubts your people can help. That we’ve tried everything already. What new knowledge could your kingdom possess that Buganda’s ancient line has not?"
Queen Nanjala’s gaze sharpened.
"Bakemba," she said, "translate this exactly."
She waited a beat, then continued. "Your doubt is born of fear, not wisdom. If your ways had worked, you would not be here. You ask for help, but speak with scorn. That is not the path of survival. We in Nuri have grown strong because we chose to evolve. If you close your eyes to new light, you will drown in darkness."
Kasirye said nothing, his jaw clenched. But several others nodded slowly. Nabirye, the young herbalist, stepped forward.
"I believe we must try, Kasirye," she said in Luganda. "Let us learn what they know. Even the ancients once learned from others."
Bakemba nodded solemnly.
"Weche," she turned to the Watcher guarding her. " Send word to Wanjiru, tell her I need her and her sharpest minds right away."
Weche nodded and bolted.
Soon after, Wanjiru, Nuri’s chief healer, arrived with her entourage of apprentices. She carried a carved walking stick and wore a sash filled with tiny gourd pouches. After hearing the symptoms, she grew pale.
"This may not be spiritual at all," she said. "It could be something that spreads through water or touch. If so, it is not just Buganda at risk. We are too close."
Nanjala’s face turned grave.
"We must leave at dawn. I will take my team and all the herbs I can gather. We will need masks, salves, medicines... and guards. This could be a crisis."
"Then it shall be so," Nanjala replied without hesitation. "I will send word to Prince Khisa in the capital and King Lusweti in Malindi. We may need more healers, and quickly. You will travel with a Watcher escort and soldiers for protection and support."
Wanjiru bowed and left swiftly, already issuing commands to her apprentices.
That night, as the Buganda delegates rested and feasted, Mukasa—the hunter—approached one of the Watchers.
"This place," he said in halting Swahili. "Is like a dream. Do your children really go to school? With books?" For original chapters go to novel{f}ire.net
The Watcher smiled. "Every one of them. You’ll see more tomorrow."
Kasirye, the doubting herbalist, lingered near the fire, gazing at the stars. Queen Nanjala noticed him.
He didn’t look at her, but spoke softly. "I have walked far. I have buried too many. If your ways can save even one child... then let me see them."
She nodded, offering him a piece of roasted cassava.
The next morning, before the sun touched the lake, a convoy departed—carrying the hopes of two kingdoms.