As the morning sun broke over the capital, its rays dancing across rooftops and the grand stone walls of the citadel, Prince Khisa stood in his study, reading the letter from Queen Nanjala with a deep furrow between his brows. The paper still smelled faintly of eucalyptus—Nanjala’s personal seal.
"We received visitors from across the lake. A disease afflicts the people of Buganda. The death toll is only rising per day. It may spread fast and might reach us. Wanjiru has departed with a team. More medics may be needed. I trust you will act swiftly."
He lowered the letter and turned sharply to the watcher nearby.
"Summon Naliaka. Tell her to come at once—with the Shadow Guard commanders."
Minutes later, Naliaka arrived, still wearing her training gear. Behind her came two senior Shadows, Wasike and Tiriki, silent and focused.
Khisa wasted no time. "Guests arrived in Lusimba, they need our help. A mysterious illness is sweeping through their land. Queen Nanjala has already sent Wanjiru and her team. I want a small unit of our medic trainees to go with them. This is their chance to gain experience under pressure—but they are not to take unnecessary risks. Their task will be more than just medical, they will need to investigate the origin of the disease. If we know what caused it, prevention will be easier."
Naliaka’s sharp eyes glinted with understanding. "How many should we send?"
"10 medic trainees. Two Shadows to escort them—preferably quiet ones. You will not interfere with their mission, your job is purely to observe and just help out the others in general. The medic trainees will need to form deductions on their own. If they make mistakes do not interfere as well. This is their chance to learn." The source of thɪs content is NoveI-Fire.ɴet
Wasike stepped forward. "Tiriki and I will go."
"Are you sure you want to go Tiriki? Your last mission was not an easy one. I will not refuse if you want to take it easy a bit longer." Khisa said.
Tiriki stepped forward and offered a salute, "My job as a shadow is to help Nuri as much as possible. My training was hard and my mission taxing, but that does not matter. When Nuri needs me, I will go whenever it calls."
Khisa nodded. "Perfect. I trust you both. Move swiftly. Join Wanjiru’s party if you can catch them. If not, follow her path until you reach Buganda."
Wasike saluted, and Naliaka turned to leave, already issuing orders to the mkono wa Giza participating in the construction.
She issued her commands like blades drawn in quick succession. She handed a scroll of names to a courier. "Take this to the mountain garrison. Wake the medic squad and prepare them for travel. Have them meet Wasike and Tiriki on the eastern trail."
By midday, the medic trainees—clad in black-trimmed gray tunics and bearing satchels of supplies—were already riding east, two Shadows at their side like silent guardians.
Farther south in the vibrant port city of Malindi, King Lusweti received the news a day later. He sat beneath a mango tree in council with coastal elders when the messenger arrived in a carriage soaked with sweat but determined.
The king read the parchment in silence, then stood, eyes narrowing as he addressed his generals and the royal physician, Ajuma.
"A plague in a neighboring kingdom, Buganda... Nanjala has acted, and Khisa already dispatched the Shadows. We will not be left behind. That plague might reach Nuri if we don’t contain it fast."
Ajuma bowed. "I will prepare a caravan. We have stores of medicine here not available inland. It may take longer, but we will reach them."
Lusweti’s voice was resolute. "Take what you need—riders, wagons, and guards. Carry with you not just cures, but our kingdom’s honor."
The team began assembling immediately. From the salt-rich coast to the distant heart of Buganda, Nuri’s reach extended like a lifeline of hope.
On the Road to Buganda
Meanwhile, Wanjiru’s team pushed north, the jungle slowly thickening around them. The Buganda guides led the way through vine-laced trails and past abandoned villages where birdsong had been replaced by silence.
Kasirye, the elder healer from Buganda, began to soften. He walked beside Wanjiru, asking questions in slow Swahili.
"You use... powder from that root?" he asked, pointing to a pale herb she ground between stones.
"For inflammation and internal heat," Wanjiru answered gently. "It stops fever before it worsens."
Nabirye listened closely, taking notes in her leather-bound journal. "Your methods are... so organized. Every measure. Every dose."
Wanjiru smiled. "Our medicine must serve both the body and the spirit. That’s what we believe here. Both are necessary. Of course we pray to our ancestors, but we also take strides to make life easier, so we never have to face such death if we could prevent it."
The group moved swiftly, but not carelessly. Watchers scouted ahead, cutting paths and checking for signs of the disease. Two had already spotted sick animals near a stream—a troubling omen.
That evening, just as they made camp near a hilltop ridge, two dark figures emerged from the mist, Wasike and Tiriki, with the ten medic trainees behind them.
"You made it," Wanjiru said, surprised.
"Barely," Tiriki replied, removing his cowl. "But we’re here."
The young medics bowed to Wanjiru and introduced themselves—Chege, Atieno, Muna, Mulamwa, Joyi, Githu, Samia, Kipchoge, Halima and Njeri—eager, focused, and carrying neatly wrapped herbal cases.
The party now numbered over thirty—healers, warriors, and hopeful allies.
As the fires flickered and the jungle hummed with life, Queen Nanjala’s words echoed in Wanjiru’s heart:
"Nuri will always open its doors to those in need."
Ahead, the village appeared—if it could still be called that.
Huts sat crooked, some half-collapsed. Children cried weakly from shadowed doorways. Smoke clung to the air, mingling with the fetid stench of sickness. Buzzing flies clouded around bodies—some barely moving, some not at all. Dogs barked and then fell silent. There were no songs, no laughter.
Tiriki tightened the cloth around his face. "It’s worse than we thought."
The medics halted, eyes wide. Joyi gagged and turned away, fighting bile. Atieno muttered a prayer under her breath.
Wanjiru raised her voice calmly. "Don’t panic. First steps—secure the camp perimeter. No touching anything until I say."
She pointed to a clearing. "Set up here. Tents in a wide ring. No one goes near the infected unless they’re masked and gloved."
"Boil all water," she barked. "Start fires and keep them burning—smoke will help keep pests away. Burn your clothes if you come into contact with the sick. Use the soap. Do not eat unless your hands are scrubbed. Masks on—always."
Samia asked, "Should we try to teach them hygiene now?"
Wanjiru shook her head. "Later. Right now, we stabilize the dying."
Halima grabbed a pot and began filling it at a spring farther uphill. "This water’s upstream—looks clean."
"Boil it anyway," said Kipchoge. "Everything. Twice."
By sundown, the medics were already moving like clockwork. Wanjiru split them into teams—triage, supply, care. Tiriki and Wasike patrolled the outskirts, eyes sharp for signs of trouble.
They treated a boy no older than eight, his body wracked with tremors. Githu held him steady while Muna fanned his forehead. Joyi dripped herbal tincture between his cracked lips. The boy’s chest rose, slowly, rhythmically.
Wanjiru knelt beside him. "He’ll live. For now."
That night, as stars scattered across the sky, she sat by the fire, weary but resolute. Around her, her team whispered updates, tended wounds, washed cloths by moonlight.
Hope wasn’t loud. It didn’t ride in on horses or roar like drums. Sometimes, it arrived quietly—wrapped in bandages, whispered through trembling prayers, or in the scent of clean water boiling over firewood.
Sometimes, it came wearing gray and black and spoke with a Nuri accent.
She looked around the camp. A Buganda child, carried by his sick mother, lay wrapped in cloth beside one of the tents. Already his breathing had steadied from the medicine Wanjiru had given.
Hope was not a weapon—but in the right hands, it was just as powerful.