The capital had never been so silent.
From the palace balcony, Lord Mvemba looked down upon the sea of faces that filled the courtyard and spilled into the streets beyond. The people of Kongo — merchants, guards, healers, children perched on their fathers’ shoulders — all waited with bated breath.
The banners of the kingdom hung limp in the early wind, the sky pale and washed clean by the dawn.
Behind Mvemba stood the ministers, their faces tight with anxiety. To one side, Father Nzuzi held a small scroll containing the accusations. But it was Mvemba who would speak — his voice would carry the truth into history.
"My brothers and sisters of Kongo," he began, his voice deep and steady, carrying over the crowd. "You have come seeking answers — for your king, for your homes, for your future. You will have them now."
A murmur rippled through the people.
Mvemba raised the scroll, unrolling it slowly. "These are the records of treason — letters, sealed with the mark of one man. Evidence of plots written in his own hand, bearing the names of those who conspired to sell this kingdom piece by piece to foreign powers.
His crimes extend further than that, he conspired with foreigners to cripple our neighboring kingdom of Buganda. He sent a deadly disease, disguised in food and clothes, his actions caused the deaths of hundreds. If that wasn’t enough, he dared to attempt the assassination of the king and his family. Ten ministers fell by his hand and his men."
He paused, letting the tension settle.
The people murmured in disbelief.
"The man responsible for this betrayal is not a stranger among us."
"He is Lumingu Mbemba once our trusted governer, now exposed as traitor to the throne and to every soul in Kongo."
The silence broke like glass.
"No!" someone cried from the crowd. "That cannot be!"
Others shouted in disbelief, some in anger, some in fear.
Mvemba raised his hand for calm. "You do not have to take my word. Look for yourselves. The documents were seized from his own camp. His private guards confessed. He turned his sword not against the enemy — but against his own people."
Faces shifted — doubt turning to horror, horror to fury.
A woman near the front of the crowd shouted, "My husband never came home from Lumingu’s campaign! You mean he killed his own men?"
Mvemba nodded grimly. "Those who resisted him were silenced. A kingdom bordering Buganda came to their aid during the plague, they uncovered Lumingu’s treachery and decided to help us before we fell to his schemes as well.
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They risked their lives in our streets and bled for a land that is not their own, so that this kingdom might be free of corruption."
The crowd murmured again, this time softer, a mix of awe and gratitude.
"Where are they now?" a child’s voice called.
Mvemba smiled faintly. "Resting. They have done their part. And now it is our turn."
He drew himself up, shoulders squared. "From this day, Lumingu Mbemba is stripped of all title and honor. His property will be seized. His followers will face trial. His name will be spoken only as a warning to those who think power stands above justice."
A wave of applause broke through the courtyard, raw and furious.
Men pounded their fists against their chests.
Women raised their voices in chants.
Children clapped without understanding, swept up in the energy.
Lord Mvemba waited until the noise softened, then spoke again — quieter, more solemn.
"But remember this," he said. "We have torn away the mask of one traitor, but the wound he left still bleeds. We must rebuild our trust, our faith, our unity. The king still fights for us in the field, and when he returns, he will find a kingdom ready to stand by him — not one divided by fear. Lumingu will be captured and brought before you, he will answer for his crimes. The king will ride with our soldiers in battle and come back victorious."
He turned to Father Nzuzi, who lifted a hand and began to pray aloud, his words a deep chant that rolled over the crowd. The people bowed their heads, murmuring along, the energy shifting from anger to hope.
When the prayer ended, Mvemba raised his voice one last time.
"Kongo will not fall. Kongo will rise."
The roar that followed shook the palace walls.
Drums began to beat from somewhere in the city. People embraced, shouted, wept.
And above it all, the first full light of morning broke across the sky — washing the capital in gold.
In the shadows of the courtyard, Father Nzuzi turned to Lord Mvemba and said quietly, "It is done. The truth has spoken."
Mvemba exhaled, his shoulders heavy. "Yes," he murmured, watching the crowd swell like a living tide. "But the truth is only the beginning. We have much to do."
He turned, the cheers echoing behind him as he walked back into the palace — the dawn shining on his back, and the long work of rebuilding ahead.
Lumingu and his army finally camped out after days of marching.
The camp lay like a sleeping beast beneath the stars, drums muffled now to watchful silence as the generals sent scouts across the plain to find the Bugandan line; inside his tent, Lumingu sat like a man in a fever, frustration carving hollows into his face as he rifled through maps and plans that no longer mattered
"These petty savages had unraveled months of careful plotting." He said gritting his teeth.
He paced until the map creased beneath his boots and finally slammed his hand on the table, calling for one of the Restorers—a hulking veteran whose skin told of a thousand fights.
When the giant filled the flap, Lumingu’s voice came sharp and brittle, "When you get the chance, kill that little prince. Bring me his head. Hang it from the capital gate so every traitor remembers."
The Restorer inclined his head, a simple soldier’s acknowledgment; to him the order was routine, but he watched Lumingu closely and felt the tremor in the man’s fingers.
’He is losing control.’ He thought, leaving the tent.
The battle drew closer, the victory yet to be decided.