Khisa's journey stretched into months, a grueling expedition that tested his endurance and patience. He and his warriors stopped at every village they came across, announcing the existence of Nuri. Some were curious, some skeptical, others outright dismissive. None pledged allegiance.
Yet, Khisa wasn't discouraged.
"One day, they will come to us," he assured his men.
For now, his priority was strengthening Nuri—militarily, politically, and economically. As he traveled, he meticulously recorded everything of value. He mapped out mineral-rich lands—diatomite, gold, and precious stones. He noted the trees that could produce strong timber, the rivers that could power future mills, the rock formations that could serve as natural barriers. Every village's location, size, and resources were logged in his growing collection of maps.
His warriors, ever loyal but increasingly wary, had one pressing question:
"How do you speak so many languages, Khisa?"
It wasn't just one or two—he seamlessly conversed in dialects from far and wide, often understanding villagers better than their own neighbors.
At first, he brushed off their concerns. But as their suspicion grew, he offered a simple explanation:
"It is a gift from the ancestors."
The warriors exchanged glances. Some nodded, accepting it without question. Others, the skeptical ones, whispered among themselves. A gift from the ancestors? It was a convenient answer, yet they couldn't deny the results.
Khisa's journey eventually brought him to a village in what is now known as central Kenya. Unlike the thriving, cautious communities he had encountered before, this one was on the brink of collapse.
A stench of death hung in the air.
Corpses lay covered in hastily dug pits, the earth still fresh with grief. The living barely clung to life—faces sunken, lips cracked, their bodies weak with dehydration. The people who could still stand moved sluggishly, their steps unsteady. The once vibrant village was silent except for the occasional agonizing wails from inside their huts.
Khisa did not need the system to tell him what this was. Cholera.
His stomach tightened.
He had always thought of war as the greatest enemy, but now he realized disease was a deadlier foe. Unlike warriors, it spared no one—child, elder, warrior, mother.
'Ayaan, how do I help them? Do we even have resources to make medicine? Even in the 21st century people still suffered from Cholera.'
[You need clean water, isolate the sick, we need to sanitizer everything, burn anything that the sick have touched. Without proper resources there is nothing that can be done.]
For the first time in a long while, Khisa felt powerless.
He swallowed the bitter truth: Nuri had been lucky.
There had been no outbreaks, but not because they had good hygiene. They had simply been spared. If a sickness like this reached his people, they wouldn't be prepared. He cursed himself for not prioritizing sanitation.
When he returned, that would change.
His people resisted change. He knew it would be an uphill battle. But this? This was non-negotiable.
They would make soap.
They would filter water.
They would establish hygiene laws.
No one in Nuri would suffer like this.
He would make sure of it.
Meanwhile, in Nuri…
Back home, tensions still simmered.
Nanjala sat among the spiritual leaders, her hands resting in her lap. The matter of Matenje's growing rebellion loomed over them. The elders whispered among themselves before delivering their verdict.
"To move forward, we must squash the rebellion at its root."
The words made her stomach twist.
That wasn't an answer. That was a sentence.
Matenje deserved punishment—of that, she had no doubt. But to root out rebellion entirely? That meant bloodshed. More suffering. More loss.
She couldn't accept that.
She had seen what true cruelty looked like. She had lived it.
Nanjala's mind drifted back to the past—the memory creeping in like a cold wind.
Flashback: The Slaver's Camp
The stench of filth and decay clung to the air.
Nanjala knelt on the hard ground, her wrists bound. Around her, women huddled together, broken shells of themselves.
Some barely clung to life.
Others had already given up.
A girl, no older than twelve, lay beside her, eyes hollow, lips cracked from thirst.
The slavers saw them as nothing.
Worse than animals. Less than insects.
They laughed as men were forced to crawl on all fours, beaten if they dared to rise. One man, once proud and strong, whimpered as a boot pressed against his back, grinding him into the dirt.
The slavers found amusement in their suffering.
A hand gripped her chin, forcing her to look up. The slaver leered at her, eyes filled with mockery.
"You are too proud," he sneered. "We will fix that."
She would never forget the helplessness, the rage. The feeling of being reduced to an object, her fate in the hands of men who saw her as nothing more than property.
Back in the present…
Nanjala's hands clenched into fists.
She would not let her people do the same to each other.
She would not let Nuri become the very thing they fought against.
Her voice was firm as she spoke.
"There must be another way."
The elders looked at her with uncertainty. Some shook their heads, unwilling to entertain the thought.
But she refused to back down.
"If we turn on our own," she continued, "we will be no better than those who enslaved us. We cannot let Nuri be built on fear."
The spiritual leaders murmured among themselves, their expressions conflicted.
Not all of them agreed.
But for the first time, they listened.
Back to Khisa
The sun burned high in the sky as Khisa stood in the afflicted village, watching as his warriors did what little they could to help.
Boiling water. Burying the dead. Keeping the sick isolated.
It wasn't enough.
He clenched his fists. When he returned, things would change.
The people of Nuri did not like change.
They were stubborn fools.
But this time, they had no choice.
Because ignorance wouldn't just cost them progress.
It would cost them their lives.