Khisa had fought many battles, but this was the first time he had returned home feeling more like a failure than a victor.
The gates of Nuri loomed ahead, yet his heart felt heavier with each step. The 290 Kikuyu survivors who followed him had suffered too much. They had left behind their dead, their homes, and their pasts. And even on the journey back, they had lost ten more souls—claimed by exhaustion, sickness, or the wild.
Each loss had chipped away at their hope, until some of them walked like shadows, their eyes dull with grief.
And yet, as they approached, the people of Nuri erupted into cheers.
Drums pounded in celebration, voices called out, and children ran to see the newcomers. The air was filled with ululations and laughter, as if they had all returned from a grand victory.
But Khisa did not feel victorious.
He raised a hand for silence.
"These are our brothers and sisters," he said, his voice carrying over the crowd. "They have suffered more than any of us can imagine. Welcome them, not with curiosity, but with kindness."
Then, turning to the Kikuyu, he continued in Kiswahili, the language he had insisted they learn. "From now on, speak only Kiswahili with our people. It will unite us."
The Kikuyu hesitated. They were strangers here. But as the women of Nuri stepped forward, offering food, clothing, and warm embraces, the stiffness in their shoulders eased. Children reached out to one another, first shy, then playful. The first barriers between them began to fall.
As Khisa watched, a weary woman caught his gaze. She clutched the hand of a boy barely five years old, his eyes empty, his little body thin with hunger.
She bowed her head. "We lost everything."
Khisa swallowed hard. "You are Nuri now. And in Nuri, no one is forgotten."
She nodded once, silent, but a tear slipped down her cheek.
A Heavy Heart
As the crowd settled, Lusweti and Nanjala appeared, relief and concern etched into their faces.
His mother was the first to pull him into an embrace. "You have been gone too long."
Khisa let himself lean into her warmth, just for a moment, before Lusweti's firm grip on his shoulder brought him back.
"Tell us everything," his father said.
Khisa took a deep breath.
He told them of the Kikuyu's suffering, how the sickness had taken so many that there were more graves than homes left behind. He spoke of the resistance he faced from those unwilling to leave their lands, the duel in Maasai country that had nearly cost him his life, and the horrors of watching people waste away from an enemy he could not fight.
Then, he unfurled a map, one he had sketched on the journey. "This is everything I learned. The land, the people, the resources. Those who resisted will come eventually. When they have no other choice."
Lusweti studied the map, nodding. "Good. We will be ready for them."
But before Khisa could respond, Nanjala's expression darkened.
"We faced our own battle here," she said.
Khisa's tired eyes flicked between them. "Matenje?"
Lusweti exhaled sharply. "He tried to overthrow us."
Khisa's stomach twisted. He had known this was coming, but not so soon. "And?"
"We stopped him. For now," Nanjala said. "But he is patient. He will try again."
Khisa clenched his jaw. "If he isn't dealt with soon, he will succeed."
"That is why we created the constitution," Nanjala said, her voice firm.
Khisa frowned. "A constitution?"
Nanjala stepped forward, unfurling a parchment marked with precise, deliberate writing.
"It became clear while you were gone," she explained, "that Nuri could not function as a simple village anymore. Our numbers are growing too fast, and with that comes disorder. Lusweti could not handle every dispute, and people like Matenje thrive in uncertainty. So I proposed that we create laws—rules that every citizen must follow, with punishments for those who break them."
Khisa scanned the parchment.
The First Laws of Nuri
1. Murder is punishable by exile or death.
2. Theft is punishable by labor for the kingdom.
3. Land disputes must be settled by council ruling.
4. All children must be taught to read and write.
5. No one may be enslaved within Nuri's lands.
His eyes lingered on the last law.
"This…" he muttered. "This changes everything."
Lusweti nodded. "It was time. And it is only the beginning."
Khisa exhaled. He should have felt proud. He should have felt relieved that Nuri was evolving beyond just survival.
But instead, all he felt was exhaustion.
His fingers tightened around the parchment before he suddenly lowered his head, squeezing his eyes shut.
For weeks, he had kept moving. He had pushed forward, refusing to stop and feel. But now, standing here in the home he had fought so hard to protect, the weight of his failures crashed down on him.
A sharp breath left his throat.
Then another.
And before he could stop himself, Khisa broke down.
His shoulders shook as he covered his face with his hands, unable to hold it in anymore.
He had lost so many.
He had carried children to their graves.
He had watched strong men wither to bones.
He had left behind families that would never be whole again.
Lusweti stepped forward first, gripping his son's shoulder.
"You did everything you could," he said, his voice steady, unshaken.
Nanjala placed a gentle hand on his arm. "And because of you, hundreds are still alive."
Khisa let out a slow, shuddering breath.
"You are not alone," Lusweti continued. "And one day, long after we are gone, the people will remember what you did. They will speak of your name for generations, Khisa."
The words settled deep within him, heavy but firm.
He wasn't sure if he believed them.
But for the first time in weeks, he allowed himself to be comforted.
After a few days of rest, Khisa found himself watching a Mbumbwa match, listening to the roaring crowd. It was a simple thing, yet it reminded him that Nuri was still growing, still thriving.
But there was one more thing he needed to address.
Gathering his advisors, he spoke with renewed determination.
"We need to improve hygiene."
Cholera had torn through the Kikuyu lands, and he would not let it happen in Nuri.
He had seen something among the foreign traders—a slippery substance that cleaned their hands. Soap.
"We can make our own," he declared. "With animal fat, ash, and water."
There was uncertainty at first. It was unfamiliar, strange.
But Khisa had led them through greater changes before.
And if it would protect his people—if it would stop the suffering he had seen with his own eyes—then he would ensure that, like everything else in Nuri, they would adapt.
Because Nuri was not just surviving anymore.
It was becoming a kingdom.