CHAPTER 182: CHAPTER 182 - THE HEART OF NURI

The clamor of hammers and the murmur of voices rose like a low song over the growing city. Dust rose from the half-finished road where men and women worked together, their laughter and sweat mingling under the late afternoon sun. For many, it was the first time they had labored with freedom in their muscles, and it showed in the rhythm of their movements — tired, yes, but never broken.

Juma the Builder

Juma hefted a heavy brick onto his shoulder, his back glistening with sweat. A younger boy tried to do the same but stumbled, nearly toppling into the pile.

"Careful there," Juma chuckled, steadying him. "That brick is heavier than your whole belly."

The boy frowned, puffing out his cheeks. "I can carry it. I’m not small."

"Not small? Look at you. When the wind blows, I fear you’ll fly away like a leaf."

The workers nearby laughed, and the boy flushed but lifted the brick again with determination. Juma smiled softly. He remembered being chained, ordered about like an ox. How different it felt now to laugh, to tease, to choose to work.

Another worker, a tall woman named Sefu, joined him, wiping mortar from her hands. "Juma, does it not feel strange? To be building walls again? Not to be inside them?"

Juma paused, staring at the bricks. The boy tugged at his sleeve, waiting for an answer. Finally, Juma said, his voice low but steady, "Once, walls were cages. Now, they are homes. Homes for children who will never taste chains. Nuri, is the hope for people like us. I am scared to think of what would have happened to us, if we were not reacued."

He placed the brick carefully into the foundation, pressing it into the wet mortar. "This... this is freedom built with our own hands. I might not learn how to read like the others, but seeing the homes come together like this, gives me fulfilment."

Sefu smiled, after all the suffering she endured, Nuri was a safe haven.

The boy looked up at Juma, wide-eyed, and whispered, "One day I’ll be as strong as you."

"No," Juma said, smiling with a shake of his head. "I expect you to be much stronger. So make sure to learn well, little one."

Nyaboke the Healer

Not far away, in the shade of a small hut turned apothecary, Nyaboke leaned over a wooden bowl, grinding herbs into powder. The smell was sharp, bitter — a medicine for fever. Her teacher, Mama Rukia, watched her with keen eyes.

"Not too much pressure," Mama Rukia warned. "You crush the leaves too much, you spoil the cure."

Nyaboke sighed, wiping sweat from her brow. "I want to get it right. Every time I close my eyes, I see her... my mother. She burned with fever, and we had nothing but prayers. So many died from such illnesses"

Mama Rukia’s hands softened, reaching over to still hers. "And you think mixing faster will bring her back?"

Nyaboke looked down, ashamed. "No."

"Then be patient, child. Medicine is not war. You cannot rush healing. Listen."

Mama Rukia picked up a handful of leaves, rubbing them gently between her palms. "Do you hear it? The way it crumbles, the way it releases its scent? Plants speak to those who slow down long enough to hear."

Nyaboke closed her eyes, pressing the pestle more carefully this time. She listened — to the scrape of stone on wood, to the soft crush of leaf. Slowly, the bitterness filled the air, sharp but clean.

When she opened her eyes, Mama Rukia nodded. "Better. Much better."

Nyaboke smiled faintly. "Then perhaps one day I’ll heal someone’s mother. And no girl will have to bury hers."

Abdu the Watcher

Across the village square, a young Watcher named Abdu stood between two furious farmers. Both men shouted over one another, faces red, fists clenched.

"He stole water from my canal!" one bellowed.

"It is not your canal, it is the river’s!" the other retorted.

People gathered around, murmuring, waiting to see what the Watcher would do. Abdu’s heart pounded — this was his first dispute without a mentor present. He remembered his mentor’s words: "A Watcher does not take sides. He balances the scale. Your role is to mediate, not picking favorites."

"Enough," Abdu said firmly, raising his hand. His voice cracked slightly, but the crowd hushed.

He turned to the first farmer. "You say the water is yours. Tell me, did you dig the canal?"

The man hesitated. "...No. My father did. Long ago."

"And you," Abdu faced the second farmer. "You say the water belongs to the river. Did you not also plant crops near the canal?"

The man looked away. "I did."

Abdu took a breath, steadying himself. "Then both of you are wrong. The water is not one man’s alone. It feeds both your fields, both your families. You will share it — one day each, alternating. If one breaks this agreement, the whole village will know. You can go to our base and get an agreement drafted officially. We should help each other build our beautiful kingdom."

The crowd murmured in approval. The farmers grumbled but nodded, knowing they had been heard.

As they walked away, a small child tugged at Abdu’s cloak. "Watcher Abdu... one day I’ll be like you."

He blinked, surprised, then smiled. "Then learn to listen more than you speak. That is the first lesson. Make sure to go to school and learn from everyone around you."

As the sun dipped low, the dust of the day settled. The sound of children playing Mbumbwa drifted through the air, their laughter like drums of joy. Juma leaned on his shovel, Nyaboke wiped her hands clean of herbs, and Abdu stood on a rooftop, watching the orange glow spread across the kingdom.

Nuri was not perfect. It was not finished. But it was alive — breathing, growing, holding together the dreams of slaves, healers, farmers, and warriors alike.

And though the world beyond rumbled with the threat of war, here in this moment, there was peace.