CHAPTER 199: CHAPTER 199 - THE DAWN AFTER BLOOD

The morning sun rose weakly over the scarred fields, its light falling on the thousands who had gathered in silence. The air still carried the acrid scent of smoke and blood, but today, it was the smoke of peace fires, not war.

King Nzinga stood before the assembled soldiers of both armies. Behind him, wooden pyres were stacked high, each one bearing the fallen from both Kongo and Buganda. Drums beat slowly, mournfully, their rhythm echoing like a heartbeat for the dead.

"Let the flames purify what hatred has tainted," Nzinga said, his voice steady but heavy with sorrow. "From this day forth, this land shall be sacred ground, a reminder of what our pride has cost us."

His gaze swept across the crowd — faces hollowed by grief, eyes shining with tears. "Here, we will raise a monument. The names of the dead, from both sides, will be carved in stone so that no king, no generation, will ever forget. Let their sacrifice bind us, not divide us."

He turned toward the Bugandan ranks. "People of Buganda," he began, his tone solemn yet resolute, "your lands have suffered because of my inaction. Lumingu will be executed for his crimes. This will never happen again. From today henceforth, Kongo and Buganda shall be allies. Let the blood we shed here unite us as kin forever."

The words carried over the plains, meeting the soft wind. There was no cheer, no triumph, only quiet nods and muffled sobs. Perhaps for the first time, both armies shared the same heart.

As the pyres were lit, smoke rose into the morning sky like gray ribbons reaching for heaven. The wind carried the scent of burning wood and herbs, mingling with prayers whispered by hundreds of voices. Some Bugandan soldiers crossed over to kneel beside their fallen Kongo counterparts, helping to cover them in palm leaves and red cloth.

Among them, one young Kongo soldier spoke softly to a Bugandan warrior beside him. "We didn’t know what Lumingu was doing to your people. We fought thinking we defended Kongo."

The Bugandan man looked at him for a long moment before replying. "We didn’t know either. Maybe now... both our nations will stop bleeding."

They clasped forearms in silent respect, not as enemies, but survivors of the same wound.

Later, as the crowd dispersed, Nzinga gathered his generals beneath a lone baobab tree. The firelight flickered across their faces, painting their expressions in amber and shadow.

"Once things settle in Kongo," Nzinga said, "I will personally travel to Buganda to speak with their king. We must rebuild what has been broken and discuss reparations. Tell him that Nuri will act as our mediator."

General Nsamba nodded, though his eyes were still clouded with pain. "There will be scars that words cannot heal, Your Majesty. But... this is a beginning."

"Our people will look to us for answers," Nzinga began, his tone low but resolute. "We cannot return to the old ways. Kongo must heal, and to do that, we must cut away what poisoned her."

General Nsamba folded his arms, grim-faced. "The nobles in Mbanza will not welcome this talk of reform. Lumingu had many friends among them, men who filled their coffers through slave trade and foreign gold."

Kazadi leaned forward, his voice firm. "Then we replace them. Strip them of their influence. Those who thrived on the suffering of others have no place in the new Kongo."

Kabemba nodded. "Our soldiers are weary but loyal. If we show them purpose, rebuilding homes, protecting villages, reclaiming pride, they will follow us."

Mbele exhaled slowly. "But trade will suffer, sire. The foreigners will close their ports to us if we end the traffic in slaves."

"Then we will build our own," Nzinga replied. His eyes gleamed with quiet determination. "Our own roads, our own forges, our own ships. We will stand as a people who trade in skill, not in flesh. Let Kongo’s wealth come from her hands, not her chains."

The tent fell silent again, but this time it was not the silence of doubt, it was the calm before a new beginning.

Kazadi met Nzinga’s gaze. "It will be hard, Your Majesty. But if anyone can unite our people after this, it’s you."

Nzinga looked down at his calloused hands, still stained faintly with the dust of war. "No," he said softly. "It will not be me alone. It will be all of us. And it will be worth it."

As they spoke, the soldiers around them murmured prayers for their dead, recounting how the plague had struck them, how brothers had turned to dust within days. There was guilt — deep, raw guilt — among the Kongo ranks. Even those uninvolved in Lumingu’s schemes felt the shame of his deeds.

An older soldier sat sharpening his blade absentmindedly. "I can still see them," he whispered to no one in particular. "The children in the villages... dying from the sickness we carried. I just want to forget."

"You won’t forget," another answered quietly, staring into the fire. "But you can make sure it never happens again."

Their grief, their remorse, and their hope mingled with the rising smoke — a promise carried to the heavens.

Days later, Nzinga and his army began the long march back to Mbanza. Lumingu rode bound in chains, his once-proud robes torn and dirt-streaked. His face was pale, his eyes hollow, a man realizing the weight of his ruin.

As the soldiers marched, King Nzinga and General Kazadi rode side by side.

"What does this mean for Kongo, Your Majesty?" Kazadi asked, voice low and thoughtful.

Nzinga looked ahead toward the horizon where smoke still lingered from the fires of the fallen. "It means reforms, Kazadi. Healing. We will end the slave trade once and for all and build our own strength... without the interference of foreigners."

Kazadi frowned slightly. "You will face fierce resistance from the merchants. They profit from those chains. They will not give them up easily."

"I am prepared for that," Nzinga replied. "Lumingu’s betrayal has made it clear, those men have no loyalty to Kongo, only to gold. If we do not take back our destiny now, we will be slaves to greed forever."

He paused, his expression softening. "We must protect our people, Kazadi. Never again shall our land be torn apart by ambition and deceit."

Kazadi nodded slowly. "Then may the ancestors guide us, my king. Kongo will see a new dawn."

Nzinga gave a faint, tired smile. "A new era," he said. "And it begins here, on the ashes of what we’ve lost."

The army marched on through the evening mist, their silhouettes long and silent against the dying sun. Behind them, the sacred field still smoldered, the last fire of a bloody age, and ahead, the road to redemption stretched far but steady.