CHAPTER 201: CHAPTER 201 - THE FRAGILE LIGHT

Mengo sat beneath a quiet sky. The evening sun cast long, golden rays across the palace courtyard, and the air was heavy with the mingling scents of incense and herbs burning in the royal infirmary. Inside, the low murmur of healers mixed with the rhythmic thump-thump of wooden pestles grinding medicine. Every sound seemed distant, muted beneath the weight of fear that hung over them.

Khisa lay on a woven mat draped in soft cotton sheets, his chest rising and falling unevenly. His skin glistened with sweat, fever burning through him as his body fought the infection. Even in his stillness, there was something commanding about him, as if the air itself bent toward him, unwilling to accept that this man who had changed the course of nations could fade so easily.

When Zara, Kiprop, and Onyango arrived, their boots were caked in dust from days of relentless travel. They were led through the guarded corridors of Mengo Palace, past solemn faces and bowed heads.

"Your prince is inside," whispered one of the royal guards. "He has not woken since dawn."

The three exchanged anxious glances before stepping in.

Zara froze the moment she saw him. Khisa, the man who had stood unshaken before armies, who had walked through storms of fire, looked fragile, pale, and human. The scent of dried blood and herbal medicines stung her nose. His left side was heavily bandaged, and every shallow breath sounded like a struggle between life and death.

"Mission complete, Prince Khisa," she whispered, voice trembling.

Her words were meant to sound strong, a soldier’s report, but by the time they reached the air, they broke apart. Tears filled her eyes. Kiprop and Onyango stood behind her in silence, their faces carved in grief.

She knelt beside him and took his hand, calloused and warm.

"Please live, Your Highness. Nuri needs your guidance... and so do we."

Her voice cracked. For the first time, the hardened warrior inside her dissolved. The tears fell freely, quiet but unstoppable. Kiprop placed a hand on her shoulder, his jaw tight, his eyes fixed on Khisa’s still form. Onyango turned away, muttering a prayer beneath his breath.

After a few moments, the healer signaled for them to let Khisa rest. They stepped out quietly, the room’s soft candlelight flickering behind them, a fragile beacon against the encroaching dark.

They gathered in one of the palace chambers where Ole Samoei awaited them. The room smelled faintly of wood smoke and damp parchment, and maps were scattered across the table, lines and marks showing the routes back to Nuri. Samoei’s face was drawn, sleepless but steady.

He gestured for them to sit. "You’ve done well," he said. "I heard about Soares."

Kiprop nodded. "He was the Portuguese commander working with Lumingu. We killed him, though it wasn’t easy. Faizah... she was tortured. But she lived. She’s resting now, back with the Bugandan healers."

A shadow crossed Samoei’s eyes, relief tinged with sorrow. "Good. She’s a strong one."

Zara rubbed her eyes, still red from crying. "We need to return to Nuri soon. The alliance must be sealed while the fire still burns. The people need to know their sacrifices weren’t in vain."

"You’re right," Ole Samoei said, his voice low but resolute. "In a few days we’ll move. I’ve already sent messengers to Lusimba, they’ll inform the council of everything that’s happened. Preparations will be underway by the time we arrive."

Onyango leaned forward. "Do you think the alliance will hold? Between Kongo and Buganda?"

Ole Samoei hesitated, his gaze drifting to the window, where the dim glow of torches flickered along the palace walls. "It will. At least, for now. Nzinga is determined. He’s seen too much to go back. But peace... peace is fragile. It must be guarded like a flame in the wind. There is too much hurt between both kingdoms and the animosity within the people might not die immediately, but I am sure King Nzinga and Kabaka Nakibinge will not let it fail. It is after all our future we are preparing for."

Zara nodded faintly. "And if Khisa doesn’t wake up?"

The question hit like a blade. The room fell silent. Even the crackle of the nearby brazier seemed to pause.

Ole Samoei exhaled slowly, staring at the table. "Then we keep his dream alive. That’s what he built us for. Nuri must stand, with or without him. The Shadow Guard’s duty doesn’t end because the light falters. It burns in us now."

Kiprop clenched his fists. "He would have said the same."

The silence that followed was heavy but united, the silence of those who knew the cost of duty, and who were willing to bear it.

Outside, thunder rumbled faintly in the distance, promising rain. Within the palace, Khisa stirred, his fingers twitching as if reaching toward something unseen.

***

The rain finally came, soft at first, then steady, washing the dust from the roofs of Mengo. The rhythm of it against the clay tiles sounded almost like a lullaby, carrying through the palace halls and into the healing hut where Khisa lay.

His body was still, his breath shallow, but deep within his fevered mind, something stirred. The scent of herbs faded... replaced by something else.

He was back in his old world.

The air smelled of rain-soaked asphalt. He stood beneath a rusted tin roof outside a university dormitory, laughing as his friends argued over who owed who lunch.

"Situma, you can’t keep dodging lunch duty forever," one of them shouted, tossing a paper cup at him.

Khisa — Joseph Situma again — grinned, raising his hands in mock surrender. "Fine, fine! But I’m not buying from that shady chips place again. I swear they fry with motor oil."

Laughter erupted all around him. The faces were clear, familiar: Musa, Carol, Brian, people who had once been his entire world. Someone strummed a guitar in the corner, out of tune but earnest. The sound mingled with the evening hum of Nairobi traffic and the faint aroma of coffee and rain.

For a moment, the peace was intoxicating. He felt light. Free.

No kingdoms, no armies, no wars.

Just a man surrounded by laughter.

But as quickly as it came, the vision began to ripple, like water disturbed by a stone.

Now he stood beneath a wide acacia tree at dusk. The light was warm, golden, the horizon painted in pink and fire. And there she was, Azenet.

She turned toward him, her face soft and radiant. Her hair caught the wind, strands glowing in the sunset. Her eyes, calm, deep, and steady seemed to see right through him. She wore the simple linen robes of the old days, a delicate bracelet he had given her glinting faintly on her wrist.

"You’re late again," she teased gently, the way she always did, her voice lilting with laughter.

Khisa smiled, though the weight in his chest was heavy. "I was finishing something important," he replied, stepping closer. "You’d scold me if I told you how it ended."

Azenet reached out, brushing his cheek with her hand, warm, real, grounding.

"I’d never scold you for trying to save the world," she said softly. "But... don’t forget, you promised me a home."

He swallowed, the ache in his heart tightening. "I haven’t forgotten. I just need more time."

Her expression dimmed, sorrow threading her smile. "Time is cruel, Khisa. It takes everything, even memories. But love... love is what makes the fight worth it."

The world shimmered again — the tree fading, her touch slipping from his skin like mist.

"Azenet..." he called out, voice trembling.

Her voice lingered as everything dissolved into white light.

"Find me again... when it’s all over."

He blinked and found himself standing at a grassy hill overlooking Nuri. The sky burned gold, the wind carrying the scent of smoke and baked earth. Children’s laughter echoed through the village. Small clay houses stood in neat lines, and fields stretched far into the horizon.

He turned, and saw them.

Lusweti, standing tall, his face older, wiser, proud.

Naliaka and Ndengu sparring in the distance, sticks clashing with rhythmic precision.

The children of Nuri chasing one another across the fields, shouting his name in play.

And behind them all, under a great fig tree, stood his mother, her smile warm, eyes gleaming with pride. She didn’t speak, but her gaze said everything.

This was why he fought.

Not for glory. Not for vengeance.

But for them, for the lives that had found hope because he refused to give up.

The wind grew stronger, carrying whispers of familiar voices:

"Prince Khisa... the kingdom needs you..."

"Your vision isn’t done..."

"You cannot rest yet..."

He tried to step toward them, but the ground beneath his feet began to dissolve into mist. The sky dimmed. The sound of drums, war drums, echoed faintly, distant yet calling him back.

"Khisa..."

The voice pierced the haze, pulling him toward consciousness.

"Khisa... wake up..."

He gasped, his eyes fluttering open. The ceiling of the Bugandan hut came into focus, dimly lit by the flickering flame of a single candle. His throat was dry, his vision blurred, but he was alive.

Outside, the rain still fell, gentle, cleansing, steady.

For the first time in days, his breathing evened out. His fever broke.

The healer who kept watch rose from her mat and leaned close, eyes widening as she realized what had happened.

"The prince... he’s waking!" she whispered, before rushing to alert the others.

Khisa closed his eyes again, exhaustion claiming him once more. But this time, it wasn’t fever pulling him under. It was rest, real, healing rest.

And in his final waking thought before sleep reclaimed him, he saw his mother’s smile once more and heard her voice, soft as the rain:

"Rest, my son. You’ve done well... but your path isn’t over."