The Nyamwezi porter's horrifying news from Zanzibar—of a continent carved up on European maps, of a new British Jenerali named Sinclair leading an army of "tens of thousands" with "cannons that spit fire without end" specifically to annihilate Jabari and his Batembo Kingdom—was not merely a report; it was a death knell, or so it seemed to many in the stunned silence of Jabari's ikulu. The breathing space bought with so much blood and cunning after Harrison's defeat had been brutally, irrevocably terminated. The abstract threat of colonial ambition had coalesced into an approaching iron behemoth.
For Kaelo, residing within the now outwardly stoic Ntemi Jabari, the porter's words were a chilling affirmation of his deepest fears, the historical endgame arriving with terrifying punctuality. The Berlin Conference. He knew its name, its architects, its rapacious anointing of European power over Africa. This General Sinclair was not just another Harrison seeking to avenge a localized defeat; he was the enforcer of a new global order, an agent of systematic, continent-wide subjugation.
While raw fear and despair threatened to engulf the council, Kaelo's mind, forged in the ruthless calculus of twenty-first-century finance and now tempered by years of brutal nineteenth-century warfare, raced. Panic was a luxury they could not afford. He focused Jabari's gaze, making it sweep over each trusted advisor – Hamisi's grim determination, Lبانجى's barely suppressed fury, Mzee Kachenje's ancient sorrow, Kibwana's spiritual stillness, Boroga's pragmatic dread, Juma's youthful apprehension, and Seke's soot-stained intensity. These were the men, the pillars of his nascent kingdom, who now faced their ultimate test.
"They have drawn their lines on maps in distant cities," Jabari's voice cut through the oppressive silence, calm and resonant, Kaelo carefully modulating its tone. "They have divided lands they have never seen, peoples whose names they cannot speak. They believe their paper declarations give them ownership of our souls, of the very soil that holds the bones of our ancestors." He paused, letting the outrage build. "They are mistaken."
He moved to Juma's largest map, a meticulously drawn hide showing the Batembo Kingdom and its surrounding territories. "This General Sinclair comes with a great army. He expects to march through Unyamwezi as if it were an empty field, to crush us under the weight of his numbers and his new weapons. He will find Unyamwezi is not empty. He will find it a land of fire and thorns, a land that fights back with every river, every hill, every blade of grass, every Nyamwezi heart!"
The strategy Kaelo had been developing for such a contingency was now laid bare, no longer a theoretical exercise but a desperate plan for survival. Its core was brutal in its simplicity: deny the enemy everything.
"Boroga," Jabari commanded, his eyes fixing on the master of logistics, "your task is now the most vital. Every village, every homestead that lies in the path of this red tide must be emptied. Our people – the women, the children, the old ones – will move to the pre-prepared strongholds deep in the Wanyisanza forests and the most inaccessible mountain valleys we have fortified. They will take all livestock, all transportable grain. What cannot be moved – granaries, huts, standing crops if the season allows – will be given to the torch by our own hands. The earth itself will be scorched before Sinclair's advance. He will find no food to feed his thousands, no water in the wells that is not bitter with ash, no shelter from the sun or the night chill."
Boroga, his face pale but resolute, nodded. "It will be a hard thing, Ntemi. A sorrowful thing for our people to destroy what they have built."
"It is a harder thing to live as a slave in your own land, Boroga," Jabari stated flatly. "This is the price of freedom."
To Hamisi and Lبانجى, he outlined the military plan. "We cannot meet this Jenerali in a pitched battle. Not yet. His numbers, his cannons, his new rifles that fire many times… they would annihilate us. Instead, we become the unseen storm. The entire Batembo army, and every warrior our allies can muster, will now fight as Lبانجى's skirmishers fought against Harrison, but on a kingdom-wide scale. We will be the shadows that strike from the long grass, the hornets that sting and vanish. We will bleed his army every step of its advance."
The Nkonde sya Ntemi, now numbering nearly four hundred, armed with the best of their captured British rifles and Seke's improving muskets, would be divided into smaller, highly mobile strike forces. They would target Sinclair's scouts, his foraging parties, his messengers, and above all, his enormous supply train. "An army of tens of thousands," Kaelo had Jabari explain, "has a belly that stretches for miles. If we can cut its throat, the beast will starve, no matter how sharp its claws."
Juma's scouts, augmented by Wanyisanza trackers, would be their eyes, their ears, providing constant intelligence on Sinclair's movements, his strengths, his weaknesses. Every pass, every river crossing, every patch of difficult terrain would become a potential ambush site.
Seke's forges, already working at a frantic pace, were given a new, almost impossible set of tasks. "The two great thunder-sticks of Harrison," Jabari commanded, "you will make them speak again, Seke! Even if they only fire stone and scrap iron, their roar will be a message to our warriors and a terror to our enemies. And gunpowder! Every man, woman, and child not fighting or farming will be put to work finding the earths Kibwana has identified, purifying them, mixing the black powder under your direction. We need mountains of it!"
Kaelo knew this was a desperate gamble. Their homemade gunpowder was still inferior. Manning even captured cannons effectively with inexperienced crews was a monumental challenge. But the psychological impact of having their own artillery, however crude, could be immense.
The diplomatic front, too, was thrown into high gear. Mzee Kachenje, his ancient frame seemingly infused with a new, desperate energy, prepared to lead a fresh set of delegations. "Go further than before, old father," Jabari urged him. "To the Hehe, yes, even to the court of Munyigumba himself. To the Sukuma. To the Vinza. To any chief or king who has ever felt the shadow of the coast fall upon his lands. Tell them the truth of Berlin. Tell them of Sinclair's army. Tell them that Jabari of the Batembo does not just fight for Unyamwezi, but for every free African who wishes to remain so. This is not a Nyamwezi war; it is Africa's war. An attack on one is now an attack on all. Those who stand aside today will be consumed alone tomorrow."
The kingdom transformed. A grim, determined purpose settled over the land. The joyous celebrations of past victories were replaced by the stoic preparations for a struggle that everyone knew would be existential. Villages were systematically emptied, the smoke from burning granaries a bitter incense on the wind. Columns of refugees, guided by warriors, trekked towards the designated mountain strongholds, their faces etched with sorrow but also a stubborn refusal to yield.
Lبانجى, his eyes burning with a cold fire, took to the field with his expanded guerrilla forces. As Sinclair's massive column began its slow, methodical advance inland from Bagamoyo – building fortified depots, improving roads, their movements a testament to the logistical might of the British Empire – Lبانجى's warriors struck their first blows. A British reconnaissance patrol, venturing too far ahead, was wiped out in a perfectly executed ambush. A section of Sinclair's supply train, momentarily isolated while crossing a difficult donga, was overrun, precious sacks of flour and boxes of ammunition spirited away, the wagons burned.
The British responded with professional brutality. Villages suspected of harboring Jabari's men were razed, their headmen summarily executed. Sinclair's cavalry (for this expedition, unlike Harrison's, possessed a contingent of mounted infantry and colonial lancers) swept across the plains, trying to hunt down the elusive Nyamwezi skirmishers, but often finding only empty landscape or walking into cleverly laid traps.
Seke, meanwhile, achieved what many had thought impossible. After weeks of relentless effort, surrounded by his sweat-stained apprentices, he successfully test-fired one of Harrison's repaired field guns. Using a charge of his best Nyamwezi gunpowder and a crudely cast iron ball, the cannon roared, sending the projectile smashing into a distant baobab tree. The range was short, the accuracy abysmal, but it was a functioning artillery piece. The cheer that went up from the assembled warriors was deafening. It was a symbol of hope, a defiant answer to British technological supremacy.
Kaelo, watching this unfold, felt the immense, crushing weight of his anachronistic knowledge. He knew the historical trajectory of the Scramble for Africa. He knew the devastating effectiveness of Maxim guns, of disciplined European armies, of the relentless political and economic pressure that had broken so many African kingdoms. He was asking his people to fight a war against a future that, in his own timeline, had already been written.
Yet, he also saw the extraordinary resilience, the fierce courage, the burgeoning unity of the Nyamwezi and their allies. He saw Lبانجى's tactical genius blossoming in the field. He saw Hamisi's unwavering loyalty and skill in training a new kind of army. He saw Boroga's logistical acumen creating order out of chaos. He saw Seke's stubborn ingenuity wrestling with the secrets of iron and fire. He saw Juma's intelligence network becoming a true weapon. He saw Mzee Kachenje and Kibwana inspiring the people with their wisdom and spiritual strength.
Perhaps, just perhaps, they could change the script. Perhaps they could make Sinclair's invasion so costly, so protracted, so nightmarish for the British, that even the mighty Empire would be forced to reconsider the price of conquering Unyamwezi. It was a slim hope, a desperate gamble, but it was the only hope they had.
As reports came in that Sinclair's main column, having established its advanced supply depots, was now beginning its final push towards the Batembo heartland, heading for the strategic chokepoint of the Black Hills, Jabari gathered his war leaders.
"They come," he said, his voice calm, but his eyes reflecting the fire of the forges and the determination of his people. "They come with their great numbers and their terrible weapons. They believe they are marching to our funeral. Let us instead prepare for them a feast of spears, a torrent of fire. Let the Black Hills once again become the anvil upon which a European army is broken. The earth is scorched behind us. Our families are safe in the mountains. Now, we turn and fight. For Unyamwezi! For our ancestors! For the freedom of our children!"
A roar of defiance answered him. The Lion of Unyamwezi and his people, armed with a blend of traditional courage and the desperate innovations sparked by a mind from another time, braced themselves for the onslaught. The red tide was no longer just approaching; its first, murderous waves were about to crash against the sharpened defenses of a kingdom determined to survive.