CHAPTER 208: CHAPTER 208 - SONGS OF ARRIVAL

The journey took many weeks.

Through dust, rain, and open plains, the delegation pressed on, carts creaking under supplies, oxen lowing as they crossed the winding rivers and the green folds of the northern lands. By the time the hills of Buganda rose before them, the people of Nuri were weary but filled with wonder.

The road widened into a broad, red path shaded by towering fig trees. Ahead, drums were already echoing across the valley, deep, resonant beats that rolled through the air like thunder announcing rain. As they drew closer, the sound grew louder, layered with the high, rhythmic ululations of women and the sharp bursts of horn calls.

"Buganda welcomes you!" a voice cried from the crowd ahead.

And suddenly, the horizon moved, people lined both sides of the road, dressed in brilliant cloths of bark, beads, and dyed cotton. The scent of roasted plantain and sweet banana beer drifted on the breeze. Women with gleaming brass anklets danced in circles, hips swaying to the pounding drums, while young men clapped spears against their shields in a warrior’s rhythm of greeting.

A chorus began to sing, their voices rich and layered, rising and falling in harmony.

"Welcome, children of the sun, friends from the east,

Our fire is yours, our food your feast."

Nuri’s representatives, led by the seasoned Minister Juma, stood in quiet awe. The warmth of the welcome, the music, the energy of the people, it was unlike anything they had seen.

A Buganda elder stepped forward, his robe woven with gold-threaded bark cloth. He raised his hand and smiled, revealing teeth stained dark from kola nuts.

"Travelers of Nuri," he said in a deep, measured tone. "The Kabaka of Buganda opens his gates and his heart to you. May your feet never tire, and your path always return in peace."

Juma bowed slightly, his voice carrying with practiced diplomacy.

"We come with friendship, and with the blessings of our king and the spirits of our ancestors. May our meeting strengthen both our nations."

The elder nodded approvingly and motioned for them to follow. The procession wound through wide courtyards filled with dancers and drummers, toward the royal enclosure, an architectural marvel of reed, timber, and carved totems. The gates were tall, guarded by men wearing leopard skins across their shoulders and polished spears in hand.

Inside, the Kabaka’s palace gleamed with order and elegance. Large clay jars brimmed with banana wine. Woven mats formed intricate patterns on the polished floor. The Kabaka himself sat at the far end of the grand hall, tall and regal, his neck adorned with rows of beads and cowrie shells that caught the sunlight. His council of elders sat beside him, each with a staff carved from fine wood, their eyes observing every new face with curiosity.

When the delegation bowed, the Kabaka rose slightly, a sign of respect that sent murmurs through the hall.

"Rise, friends of Nuri," he said in a commanding yet welcoming voice. "Your king’s name reaches our hills carried by the winds. We have heard of his wisdom and the order he has brought to your lands. It honors us to host his messengers. We owe your kingdom a great deal for saving our people from the plague and the schemes of our enemies."

Juma smiled, inclining his head.

"The honor is ours, great Kabaka. Nuri’s friendship comes with open hands, not empty ones. We bring knowledge, news, and goodwill."

The Kabaka gestured for attendants to bring calabashes filled with banana beer. The sweet, fermented aroma filled the air as the visitors were served.

"Then let friendship begin with a drink," the Kabaka declared.

A cheer erupted. The drums began again, softer now, rhythmic, ceremonial.

One of the Buganda councilors leaned forward, curiosity in his voice.

"They say your people build houses of clay and stone that shine like fire when the sun sets. Is it true?"

Juma chuckled, pleased. "True indeed. Perhaps one day, Buganda’s own hills will gleam the same way."

The councilor grinned. "Then you must teach us that craft before you leave."

"We shall," Juma promised.

An elder leaned toward Minister Achieng’, his face lined with years of counsel. "Tell me, madam, when prince Khisa passed by here, he was gravely injured during the battle with Kongo. Has he recovered?"

Achieng’s smile softened. "He has, by the grace of the ancestors. The wound was deep, but Nuri’s healers have grown wiser through his trial. He walks again, slower than before, but his mind is as sharp as ever."

The elder nodded approvingly. "The spirits test the strong so that they may rise wiser. His courage has become an inspiration to our warriors."

Another councilor, younger and eager, spoke up. "We also heard of the weapons used in that war. Spears that split shields, arrows that pierced iron, and great traps that swallowed enemy ranks. Our warriors were shocked by the power behind them, even with the little training the received from the prince, seeing it in action amazed them."

Minister Juma chuckled, sipping his drink. "They are not too strange, simply crafted with thought. Our people have learned to use earth, wood, and fire as one. Some call them ’Khisa’s tricks,’ but they are born from study, not sorcery. We have been in various battles with foreigners, it has forced us to grow as well."

The young councilor’s eyes widened. "Then your warriors do not fight like others. They must be incredible. I’ve only heard tales from our warriors, I wish I could have witnessed it."

"Perhaps," Juma said. "But even the strongest spear is useless without the unity of those who wield it. That is the true weapon of Nuri."

The Kabaka laughed, pleased. "Wise words! Perhaps when this meeting ends, our smiths and your craftsmen can trade secrets. It would do my army good to learn a little of these... ’tricks.’"

Minister Achieng’ inclined her head. "We would be honored, Your Majesty. As we share our knowledge, so too shall we learn from your discipline, for Buganda’s warriors are famed across the lands."

The Kabaka’s grin widened. "Then this alliance will be one of equals."

The Kabaka turned to his guests as the night deepened. "Tomorrow, we shall speak of trade and alliance. But tonight, let us feast as brothers."

As laughter and conversation filled the hall, the tension of diplomacy gave way to easy camaraderie. Outside, torches were being lit. The night air turned cool and fragrant with burning herbs. Couriers led the delegation to their prepared quarters, spacious huts woven with reed walls and bark cloth roofs, overlooking a calm pond filled with lilies.

A young Buganda attendant bowed deeply. "Rest well, honored guests. Tomorrow, when the sun climbs high, the council shall meet in the Great Hall of Drums."

Juma nodded, his eyes taking in the beauty of the palace gardens, the flicker of fireflies, the hum of distant music, the faint sound of laughter echoing beyond the walls.

"Tell your people," he said softly, "that Nuri sleeps peacefully tonight under Buganda’s stars."

The attendant smiled proudly. "Then our welcome is complete."

And as the delegation settled into their rooms, the last of the drums faded into the night, steady, reassuring, as if promising that tomorrow’s dawn would bring something new.