The Wrath of the Unchained-Chapter 138- Homecoming

Khisa had returned to Lusimba.

As he passed through the city gates, the sun cast a golden hue across the land, and the people rose in a chorus of cheers, ululations, and praise songs that echoed from the market stalls to the highest rooftops. The air was thick with the scent of roasted maize, wildflowers, and fresh soil—home. The old chiefs and new ministers lined up in full ceremonial attire, their staffs adorned with feathers, beads, and iron rings that clinked with each movement.

His mother stood at the forefront, her hands folded before her, tears silently streaming down her face. When Khisa dismounted, she rushed forward and wrapped her arms around him, holding him tightly as though afraid he might vanish again.

"You’ve returned," she whispered, voice cracking.

"I’m home, Mama," he replied, his voice hoarse.

Behind her, the women who helped raise him came forth—Aunt Wekesa, Mama Nali, old Granny Sefu. They clung to him, weeping openly, their joy unrestrained.

"You still have the same eyes, my son," Granny Sefu said, cradling his face in her gnarled hands. "But you carry the eyes of a man now. A king."

The Shadow Guard received the same welcome. Parents, siblings, even distant relatives broke into tears, embracing them with trembling hands. Ndengu fell into his mother’s arms, both of them sobbing. Nia’s father lifted her off the ground, laughing and crying all at once. Simba stood quietly while his brothers draped an honorary goat hide over his shoulders.

Zuberi’s father, a retired hunter with faded tribal scars, held her face in both hands. "You survived. That’s all that matters."

Ndengu’s mother pulled him into a crushing hug, whispering, "You were always the strongest of us. But you still have your father’s heart."

Traditional Luhya customs were performed in their honor. Drummers beat sacred rhythms. Women ululated in high, rising calls. A warrior’s dance—khuya luno lwa musinde—was performed to bless and welcome back those who had faced death. Calabashes filled with honeyed millet beer were passed around, and children danced, mimicking the warrior stances of their heroes.

Later that evening, Khisa’s mother took him by the hand.

"There’s someone I want you to meet."

She led him into their family compound, and from inside the round hut came the toddling sound of small footsteps and high-pitched babble.

"She’s just two, but her spirit is as wild as a storm."

Out stepped Ayuma.

She was a plump-cheeked, wide-eyed little girl, dressed in a red wrap too big for her. She blinked at Khisa, then frowned, backing up like a kitten about to pounce.

"Who are you?" she asked, fists balled.

Khisa crouched. "I’m your brother."

"No you’re not," she snapped. "My brother lives in Mama’s stories."

He chuckled. "Well, then I’m the brother from the stories."

Ayuma halted and squinted up at Khisa with all the suspicion of a two-year-old who had never seen him before. She picked up a small stick, brandishing it like a sword. "Go ’way! You not my baba!"

Khisa laughed, crouching down. "I’m not your baba, Ayuma. I’m your big brother. And I come bearing mangoes."

He plucked one from the tree, polished it on his robe, and offered it with both hands. She stared him down for a moment longer before snatching the fruit and taking a loud bite. Then she grinned—juice dripping down her chin—and wrapped her tiny arms around his neck.

"You funny. I like you."

"I like you too," he whispered.

She considered that, then launched forward and slapped his knee.

"Ow!" frёeωebɳovel.com

"Test passed!" she yelled, laughing. "You’re real!"

Khisa scooped her into his arms, spinning her around. She squealed in delight and giggled the whole way. Their mother watched with a hand over her heart.

That night, after dinner, Khisa sat with her under a starry sky.

"She’s perfect," he said.

"She missed you before she even knew you," his mother replied.

Khisa sat by the hearth with his mother, the fire crackling between them. He spoke softly, but with certainty. "There’s someone I want you to meet soon. Her name is Azenet. She is the princess of Abyssinia, our new ally. She is strong, brilliant, very beautiful and... kind. I want to marry her."

Nanjala studied him with warm, knowing eyes. "Then bring her home. We’ll prepare a feast in her honor. And you two will need a home, yes? Near the river, perhaps. The soil there sings."

"As much as I would like that, we have to move to the new capital. I’m sure father told you."

"This place has been my home for years," Nanjala sighed.

"Yes," he nodded. "Lusimba has served us well, but the new capital will be Nuri’s heart. It’s still under construction. Soon, we’ll have to move. I’ve already chosen where our home will be—by the eastern riverbanks, where the land sings with water. I will build a magnificent home for Azenet there with my own hands."

She nodded, her expression proud yet wistful.

"You’ve grown up from the cheeky boy who refused to bathe." She laughed.

"I am an old man now mother. Is it really necessary to bring that up right now."

They laughed enjoying the quiet night together.

Later that evening, the city gathered for a grand celebration. A fire was lit in the city square, the flames reaching for the stars. Dancers twirled in skirts of reeds and bells. Drummers beat a rhythm older than memory. Meat roasted over open flames. Sweet honeyed tamarind juice flowed freely.

Khisa sat at the center, Ayuma in his lap, watching the people he had bled for rejoice. The music thundered. The stars watched.

He was finally home.

After a few days of rest, Khisa convened a meeting with the old chiefs, ministers, and new civil leaders. They met in Lusimba’s council hut, where carved wooden seats circled a great fire pit. The room smelled of parchment, sandalwood, and old smoke.

The discussion began with formal updates about rebuilding efforts, housing, and education.

Then Khisa stood. "There is a matter of great importance," he said. "A new alliance has been forged—with Abyssinia. I am sure my father already informed you."

Gasps and murmurs circled the room with nods of agreement.

"I traveled there myself. We share values of unity, strength, and sovereignty. And to honor this alliance, I intend to marry their princess—Azenet."

There was a long pause.

One of the elder ministers, Omwami Kijana, stood. "Marriage is not just a personal affair. It is a bridge between peoples. If this princess reflects the strength and honor you do, we welcome her with open arms."

Others nodded in agreement.

"This bond," Khisa continued, "will stretch beyond politics. It will unite bloodlines and forge peace for generations."

Cheers broke out. Hands clapped. Ululations rose.

When the room calmed, Khisa spoke again. "Now to practical matters. To sustain our trade and alliances, especially with Abyssinia, we need a secure mint for crafting and storing our coin. The economy must be guarded against forgery and theft."

Minister Lombe nodded gravely. "What do you propose?"

"A mint built within the new capital," Khisa said. "Protected by both the city guard and members of the Shadow Guard. Our coins will bear our royal seal—hard to replicate. As for transport, especially toward Abyssinia, we must begin construction of a fortified trade route. Stations with guards, rest points, and surveillance. Bandits will target our wealth if we are not vigilant."

"Agreed," said one of the engineers. "The road must be planned with both terrain and security in mind."

Khisa continued, "We’ll need rotating teams to escort coin shipments, with encoded messages to prevent ambush. I want each coin movement logged. And the mint—no one goes in without clearance. Not even me."

This level of detail impressed the council. They murmured approval.

"And the capital?" someone asked.

"Coming along well," Khisa answered. "But we need more hands. Let’s offer incentives to skilled builders and crafters from across our lands. Nuri should not just be strong—it should be beautiful. A place that inspires."

The elders agreed. One spoke, "Even villages who have not yet met you have heard your name. They wonder if you are man or myth. Soon, they will know you not just as a warrior—but as the heart of a kingdom."

Outside, children peered through the council house windows, whispering. Some had only just moved to Lusimba from the outer villages. To them, Khisa was a storybook figure brought to life.

"That’s him," one boy murmured. "He fought a king with his mind."

"No, he speaks to stars. My uncle swears it."

At dusk, the people of Lusimba gathered in the central square. Fires were lit in large braziers, casting flickering gold across stone walls and eager faces. Dancers performed with spears and shields. Drummers pounded rhythms that shook the bones. Food overflowed from woven baskets—roasted goat, honey cakes, banana stew.

Children carried lanterns made of fish bladder and colored clay. They ran circles around Khisa, laughing, calling him "Prince of Tomorrow."

As the moon rose, Khisa stood on the high platform, watching his people.

This was home. This was Nuri.