The Wrath of the Unchained

The council hall of Buganda stood tall, woven from thick reeds and beams of aged timber. Shafts of light poured through gaps in the roof, striping the floor with golden veins. Outside, rain clouds threatened the afternoon, but within, the air was warm with tension.

Khisa stood before the Kabaka and his council of elders—each seated on carved wooden stools, wrapped in barkcloth and layered robes, their expressions guarded but curious. Mugwanya, the eldest among them, tapped his flywhisk absently against his knee. Ssebugwawo, sharp-eyed and lean, watched Khisa as if weighing every breath. And beside them sat Kato, younger than the rest, his beaded armband glinting as he leaned forward.

The Kabaka nodded at Khisa. "With the disease under control, we must look ahead. Let us discuss the terms of the trade agreement."

There was a low murmur of assent. One elder—a broad-shouldered man named Mugwanya, chieftain of the Buziga hill clans—nodded stiffly but didn’t smile.

The Kabaka continued, "Now, we must return to why we welcomed Prince Khisa in the first place. A trade agreement—so our futures may be bound not just in gratitude, but in shared purpose."

He gestured toward Khisa. "You may proceed."

Khisa bowed slightly. "Our people are safer now. And our friendship deserves foundation."

He unrolled a blank scroll onto a smooth plank of wood, dipping his reed pen in ink. The sight of the pen alone stirred murmurs from the council.

"You insist on trapping words with ink?" Mugwanya asked, eyes narrowed. "What happens when your scrolls rot? Or fall into the wrong hands?"

Khisa offered a patient smile. "We do not trap words. We preserve them—so the next generation doesn’t lose the wisdom of the past."

Ssebugwawo hummed. "Even the oldest baakisimba drums lose their voice in time. But we still dance. Still remember."