The morning broke clear and sharp, the chill of the Unyamwezi night giving way rapidly to the sun's insistent warmth. Within Jabari's ikulu, however, a different kind_of chill lingered – a taut anticipation that hummed beneath the usual sounds of village life. Today, the young Ntemi of the Batembo, his spear arm still stiff and his father's blood barely dry on the soil of vengeance, would meet Salim bin Rashid, the formidable Arab trader whose caravans were the lifeblood and potential poison of the interior.
Kaelo, gazing through Jabari's eyes at his own reflection in a murky pool of water collected in a clay basin, saw a stranger. The face was young, barely eighteen rains, with the high cheekbones and steady, dark eyes of the Nyamwezi people. A fresh, puckering scar, testament to his recent brush with death, traversed his right shoulder and upper chest, a raw, angry red against his brown skin. It was Jabari's face, Jabari's scar, but Kaelo's calculating mind looked out from behind those eyes, a mind that had once orchestrated billion-dollar deals in air-conditioned skyscrapers, now preparing for a negotiation where the currency was ivory, gunpowder, and the unspoken threat of violence.
He dressed with care, Kaelo guiding Jabari's Nyamwezi instincts. Not in ostentatious finery – the Batembo were not rich in coastal cloth, not yet – but in the simple, dignified attire of a warrior chief. A freshly softened antelope hide loincloth, intricately beaded armbands of copper and iron just above the elbows, and the heavy leopard skin cloak, his father Kazimoto's legacy, draped over his good shoulder, its spotted pattern a symbol of royalty and predatory strength. He eschewed most other ornaments, save for a single eagle feather, a mark of bravery, tied into his tightly plaited hair. His only weapon was the short, broad-bladed Nyamwezi stabbing spear, its shaft worn smooth by his father's grip. This was not a display of wealth, but of lean, hard readiness.
Kibwana, the old healer, found him as he was making a final check of the hide sling that supported his wounded arm. The old man's eyes, like polished river stones, held an unreadable wisdom. He offered Jabari a small, intricately carved wooden amulet on a leather thong.
"The spirits of the great baobab under which you will meet are ancient and watchful, Ntemi," Kibwana rasped. "This was carved from a root of that very tree. May it lend you its endurance and its deep sight."
Jabari (Kaelo recognizing the value of such gestures in this world) accepted it with a solemn nod, tying it around his neck. "Your wisdom honors me, old one."
Hamisi, his scarred face set in lines of grim determination, awaited him with the chosen escort of twenty warriors. They were, as Kaelo had subtly guided, an imposing sight. Not necessarily the largest men, but lean, hard-bitten veterans mixed with a few powerfully built younger warriors, all bearing the marks of recent battle. Their shields were freshly oiled, their spearheads gleaming dully. They stood with a disciplined stillness that was new to the Batembo, a silent testament to Jabari's emerging influence.
"They are ready, Ntemi," Hamisi said, his voice a low rumble. "Their hearts are strong for the honor of the Batembo."
"And their eyes sharp, Hamisi?" Jabari asked. "They are to observe as much as they are to protect. Salim bin Rashid will not be the only one taking measure today."
The journey to the meeting point – a colossal, ancient baobab tree that stood like a silent sentinel on a slight rise half a mile from the ikulu – was short but charged. The chosen spot was neutral ground, visible for miles, offering no easy ambush. Kaelo approved of Jabari's inherited tactical sense. The sun climbed higher, beating down on the dry earth, kicking up dust with every footfall. The cicadas buzzed with a relentless, almost deafening intensity.
They had not long to wait. First came the faint, almost subliminal tremor in the earth, then the distant, rhythmic chanting of porters, the jingle of harness bells, and the occasional sharp crack of a whip or a shouted command in Swahili. Then, the caravan itself crested a low ridge, a vast, snaking river of humanity and pack animals that seemed to stretch for miles.
Kaelo, through Jabari's eyes, took it all in, his mind automatically cataloging, assessing. Hundreds of porters, their backs bent under the crushing weight of ivory tusks, bundles of hides, and trade goods. Scores of pack donkeys. And the guards. At least two hundred, perhaps more, heavily armed Baluchi and Arab mercenaries in flowing robes, their jezails and muskets glinting, alongside Swahili askaris in more disciplined, if ragged, formations. And amidst them, the heartbreaking sight that Kaelo knew was an integral, brutal part of this trade: long lines of men, women, and older children, yoked together with heavy wooden slave collars, their faces blank with despair. A cold fury, Kaelo's twenty-first-century abhorrence, warred with the cold pragmatism that knew Jabari could not afford to show it, not yet. Control the trade first, then change its nature, the strategist whispered.
Salim bin Rashid himself made a suitably dramatic entrance. He was carried on a covered litter borne by four powerful slaves, fanned by a young boy. When he emerged, he was a man of perhaps fifty years, his face hawk-like and intelligent, his neatly trimmed beard streaked with grey. He wore fine, embroidered silk robes of deep indigo, a jeweled dagger tucked into his sash, and a large, expensive-looking turban. He moved with an air of languid, unquestionable authority, his eyes, sharp and assessing, immediately fixing on Jabari and his small escort.
The contrast was stark: Jabari, young, lean, simply adorned, standing on his own feet with his twenty warriors; Salim, opulent, mature, surrounded by a veritable army.
Formal greetings were exchanged, a complex dance of Nyamwezi and Swahili honorifics that Jabari's memories supplied, Kaelo's mind ensuring the tone was respectful yet firm, without a hint of subservience. Mats were spread in the shade of the colossal baobab. Salim reclined on plush cushions his servants produced, while Jabari sat on a simple three-legged stool Hamisi provided, his posture erect despite the ache in his shoulder. Their core advisors – Hamisi for Jabari, a stern-looking, heavily armed Arab named Yusuf for Salim – stood a respectful distance behind them.
"It is a long and dusty road to the lands of the Batembo, young Ntemi," Salim began, his Swahili smooth and cultured, a faint smile playing on his lips that did not reach his eyes. "And made more perilous, I hear, by recent troubles. My condolences on the loss of your esteemed father, Kazimoto. He was a man of… particular arrangements."
Kaelo recognized the opening gambit: veiled sympathy mixed with a subtle probe for weakness, a reminder of past dependencies.
"Kazimoto's spirit rests with the ancestors, having been justly avenged," Jabari replied, his voice steady. "The paths through Batembo land are now under my protection, Salim bin Rashid. And they are secure."
Salim raised an eyebrow. "Secure? With the Banyonga shattered and their Wasumbwa allies vowing retribution? Stability is good for trade, Ntemi Jabari. Uncertainty… is expensive."
"The only uncertainty, merchant, is for those who might doubt Batembo resolve," Jabari countered, Kaelo feeding him the firm line. "The tolls for passage remain as they were agreed with my father. For now." He let that last phrase hang for a moment.
Salim's eyes narrowed slightly. "For now? Kazimoto was content with our long-standing agreement. A young bull should not be so quick to test the boundaries of the kraal."
"A young bull whose pastures are safe and well-watered can command a fair price for grazing rights," Jabari retorted, using a Nyamwezi proverb that Kaelo's mind instantly twisted into a modern business metaphor. "My father's agreements were for his time. My time is just beginning. I ensure the safety of your caravans through my territory. That service has value."
The negotiation began in earnest. Salim, a veteran of countless such parleys, pressed hard, speaking of the risks he undertook, the high cost of guards, the fickle nature of ivory supplies further inland. He painted a picture of himself as a benefactor, bringing valuable coastal goods to the benighted interior. Kaelo, through Jabari, listened, absorbing the information, dissecting Salim's arguments, identifying leverage points.
When Salim paused, Jabari spoke, his words measured. "The cloth you bring is fine, Salim, and your gunpowder is potent. The Batembo have need of both. But you also have need of the ivory our lands and those beyond can provide. And you have need of a secure passage, free from bandits and grasping minor chiefs. This I offer." He then, as Kaelo had planned, shifted the focus. "Tell me, what news from the coast? Is the Sultan's influence growing towards the Great Lakes? And what of the other routes – are they more, or less, troubled than this one?"
Salim, an astute man, recognized the shift. This young chief was not just a toll collector; he was seeking information, strategic intelligence. He answered cautiously, providing some news of coastal politics, of rival traders, of new European explorers appearing in ever greater numbers. Kaelo filed it all away. Every piece of information was a potential weapon or a bargaining chip.
The question of slaves, when it arose, was handled with the same careful deflection Jabari had rehearsed internally. Salim, noting the Batembo's recent fierce battle, inquired if they had taken many Banyonga captives for trade.
"The Banyonga paid for their treachery in blood, not servitude," Jabari stated, his voice flat. "My warriors are hunters and traders, Salim, not herders of men for others. Our current focus is on ivory, on securing our lands, and ensuring profitable passage for merchants like yourself. Captives from our own wars are… integrated, or they do not survive the initial conflict." This was partly true to Nyamwezi custom of absorbing some captives and partly Kaelo's way of sidestepping direct engagement for now. It was a morally gray tightrope walk, and Kaelo felt the bitter taste of it, but it was a necessity.
After nearly two hours of intense bargaining under the oppressive heat, a new understanding was reached. The existing toll rates for Salim's current caravan would be honored. However, Jabari secured a promise from Salim for a slightly better exchange rate on gunpowder and lead for any prime ivory tusks the Batembo could provide within the next six moons. He also extracted a commitment from Salim to provide him with detailed information about the movements of Wasumbwa war parties, should his agents hear anything. It was a small victory, but a significant one. Jabari had not been cowed. He had negotiated as an equal.
As a sign of goodwill, gifts were exchanged. Salim presented Jabari with a bolt of fine blue cotton cloth and a small, well-made brass spyglass, an item of immense curiosity and value. Jabari, in turn, gifted Salim a pair of perfectly matched leopard pelts from his father's stores and a guarantee of swift passage.
Salim bin Rashid's litter was brought forward. Before departing, he looked at Jabari, a new, more thoughtful expression on his face. "You have your father's eyes, young Ntemi, but your tongue is sharper than I expected. Perhaps the Batembo lands will indeed prosper under your shield. Or perhaps your ambition will attract more… attention than you can manage. Time will tell." With a curt nod, he was gone, his vast caravan slowly resuming its ponderous journey towards the interior.
Jabari and his twenty warriors watched them go, the dust settling slowly in their wake. The immediate tension eased, but a different kind of weight settled on Jabari's shoulders. He had met the serpent of the coast and had not been bitten, not yet. He had even, perhaps, prised a small scale from its hide.
"He tested you, Ntemi," Hamisi said quietly, as they turned back towards the ikulu. "He will speak of you to the other traders on the coast."
"Let him," Jabari replied, Kaelo's mind already processing the encounter, planning his next moves. "Let them know the Batembo have a chief who understands the value of his position, and the price of their passage."
He touched the cool brass of the spyglass Salim had gifted him. It was a tool for seeing further, for anticipating what lay ahead. Kaelo felt a grim sense of appropriateness. He had a long way to see, and a very long, dangerous road to travel. The first parley was done. He had held his ground, even advanced it slightly. But the caravan trail was treacherous, and many more bargains, paid in dust and smoke, and sometimes in blood, lay ahead. The empire he dreamed of would not be built on a single transaction, but on a thousand such encounters, each one a careful step on a path surrounded by predators.