The air over the plains south of the Batembo heartland was still and heavy, the sun already climbing with a fierce intensity that promised a brutal day. Before the fortified village of Kisanga, Major Alistair Harrison's column had deployed with chilling, practiced precision. Two lines of red-coated British infantry stood like a scarlet scar upon the dun-colored earth, their bayonets glinting. Flanking them were his askari levies, their faces a mixture of forced bravado and apprehension. At the head, their muzzles gaping ominously towards Kisanga's defiant boma, were the two light field guns, their brass barrels gleaming.
From within Kisanga, Chief Makena, his grizzled beard jutting, stood beside Mutwale Goro on the firing platform of the main gate. They watched as a British officer, accompanied by a trumpeter and a Swahili interpreter, advanced under a white flag. The demand for surrender was delivered with arrogant brevity: lay down arms, acknowledge the Queen's benevolent authority as represented by Major Harrison, and harshness would be averted.
Goro, his voice amplified by the tense silence, delivered Jabari's carefully crafted reply, a reply that had been agreed upon with Chief Makena. "Kisanga is Nyamwezi land, under the paramountcy of Ntemi Jabari of the Batembo! We live in peace but will die in freedom before we accept any master save the spirits of our ancestors and our rightful chief! If you come in peace, state your terms for passage. If you come for war, then know that every thorn in this land will taste your blood!"
The British officer wheeled his horse without a word, galloping back to his lines. Minutes later, Major Harrison's voice, thin but carrying in the still air, barked a command. The world erupted.
The British cannons roared, a sound far greater, more terrifying, than anything Steiner's small pieces had produced. The first shells shrieked overhead, smashing into Kisanga's log palisade with brutal force. Earth, wood splinters, and acrid smoke filled the air. A section of the boma near the western gate buckled, a gaping wound torn in their defenses. Cries of fear and pain rose from within, quickly suppressed by the bellowed commands of Goro and the village headmen. Kaelo, receiving news of this initial bombardment via a chain of runners from Juma's hidden vantage point, felt a cold knot tighten in Jabari's stomach. He had known the artillery would be formidable, but the reality, even relayed secondhand, was sobering.
Then, like a well-oiled machine, the red lines of British infantry began their advance, not in a rush, but in disciplined, alternating rushes, one line firing a crashing volley while the other advanced, then taking cover to reload. Their rifle fire was a relentless, accurate hail, sweeping the top of the palisade, forcing the Nyamwezi defenders to keep low, making aimed shots difficult.
"Hold your fire!" Goro roared to his own Nkonde sya Ntemi musketeers, positioned at carefully prepared loopholes. "Wait for my signal! Let them feel the thorns when they try to pluck the fruit!"
As the first wave of red coats, bayonets lowered, began their charge towards the breaches created by the artillery, Goro's voice finally cut through the din. "NOW! For Jabari and the Batembo! For Kisanga!"
A ragged but surprisingly heavy volley erupted from the palisade. The twenty Nkonde sya Ntemi, their old trade muskets and newer captured rifles kicking against their shoulders, fired with a desperate accuracy. Another score of Kisanga's own musket-armed warriors joined them. Several red coats in the leading ranks stumbled, some falling heavily, their charge momentarily disrupted. The British officers, their voices sharp and urgent, urged their men on.
Simultaneously, from the dense miombo woodland and tall elephant grass that flanked Harrison's attacking column, Lبانجى's war horn sounded a piercing, ululating cry. His Wanyisanza archers and Batembo skirmishers, who had crept into position like leopards stalking prey, unleashed a furious barrage of arrows and spears into the exposed flanks of the advancing British and their askari supports. It was not enough to halt the main assault, but it sowed immediate confusion, forcing Harrison to detach units to protect his vulnerable sides, thereby weakening the force assaulting Kisanga directly. Screams and shouts erupted from the bush as Lبانجى's men engaged these detached patrols in swirling, close-quarters combat.
The main British assault hit the battered Kisanga palisade like a tidal wave. Red coats, their faces grim with determination, surged towards the breaches, firing their rifles at point-blank range, trying to gain a foothold. They were met by a wall of Nyamwezi spearmen, Chief Makena and Goro himself at their head, their improved iron spearheads, forged in Seke's bustling smithy, darting out like angry snakes. The fighting was brutal, a desperate, heaving mass of men, the air filled with the clash of metal, the guttural roars of attackers and defenders, the screams of the wounded.
A group of British regulars, led by a towering sergeant, managed to force their way through one of the larger breaches. For a moment, it seemed Kisanga would fall. But Goro, his voice a battle-crazed bellow, led a furious counter-charge, his Nkonde sya Ntemi firing a devastating volley directly into the packed red coats before wading in with spear and knobkerrie. The British sergeant fell, a Batembo spear through his chest, and his men, momentarily leaderless and pressed from all sides, were driven back out of the breach, leaving several of their comrades behind.
From his command post miles away, Jabari listened to the runners' breathless reports, Kaelo's mind painting a vivid, agonizing picture of the battle. Juma, with his spyglass, relayed crucial details: the effectiveness of the British volleys, the impact of their artillery, the points where Kisanga's defenses were under greatest pressure, the success of Lبانجى's flanking maneuvers. Kaelo, through Jabari, sent back messages of encouragement, tactical suggestions – "Tell Lبانجى to focus on their ammunition carriers if possible," "Advise Goro to use fire on any attackers who gain the top of the palisade," – small adjustments in a desperate, high-stakes chess game. He felt each reported Nyamwezi casualty like a physical blow, the weight of command a crushing burden.
Major Harrison, observing from a slight rise behind his attacking lines, was a study in controlled fury. This was not going according to plan. The village should have fallen within the hour after the artillery barrage. Instead, his men were bogged down in a bloody, close-quarters brawl, taking galling casualties from an enemy who refused to break. The constant harassment on his flanks was a serious irritation, forcing him to commit his reserves prematurely. His artillery, while effective against the fixed defenses, was struggling to target Lبانجى's elusive skirmishers and was now dangerously close to his own intermingled lines.
He ordered a second, then a third, major assault, throwing more of his askaris into the fray alongside his weary red coats. Each time, they were met with the same ferocious resistance. The defenders of Kisanga, though steadily losing men, fought with the courage of those defending their ancestral homes, their actions fueled by a potent combination of Nyamwezi warrior pride and Jabari's new, unifying leadership. The Nkonde sya Ntemi musketeers, though their rate of fire was slow, were well-protected and chose their targets with deadly care, often aiming for British officers or NCOs to disrupt their command structure, a tactic Kaelo had drilled into them.
As the sun climbed towards its zenith, the heat within the besieged village became unbearable. The air was thick with smoke, dust, the stench of blood and sweat. Goro, his shield battered, his spear arm aching, knew his warriors were nearing their limit. The palisade was breached in multiple places. Ammunition for their few firearms was almost exhausted. They had inflicted grievous losses on the British, far more than anyone had thought possible. They had delayed Harrison for the better part of a day. They had fulfilled Jabari's command.
"The time comes, Makena," Goro said to the old chief during a brief lull, as the British momentarily pulled back to regroup. "We have shown them our teeth. Now we must vanish before they swallow us whole."
Chief Makena, his face grim but his eyes still defiant, nodded. "The spirits of our fathers are proud this day. Lead the withdrawal, Goro. My warriors will follow."
Under the cover of smoke from deliberately set fires within the village and a last, desperate sally by Lبانجى's warriors against Harrison's rearmost units, Goro orchestrated the withdrawal. It was a fighting retreat, small groups covering each other, slipping out through carefully prepared escape routes at the rear of Kisanga, routes that led into dense, broken country where Harrison's regulars would be at a severe disadvantage. They carried as many of their wounded as they could, their hearts heavy for those they had to leave behind. The last to leave were the Nkonde sya Ntemi, their final volley a parting gesture of defiance.
When Major Harrison's exhausted troops finally stormed into Kisanga late that afternoon, they found a smoldering ruin. The granaries were empty or ablaze. The huts were either burning or deserted. They had captured a village, but it was a pyrrhic victory. The cost in British and askari lives was shockingly high – Juma's later estimate, confirmed by gleeful Wanyisanza scouts who observed the burial details from afar, put it at over seventy dead and many more wounded. Harrison had won a patch of scorched earth, and the main Nyamwezi army remained an elusive, dangerous threat in the wilderness. His frustration, it was said, was monumental.
The survivors of Kisanga, weary to their bones, their ranks thinned but their spirits unbroken, rejoined Jabari's main force two days later. They were greeted not with recriminations for the loss of the village, but with roars of acclaim for their bravery. Jabari himself, Kaelo's mind carefully guiding his words and actions, publicly embraced Chief Makena and Mutwale Goro, lauding their courage and the valor of their warriors.
"Kisanga has fallen," Jabari announced to his assembled army, his voice ringing with a pride that belied the strategic loss of the village. "But the red coats have paid a blood price for every handful of its dust! They sought to teach us fear; instead, we have taught them respect! They sought to break our spirit; instead, we have shown them the unbreakable heart of the Nyamwezi! Every warrior who stood at Kisanga is a hero! Every drop of blood they spilled is a seed from which our victory will grow!"
Kaelo knew this was just the first engagement in what would be a long, brutal war of attrition. Harrison was a professional; he would not be easily deterred. But the Battle of Kisanga, though a tactical loss in terms of holding ground, was a strategic victory for Jabari. It had proven that the Batembo confederation could stand against British firepower and discipline, that they could inflict significant casualties, and that Kaelo's strategy of layered defense and harassment could work. The red coat tide had been bloodied. Now, Jabari had to prepare for its inevitable, vengeful resurgence. The thorns of Kisanga had drawn first blood, but the lion was still very much alive, and now, it was angry.