The weight of Mzee Kachenje's departing mission settled heavily on Jabari's young shoulders. Entrusting the delicate first contact with Major Harrison—a man whose Queen's armies had humbled empires across the globe—to the wisdom of his old counselor was a profound gamble. Kaelo, the pragmatic strategist within, knew it was a necessary one. They needed intelligence, they needed to state their sovereignty, and most crucially, they needed to buy time—time to rally their disparate forces, time to prepare the land itself to resist.
While Kachenje and his small, dignified escort, which included six of the most imposing warriors from the Nkonde sya Ntemi in their best regalia, journeyed south, the main Batembo ikulu and the designated rallying point a day's march beyond became hives of frenetic, organized activity. Boroga, his earlier skepticism now fully transformed into a fierce, almost obsessive efficiency, managed the monumental task of gathering and distributing resources. Grain, dried meat, water gourds, bundles of spears, and Seke's precious, newly forged arrowheads flowed into the burgeoning war camp. Warriors from allied Nyamwezi chiefdoms and the ever-loyal Wanyisanza arrived daily, their numbers swelling the ranks of Jabari's confederate army to nearly two thousand fighting men. It was an impressive force by regional standards, but Kaelo knew it was still dwarfed by the potential might of the British Empire.
Hamisi, his face a grim mask of determination, worked tirelessly with Lبانجى to forge these disparate clan contingents into a cohesive fighting force. Drills were relentless, focusing on the layered defense strategy Jabari (Kaelo) had outlined: swift movements, effective use of cover, disciplined fire from the musket-armed units, and, most importantly, the ability to engage and then disengage, to harass and delay rather than seek a decisive, potentially catastrophic, pitched battle. The Nkonde sya Ntemi, with their superior weapons and training, formed the disciplined core around which these tactics were built.
As Harrison's column, like a slow, inexorable red river, advanced northwards, Lبانجى and Juma, with a handpicked force of Batembo skirmishers and Wanyisanza trackers, shadowed its every move. Their harassment campaign began subtly, a campaign of whispers and thorns. Juma, using the spyglass from concealed hilltops, would identify Harrison's scouts or small foraging parties. Then, Lبانجى's men, moving like spirits through the tall, dry grass and miombo woodland, would strike.
It was rarely a direct confrontation. A sudden shower of arrows, many tipped with Seke's new iron heads that bit deep, would rain down on a British patrol from an unseen source, wounding a soldier or two, forcing the others to take cover, their return rifle fire often wasted on empty bush. Harrison's cattle, driven with the column for fresh meat, would be stampeded in the night, some driven off by daring Batembo youths, others simply scattered, forcing his men to spend precious time and energy rounding them up. Water holes along Harrison's path would sometimes be found fouled, or vital trail markers mysteriously altered, leading his column into difficult terrain or dead ends.
These were not battle-winning actions in themselves, Kaelo knew, but they served a crucial purpose. They slowed Harrison's advance. They frayed the nerves of his soldiers, both British regulars and colonial askaris, who began to feel the oppressive weight of an unseen, ever-present enemy. They forced Harrison to expend ammunition, to send out larger, more cumbersome patrols, and to divert men to guard his lengthening supply lines, if he even had them this deep inland. Each small delay, each frustrated British soldier, each bullet wasted, was a tiny victory for Jabari.
Major Harrison, as reports from Juma confirmed, reacted with typical colonial military professionalism, mixed with a growing, visible irritation. He tightened his marching formations, sent out heavily armed flank guards, and occasionally ordered punitive volleys fired into any suspicious-looking thicket. He put local villages he passed under immense pressure to reveal the whereabouts of Jabari's "raiders," sometimes resorting to threats or the seizure of grain if he suspected them of aiding the Batembo. This, Kaelo noted with grim satisfaction, often had the opposite effect, driving more neutral or fearful villagers into Jabari's protective embrace.
After nearly ten days of arduous travel, Mzee Kachenje's delegation finally reached Major Harrison's encampment. It was, as Juma had described, a well-ordered military affair, a temporary fort of wagons and tents surrounded by sentries in stark red coats, a Union Jack fluttering limply in the hot breeze over the largest tent. The contrast with the organic, earth-toned Nyamwezi ikulus was profound.
Kachenje, old and slightly stooped but his eyes missing nothing, was eventually granted an audience. Major Alistair Harrison, Kaelo learned later from Kachenje's meticulous recounting, was a man in his late forties, with a weathered face, a clipped military mustache, and eyes the color of a winter sky – cold and appraising. He received Kachenje with a curt, formal politeness, flanked by a younger, more eager-looking lieutenant and a Swahili interpreter whose accent Kachenje noted was from the coast, not the interior.
The old elder, speaking with the calm dignity of his years and the weight of Jabari's authority, delivered his message. He spoke of Ntemi Jabari as the paramount chief of a wide confederation of Nyamwezi and allied peoples, a leader who desired peace and mutually beneficial trade with all honest travelers. He affirmed their sovereignty over their ancestral lands, from the Wasumbwa borders in the north to the Great Ruaha in the south. He mentioned, with deliberate casualness, Jabari's recent, decisive victory over the German "explorers" who had failed to respect these traditions and had abused the local people. He concluded by stating that Ntemi Jabari was prepared to discuss terms for peaceful passage and regulated trade, but would countenance no infringement upon his people's lands or their right to govern themselves.
Major Harrison listened, his expression unreadable. When Kachenje finished, the Major spoke, his English words translated into clipped, precise Swahili. "Your Chief Jabari is… ambitious," Harrison said, a hint of dry amusement in his tone. "And perhaps a little too proud for one so young, and so recently come to power. Her Majesty's Government, whom I represent, also desires peace and honest trade, for the betterment and civilization of all peoples in this dark continent." He then spoke of the Queen's vast empire, of her powerful armies and fleets that had brought order and British law to so many lands. He mentioned that some chiefs in the region had already wisely accepted Her Majesty's offer of friendship and protection, signing treaties to that effect.
"These 'treaties'," Kachenje interjected gently, Kaelo having coached him for this, "were they explained in the language of the Nyamwezi, old father? Did the chiefs who marked them truly understand they were ceding their ancestral rights to a distant Queen they have never seen?"
Harrison's eyes narrowed. "The terms were fair, and for their own ultimate benefit. Ignorance of our language does not absolve them of their commitments." He then delivered his own message. "Ntemi Jabari has gained a certain… notoriety. My government is aware of the unfortunate demise of the German expedition. Such lawlessness and disruption to legitimate trade cannot be tolerated. Tell your chief that I am prepared to meet with him, to discuss a treaty of friendship and commerce under the authority of Her Majesty. If he is wise, he will accept this generous offer. If he chooses defiance… well, the German company was a mere trading concern. I command soldiers of the Queen. The outcome would be… regrettable for him, and for his people." He offered no concessions, no recognition of Jabari's paramountcy, only an invitation to submit or face the consequences. He did, however, allow Kachenje's party to depart unharmed, a small gesture Kaelo interpreted as Harrison perhaps not wanting to provoke an immediate, all-out conflict while still on the march.
Kachenje returned to Jabari's main war camp a few days later, his report delivered with quiet precision. The council listened in grim silence. Lبانجى spat on the ground. "His 'friendship' is the friendship of the crocodile for the fish! He means to swallow us whole!"
Hamisi nodded. "His words are smooth, but his spear is sharp. He will not be turned aside by talk alone."
Kaelo, through Jabari, had expected no less. Harrison's response was classic colonial rhetoric. The "offer" of a treaty was an ultimatum in disguise. Diplomacy had run its course, at least for now. It had, however, bought them valuable time and provided crucial intelligence about Harrison's mindset and likely intentions.
"Mzee Kachenje, you have served us bravely and well," Jabari said, his voice resonating with a new, harder edge. "You have shown this Meja Harriseni that we are a people of words and wisdom, not just spears. Now, he shall learn the sharpness of those spears."
The layered defense strategy was now fully activated. The first fortified village in Harrison's path was a place called Kisanga, strategically located near a series of rocky hills and a ford across a shallow river. It was defended by its own brave chief, an ally named Makena, now reinforced by two hundred of Jabari's best Batembo spearmen and twenty of the Nkonde sya Ntemi musketeers, under the command of a steady Batembo mutwale named Goro. Lبانجى, with his Wanyisanza and Batembo skirmishers, was tasked with harassing Harrison's column relentlessly as it approached Kisanga, denying him rest, cutting off his scouts, and making him bleed for every mile.
Jabari, with Hamisi and the main body of the confederate army – now nearly two thousand strong, though only a fraction were armed with firearms – positioned himself a half-day's march behind Kisanga, ready to reinforce Goro if a true opportunity presented itself, or to cover his retreat and prepare the next "thorn thicket" for the advancing British.
The air grew heavy with the scent of impending battle. Kaelo felt the familiar cold knot of anticipation in Jabari's stomach. He reviewed Juma's maps, now marked with Harrison's confirmed route and the dispositions of their own forces. He thought of the British Army's legendary discipline, their devastating rifle fire, their artillery. This would be a far cry from the disorganized Wasumbwa or the demoralized remnants of Steiner's expedition. This was a test against one of the world's premier military machines.
"They come for our land, for our freedom," Jabari told his assembled war leaders that night, the firelight glinting off their determined faces. "They believe their red coats and their thunder-sticks make them invincible. We will teach them that the Nyamwezi spirit, united and fighting for its home, is a force more ancient and more enduring than any empire built on steel and smoke."
Kaelo, listening to Jabari's powerful Nyamwezi oratory, felt a strange sense of dissonance and unity. These were Jabari's words, his passion, his people. Yet the cold, strategic calculations, the desperate gamble to forge a defense from limited resources against overwhelming odds, was all Kaelo. The game of maps and messengers was over. The grim harvest of the red coat tide was about to begin.