The coastal winds of Malindi were different. They carried salt, warmth, and the faint scent of spice from far-off lands. For the past few days, Khisa walked those winding streets with no title, no guards, and no ceremony—just a plain tunic, his cloak tied around his waist, and a quiet curiosity etched into his face.
He had visited fish markets where old women barked at boys who splashed water on the catch. He sat with blacksmiths who forged harpoons and sea-hooks, learning how coral and tide affected the metal. He listened to men and women in harbor taverns speak in hushed tones about Portuguese slave ships, betrayal, and the many lives sold under their very noses.
One woman, Amina, told him her story by a cracked wall overlooking the docks. Her brother had been taken in the night. Promised a job. She never saw him again.
"Sometimes," she said, "I still hear his voice when the tide rises."
Khisa had no words, only silence. And she appreciated that.
