The march into Mbanza Kongo was unlike any the old city had ever seen.
The streets overflowed with people, men, women, and children pressed against the guard lines, their voices a storm of emotion. Some shouted Nzinga's name with pride and hope; others hurled stones and curses at the chained man at the center of the column.
Lumingu Mbemba, once the most feared name in the kingdom, now stumbled barefoot in the dust, his royal robes reduced to rags. His hair hung in wild tufts, his face smeared with soot and blood. Every few steps, the jeers grew louder, a roar of the betrayed.
"Traitor!"
"Murderer of our sons!"
"May the spirits judge you, Lumingu!"
The air smelled of sweat, smoke, and judgment. Even the drummers who beat slow, heavy rhythms did so with a grim satisfaction, as if each strike of the drum was a nail sealing the old era's coffin.
