Oskar stood bare-chested beneath the sun, red dust clinging to his skin, ringed by horses and men who smelled of leather, sweat, and iron.
The Fulɓe—called Fulani by the Germans—formed a loose circle around them: sixty horsemen, spears upright, old rifles resting casually across saddles. Not armor. Not discipline. But confidence. The kind that did not need shouting.
Lamido Umaru sat his horse easily, looking down at Oskar with a faint, knowing smile.
And for the first time since leaving Europe, Oskar felt anger rise hot and fast in his chest.
He did not understand this.
They had agreed. He had given them generous terms—recognition, protection, autonomy. He had come for red earth, not blood. Why was this man pressing him now?
Karl shifted beside him, revolver clenched white-knuckled in his fist.
"Well?" Karl muttered. "What are we doing, Oskar? Just say the word. I've got six shots. I can put all six into six different faces before they even know what happened."
Captain Carter's voice followed immediately, calm but edged like steel.
"We are ready, Your Highness. Fifteen rounds in this rifle. Four more rifles with you. We can break this circle in seconds if you give the order."
The four Eternal Guard riflemen nodded, weapons steady.
"We are prepared to fight and die for you, Your Highness," one of them said. "It is our duty."
Njoh stood rigid, fingers locked around the shaft of his stainless-steel spear.
For a heartbeat, Oskar clenched his hands into fists.
His eyes settled on Umaru.
And something dark flickered there.
In his mind, the scene unfolded with terrifying clarity—his hand wrenching the spear free, bone cracking under his grip, horses screaming, men falling, gunfire tearing the circle apart. Blood on red earth. Victory by force.
Umaru felt it.
So did his horse.
The animal shied suddenly, stamping and pulling back as if it sensed a predator far more dangerous than itself. The riders nearest Oskar shifted uneasily. Spears wavered.
They had not come expecting a spirit that looked like a man.
Umaru's eyes widened, and for the first time his voice rose—not in fear, but outrage.
"You gave me your word!" he shouted. "We made a bargain! I gave you the red earth! I gave you passage! Will you break your oath now?"
The words cut through the heat.
Oskar hesitated.
He looked to Njoh as the translation finished, then exhaled slowly and raised his hands—not high, not in surrender, but in restraint.
"No," Oskar said. "Germany will honor its word."
The tension did not vanish—but it shifted.
"We will not interfere in native affairs," Oskar continued. "We will defend you from other European powers. We will take only what we absolutely need—the red earth, and nothing more."
Umaru studied him, uncertain now.
Then his gaze slid to Njoh.
"Then prove it," Umaru said calmly. "Step aside. Let us settle this with the Duala man. Give us the spear."
Njoh's face went dark with fury as he translated.
"This is unacceptable," he snapped at Oskar. "These horse lords are conquerors. They came here centuries ago and bled this land in the name of their god. Their wealth comes from other men's harvests. If you give them this, you give them permission."
Oskar listened—and felt only confusion.
To him, both men were natives. Both Africans. He could see differences, yes—the Duala darker, broader, more expressive; the Fulɓe leaner, lighter, wrapped in cloth and authority—but how did any of that justify blood?
They were all human.
Karl spoke again, frustration boiling over.
"Oskar, think," he urged. "The Duala are Christians. They've accepted us. If we must choose, we choose them. No one in Europe will care if we break a few horse lords."
Oskar's stomach turned.
Not at the spears.
Not at the rifles.
At Karl.
At how quickly the revolver had become an answer in his friend's hand.
At how easily the idea of killing slid into Karl's voice, as if violence were simply a tool that had been waiting its turn.
Oskar snapped his head toward him, eyes hard.
"No," he said.
The word cracked through the air like a slap.
Karl blinked.
Oskar leaned closer, voice low enough that only his people would hear it.
"No killing," he repeated, slower now. "No war. Not here. Not for this. Not for pride."
Karl's jaw clenched. "But—"
"We did not come to Cameroon to spill African blood," Oskar cut in. "Not even if we can win. Not even if it's easy."
His gaze flicked to Njoh, then to the ring of riders.
"I came here to stop Germans from becoming hated forever," Oskar said, the words coming out raw now, the truth he kept strapped down finally forcing itself free. "To stop this place from rotting Germany's conscience for a hundred years. To balance what my father wants—land, influence, security—with what the people here deserve."
He swallowed once, and his voice steadied.
"Dignity. Autonomy. Lives that aren't crushed under someone else's boot."
Karl stared up at him, anger and disbelief wrestling on his face.
Oskar didn't soften.
"If I start a war today," he said, "then I become the same thing the old administrators were. Just with better rifles. And the hate will spread anyway—downriver, along the coast, into the next generation, and the next."
He shook his head once.
"No," he said again. "Put it away."
Karl's knuckles whitened on the revolver.
Then, reluctantly—like a man swallowing poison—he lowered it.
Captain Carter had not moved. But Oskar saw the subtle shift in him: readiness easing, command accepting.
Oskar exhaled and stepped forward.
Then he stepped aside.
Not dramatically.
Not as surrender.
As policy.
As a corridor opening between Njoh and Umaru.
The effect was immediate.
The ring loosened. Spears lifted a fraction. Horses stopped stamping.
Even without translation, the riders understood: the German prince was removing himself from the dispute.
Umaru's eyes glinted.
Njoh's face tightened with rage as he spoke—fast, harsh, and for the first time since they met, openly emotional.
"You would let him take it?" he demanded. "You would let him humiliate me in front of his men?"
Oskar met his eyes.
"I am not abandoning you," Oskar said, and he meant it. "And I am not betraying you."
He spread his hands, helplessly honest.
"I am refusing to light another fire."
Njoh's nostrils flared.
"This is weakness," he hissed. "This is what your holy book teaches? Turn the other cheek? Show your enemy your throat and call it peace?"
Oskar's expression tightened.
For a moment—just a moment—the urge to shout back rose in him.
Then he forced it down and spoke with the calm of a man trying to hold the world together with words.
"God gave us free will," Oskar said. "All of us."
He looked from Njoh to Umaru.
"And I am giving you what you asked for," he continued, voice carrying now, meant for the circle as much as for Njoh. "Freedom. The right to choose your own fate. Your lands. Your quarrels. Your alliances. I will not decide them for you."
His eyes hardened.
"And I will not wage another war on Cameroonian soil," he said. "Not under my name. Not for pride. Not for politics."
He pointed at the red earth under their feet.
"I came here for this," he said. "For the red soil. For my country's future. For flight. For metal. For survival."
Then he softened, just slightly, and turned back to Njoh.
"But I do not want harm to come to you," Oskar said quietly. "I value your life more than any object."
He nodded once toward the spear.
"If it helps," he added, "I will give you another. I'll give your brothers spears. Your father. Your household. A dozen, a hundred—whatever you want. Stainless steel. Better than that one. This is not about cost."
Njoh stared at him as if Oskar had just offered to buy back humiliation with coin.
The Fulɓe riders watched in silence, patient as vultures. Umaru's smile did not move.
Oskar didn't argue.
He had already stepped aside.
That was the whole point.
He only looked at Njoh again, his voice dropping.
"I'm asking you," Oskar said. "Not commanding you."
He emphasized it, because he needed Njoh to understand the shape of what was happening—what Germany was choosing to be.
"I suggest you give it," Oskar said. "Because I don't want you dead over a spear, even if it's important to you in some symbolic way."
He paused.
"And because—whether I like it or not—I have already given you all my word that Germany will stay neutral."
The words landed like stones.
Njoh's shoulders rose once with a sharp breath.
His eyes burned.
He was alone.
Sixty horsemen. Spears. Rifles. A ruler who had decided the outcome before the discussion even began.
Njoh lifted the spear.
For a heartbeat it looked like he might throw it—like he might force the first blood himself and damn the consequences.
Instead, he drove it into the red ground so hard the metal rang.
The sound was clean and ugly.
"There," Njoh said through clenched teeth. "Take your price."
He took a step back, as if distance could restore what had just been stripped from him.
"I will not fight you today," he added, voice shaking. "Not here. Not surrounded. But do not mistake this for surrender."
Umaru's smile widened.
He rode forward, slow and confident, passing Oskar as if the giant prince were merely a stone marker on the road.
He reached down, gripped the spear, and pulled it free from the earth with one hand.
He tested its weight.
Admired the gleam.
"A fine spear," Umaru said.
Then he looked directly at Oskar, and his voice carried so that every rider and every German could hear.
"This will be remembered," Umaru said. "The red earth is yours. Your neutrality is respected."
He lifted the spear slightly, like a salute.
"Farewell, Giant Prince of the German people."
Then he turned his horse, made a small hand signal—
—and the ring broke apart.
Horses moved. Dust rose. Laughter rolled back through the riders, not loud, not wild, but satisfied. A victory taken without drawing a blade.
They rode away as if the land itself opened for them.
Njoh watched their backs, rigid with contained fury.
When Umaru was far enough that the dust began to swallow him, Njoh finally spoke, almost too softly to hear.
"This will be avenged."
Oskar heard that.
He turned his head sharply.
"Njoh—"
But the guide didn't look at him.
Instead, Njoh drew a slow breath, then forced himself to face Oskar again, and his voice became controlled—merchant-controlled, Duala-controlled.
"I understand your view," Njoh said tightly. "And I will respect it."
Oskar's shoulders eased a fraction.
Njoh continued, eyes hard.
"You said we have free will," he said. "That we may decide whether we trade with you… or whether we do not."
Oskar nodded once. "Yes. That is true."
Njoh's mouth curved—just slightly. Not a smile. Something colder.
"Good," he said.
Oskar frowned. "Good?"
Njoh's gaze flicked to the Eternal Guard rifles—modern metal in white hands—then returned to the path Umaru had taken, to the dust hanging there like the last breath of a laugh.
"We will trade," Njoh said. "And we will speak again. When we return to Southern Bauxi Town."
The words sounded polite.
The tone did not.
Oskar felt the unease in his chest tighten—an instinctive warning that something had been wounded in a way he didn't fully understand. Pride, perhaps. Face. That old, ancient currency that couldn't be paid back with steel.
He forced himself to smile anyway, as if a smile could smooth a world back into shape.
"Yes," Oskar said. "We will talk. We will trade. We will find a way forward through diplomacy."
Njoh didn't answer.
He simply stared into the distance as if counting something invisible.
Karl shifted beside Oskar, still pale, still gripping his revolver like a guilty secret.
"Oskar…" Karl murmured. "Did we do the right thing?"
Oskar looked at the three flags snapping over the red hills—black eagles against green sky and blood-colored earth. Proof. Samples. Film in Karl's camera. A future that had been a gamble yesterday and was an industry today.
"We did our job," Oskar said, relief leaking into his voice before he could stop it. "We found the red earth. We marked the sites. We made the bargain. No one died."
He clapped Karl's shoulder—harder than he meant to, making the little dwarf wobble—then, by habit and affection, lifted him onto his shoulders as if Karl belonged there, like a stubborn crown.
Karl muttered something untranslatable and grabbed Oskar's hair to steady himself.
Oskar started walking toward their horses, still talking, trying to patch the moment with logic the way he patched everything.
"And Njoh," he added, turning his head slightly, "don't be angry. They took a spear. We gained the land. You gained access—your people live close to Southern Bauxi Town, close to the port, closest to our trade. You have advantages now. Protection from Europeans beyond the borders. In the end, all of us gave something and gained something."
He said it like an equation.
A balance sheet.
A deal that should close neatly.
Njoh finally moved.
He fell into step behind them, spearless, shoulders straight, eyes fixed on the dust where Umaru had vanished.
His voice was calm when he spoke.
Too calm.
"Yes," Njoh said. "I understand."
Oskar nodded, satisfied—because he heard agreement.
He did not hear the other meaning beneath it.
Njoh's hand flexed once at his side, empty fingers curling as if remembering the weight of stolen steel.
Behind them, the red earth lay marked with footprints and flags.
And somewhere ahead, beyond the horizon, a horse lord rode home smiling—already imagining what a German promise of neutrality truly meant.
Oskar walked on, Karl riding his shoulders, already thinking of rail lines and contracts and ships.
Njoh walked behind him, already thinking of blood.
And the red hills watched them go in silence—patient as fate.