Chapter 12: [The Crossroads] Bargaining with Traders

The nine of them stood in the center of the courtyard, staring at the spotted cow. 

The kraal behind her was an empty, echoing tomb of dry thorns. Once, it had held a dozen goats and a bustling flock of chickens. But the long moons of the raging drought had stripped them bare. The chickens had been eaten when the drought peaked; the goats had been traded away, one by one, by Tate Amupolo( Amutenya’s father) and Tate Shaningwa (Shivute’s father) for handfuls of moldy millet to keep their bellies from collapsing. 

Now, only she remained. She was old, her ribs pushing against her dusty hide like the arches of a ruined hut. She was entirely barren, having never given birth to a single calf in her life. Yet, she was a cow. In the valley, a homestead without cattle was a graveyard. 

Amutenya stepped forward and took the frayed lead rope. 

His mother, Meme Nangula, turned her face away, her shoulders tightening. Beside her, eleven-year-old Ndapewa and eight-year-old Penehafo held empty water gourds, their eyes wide and hollow. Shivute’s parents, Tate Shaningwa and Meme Kauna, stood by the empty granary. Meme Kauna held her youngest, five-year-old Hifikepunye—little "Fifi"—in her lap, her name wasn'tmasculine because the couple had wanted a son, instead they had ironically chosen to name her that way so they wouldn'thave a son. The king had taken their son and they could not bare to have another child taken from them, but they had a belief that the spirits never trully give what their asked, so they pretended to ask for a son instead of what they truly wanted. Due to severe, prolonged malnutrition, Fifi’s body was stunted, her tiny limbs so frail she looked barely three years old, her skin dull and her belly slightly swollen. 

Tate Amupolo simply stared at the dirt, his expression carved from stone, unable to watch his son strip the family of its very last shred of dignity. 

"We go," Amutenya said quietly to Shivute. 

As they walked the long, dusty miles toward the northern crossroads, a soft, choking sound came from behind him. Amutenya glanced back. Shivute was wiping his nose with the back of his hand, tears leaving clear streaks through the gray dust on his cheeks. He had no love for the beast—she had only entered the homestead the day he and Amutenya were taken to the capital as tribute laborers, the boy barely knew her. 

"Wipe your face, Shivute," Amutenya said gently. "Why are you crying nore then our little sisters?." He mocked, trying to lift the heavy mood.

"The village will see us," Shivute whispered, his voice cracking with intense shame. "When a family drives their last cow to the traders, it means the ancestors have abandoned them. It means we have officially surrendered to starvation."

"No," Amutenya said, his grip tightening on the rope. "A beggar waits for crumbs. A wise man liquidates his assets to build a foundation. I am not surrendering her, Shivute. I am investing her. By nightfall, our sisters will eat."

The crossroads materialized out of the heat haze like a chaotic, violent city. 

Dozens of massive wooden transport wagons from the Angolan highlands sat in a defensive circle. The air was a thick, suffocating soup of roasting meat, strange tobacco, and the sweat of hundreds of men. Heavily armed Imbangala and Ovimbundu guards paced the perimeter, flintlock muskets slung over their shoulders, while local villagers from the surrounding districts milled about the outer ring, desperately holding out woven baskets of wild berries or grass roots, begging for a pinch of salt.

Amutenya didn't stop for the outer stalls. He marched straight into the camp, pushing past a group of porters, until he reached the heavy logs where the caravan guards were butchering their trail rations. 

A massive Imbangala guard with scarred cheeks looked up, eyeing the spotted cow. He snorted. "She is old, boy. Skin and bones. Not worth a single block of salt."

"She is old, but she has walked five miles without stumbling in this heat. Her marrow is good, and her meat will feed fifty of your men tonight," Amutenya said, his voice loud and perfectly steady. He stepped closer, pointing a finger at the animal's massive, sweeping head. "And look at those horns. Symmetrical, thick, and completely unblemished by rot. Your powder-makers on the coast will pay a premium for horns of that size to carve drinking vessels and priming flasks. The horns alone are worth your standard salt and cloth. I want a full trader's yield."

The guard narrowed his eyes, realizing this wasn't a desperate farmer he could bully. After a tense moment of haggling, the guard spat on the ground and signaled his men. 

When the rope was handed over, Amutenya didn't even take a second look back at the cow, but he made sure the payment was counted to the last item. The cow's meat and horns secured them a literal survival armory: two laying hens, a proud rooster, and five lively chicks huddled in a wicker basket; a beautifully curved hunting bow with a full quiver of iron-tipped arrows; a heavy, forged iron spear; and six small iron daggers—one for every member of the household back home, ensuring even Ndapewa and Penehafo had a blade for self-defense. He had bought the bow for Shivute, but he kept the spear for himself, he had a hunch that his strength will only grow as his community thrives, besides, the spear looked very majestic.

Shivute’s jaw dropped as he took the weapons, the heavy iron cold and reassuring against his hands. 

"Now," Amutenya whispered, reaching into his loincloth to pull out the leather pouch containing King Mwaala's reward. "Let's see what real currency can buy."

He opened the pouch just enough for the midday sun to catch the contents. Inside lay a small hoard of rare, deep-blue glass beads. To his modern mind, they were useless baubles, but he was no idiot, he knew from his history lessons in Highschool that glass beads were worth gold in this era ,not to mention how the merchants' eyes turned predatory the moment a glass bead was ever being traded. In this era, these specific coastal beads were the equivalent of high-denomination gold coins. 

Amutenya began a calculated, aggressive spending spree, systematically transforming the glass into hard, measurable wealth:

Five blue beads went to an Ovimbundu grain merchant. In return, four heavy burlap sacks containing 200 kilograms of dried millet and sorghum were loaded onto a wooden hand cart, that he had to pay for with a broken piece of blue bead.

Three blue beads bought three fat, squealing piglets—two females and a male—from an Angolan livestock breeder. 

Four blue beads restored the family’s lost pastoral status, securing three hardy goats and three thick-coated sheep, carefully selected in pairs of two females and one male each. 

Two blue beads were traded at an exotic agricultural stall for a massive seed haul: 10 kilograms of dried maize kernels, 10 kilograms of sweet potato tubers, and 10 kilograms of raw peanuts.

"Why the groundnuts, brother?" Shivute asked, his shame completely forgotten as he struggled to keep the goats from chewing on the grain sacks. 

"Because peanuts contain oil," Amutenya said, his eyes scanning the camp. "We will plant the maize and tubers for food, but the peanuts we will press. Oil is a luxury item. When the drought breaks, we sell the oil back to these very caravans for three times the price."

With a literal train of livestock, weapons, and hundreds of kilograms of food trailing behind him, Amutenya finally approached the center of the crossroads. 

Beneath a massive canvas awning sat the Caravan Master, an older Ovimbundu merchant draped in fine, imported Portuguese cotton. He was counting stacks of ivory by a small fireplace where meat was being slowly roasted, when Amutenya stepped into the shade. 

The merchant looked up, his eyes widening slightly as he processed the sheer volume of wealth the young man peasant boy had just acquired from his outer stalls. "You have been busy, boy. You have practically bought out my livestock pens. What else could you possibly want?"

Amutenya stepped forward and placed two rare blue glass beads firmly onto the wooden table. 

"A contract," Amutenya said. "This is your deposit. When your caravan returns from the northern coast in six moons, you will deliver live sugarcane cuttings and a large sack of upland rice seeds to my district."

The merchant scoffed, pushing the beads back with a manicured finger. "Sugarcane? Rice? I do not haul delicate, wet-country crops across the dry plains for anyone but the coastal governors. They rot in the heat. It is a massive nuisance. Why should I risk my wagons for you?"

"I am not done speaking. You will also use that deposit to buy large water vats," Amutenya continued, his voice dropping to a calm, clinical register. "And inside those vats, you will bring me live river ducks, freshwater crabs, eels, and fingerling fish. And in return, I will teach you how to save thousands of pounds of grain on every journey you take."

The merchant raised an eyebrow, his professional curiosity piqued. "Go on."

Amutenya reached into his bag and pulled out a dark, hairy Ondongwa tuber, tossing it onto the table. The merchant recoiled, his face twisting in disgust. "That is a death root. It is poison. Are you playing with me?"

Without a word, Amutenya produced a small leather pouch of pure white flour. He mixed it with a splash of water from his gourd, pressed the thick dough onto a white-hot stone at the edge of the merchant's campfire, and watched it rise. When it was crisp, he picked it up, took a large, deliberate bite, and swallowed it. 

The merchant stared at him, frozen, waiting for the convulsions. None came. 

Amutenya chewed calmly. "This weed grows in every ditch from here to the Atlantic. Your porters walk past millions of calories every day while they starve on your expensive trail rations. I have unlocked the method to strip the cyanogenic poison from the root in less than a day, turning it into pure, starchy flour."

The merchant’s hands began to tremble slightly. If he could feed his massive army of porters for free using a common wayside weed, his operating costs would plummet to zero, not to mention the amounts of profit he could earn by trading this flour to fellow caravan traders, his profits would double, no, he could earn ten fold if he uses this asset strategically, like selling it to warring kings, slave traders, and starving peasants. Just thinking about made the old merchant’s body tremble slightly. trade! He absolutely must gain this wealth generating formula!

"Give me the method," the merchant whispered, reaching for the blue beads. "And I will bring your fish." He tried to keep his voice as calm as possible, if he showed excitement we might have to pay a more hefty price.

Amutenya’s hand shot out, pinning the merchant’s wrist to the table with surprising, rigid strength. His smile was entirely devoid of warmth—the expression of a modern corporate shark closing an exclusivity clause. 

"I will give you the method today," Amutenya said softly, leaning over the table until his eyes were inches from the merchant's. "But do not think of taking my secret, feeding your men, and forgetting my cargo in nine moons. If I have the brains to make this formula, I naturally recognize its value and I am not stupid enough to rely entirely on your honour, so don't even think about crossing me."

"Are you threatening a master of the trade?" the merchant hissed, the guards behind him shifting their muskets. 

"I am stating my boundaries." Amutenya replied, unbothered. "I tamed the Ondongwa. Next month, I will tame the wild bitter yams. If you fail to deliver my goods, I will not waste my time hunting your wagons. I will simply send my villagers to every single settlement along your route. I will open-source the knowledge. I will teach every starving tribe how to make this flour for free."

The merchant’s breath hitched. 

"If everyone knows the secret, the monopoly dies," Amutenya whispered. "You won't be able to sell the flour, and your competitors will use it to undercut your freight prices. And then, I will take the secret of the wild yams, walk to the next crossroads, and hand it to the Imbangala trade guilds. My only price to them will be that they use their muskets to exclude your wagons from this territory permanently. Tell me, do you think they will take this trade?" He said, slightly raising one eyebrow, to convey his absolute arrogance.

The silence beneath the canvas awning was absolute. The Caravan Master looked at the young man, looking past the dusty clothes and the simple loincloth. He didn't see a native farmer. He saw a terrifying beast, such a strategic devil was not worth provoking over some mere trading goods, he absolutely can not make an enemy out of this smiling tiger.

Slowly, the merchant relaxed his wrist, turning his hand over to grasp Amutenya’s forearm in the traditional binding grip of the northern traders. 

"Nine moons," the merchant said, his voice entirely stripped of its previous arrogance. "I will bring the water vats. I will bring everything you asked for. We are partners." After all securing a partnership with this strategic youth before he becomes a major player, will only provide benefits in the long run. "My name is Chivaka, what are you referred to as young friend?"

"Amutenya yaAmupolo" He replied, a small trace of pride leaking from his introduction, that even he himself didn't fully notice. " Amutenya, good. This merchant will remember you. If you ever need more goods, you can ask me, I will certainly give you a good price."

Amutenya nodded, releasing his grip and turning back to the carts. 

Shivute was standing in the dust, surrounded by a small army of livestock, 230 kilograms of premium grain and seeds, a crate of squawking poultry, and a bristling cache of iron weapons. The boy looked at the mountain of wealth, then at Amutenya, his eyes wide with an awe that bordered on religious worship. The shame that had weighed his shoulders down that morning had vanished completely. 

Amutenya walked to the dazed shivute, taking one of the handles of the grain cart from him, so they can pull the heavy cart together.

"Stop standing around in a daze." Amutenya said, looking toward the horizon where their family waited. "We need to make it home before the sum starts to set ."