Asha leaned against the stone pedestal, the cavern's air thick with the scent of damp earth and possibility. Malkia wa Pepo's words echoed in her mind like the lingering hum of a drumbeat – _the whindi reveal what you already know_. The memories she'd uncovered felt like weights lifting, yet also like anchors pulling her deeper into herself.
Omari watched her, eyes concerned. "Asha, uko sawa? – you okay?"
Asha nodded, though she wasn't sure. The orb lay quiet now, its glow faded. What did it mean, that the power was inside her all along?
Malkia's winds whispered again, _"The path forward is shrouded. But you have the map – your own."_
Asha turned to Omari. "We need to tell Mama Kiti. She'll know what to do."
Back in Mtae, Mama Kiti listened, her face a map of shadows and knowing. When Asha finished, she nodded, silver earrings jinking softly.
"The whindi have spoken," she said, her voice like the rustle of leaves. "The wali blood in you is strong, Asha. The question is... what will you do with it?"
Asha felt the weight of it – the responsibility, the possibility. She thought of her parents, their stories, the whindi's whispers.
"I want to understand," she said, voice steady. "To use it... for the land, for people."
Mama Kiti smiled, eyes gleaming. "Then listen to the whindi. They'll teach you."
Night fell, and Asha stepped outside, the village quiet. The stars blowed like diamonds on black velvet, and the whindi whispered secrets in her ear. She closed her eyes, letting the sounds fill her – the forest breathing, the wind's song, the beat of her own heart.
Suddenly, a memory surfaced – her mother, by the river, teaching her to listen to the water's voice. Asha's eyes snapped open. The river.
"The river's path," she whispered. "I need to go."
Omari appeared beside her, torch in hand. "I'll come."
The river flowed silver under starlight, its voice a gentle roar. Asha followed its banks, whindi swirling around her like fireflies. The path led to a place where water fell into darkness – a hidden grotto.
Inside, a glowing shape waited – a tree, its branches etched with symbols of the wali. The whindi grew loud, like a storm building.
Malkia wa Pepo's voice echoed: _"The tree holds stories. Listen."_