The Wrath of the Unchained-Chapter 142- The Shadows Over Buganda

In a dimly lit hut in the heart of the Buganda Kingdom, the scent of burning herbs hung heavy in the air. Shadows danced along the bark-covered walls as Kabaka Nakibinge Kagali sat cross-legged beside his katikiro, his Prime Minister. A bowl of steaming millet porridge sat untouched between them, its surface already forming a film. Outside, drums beat softly in the distance—a signal from a nearby village, but even the rhythm sounded uncertain, troubled.

"I fear these clan wars are not entirely of our own making," Kabaka murmured, his voice laced with unease. "It feels... engineered. As if someone is fanning the flames for their own gain."

The katikiro nodded solemnly, his brows furrowed. "We have long-standing tensions, but this level of bloodshed? It is unlike us. Perhaps a foreign hand moves in the shadows."

Before the conversation could deepen, the hut’s entrance burst open, letting in a rush of humid evening air. A young man stumbled in, panting and drenched in sweat. His eyes were wide, wild with desperation. Without hesitation, he dropped to his knees and bowed his head low.

"I beg your forgiveness, my Kabaka," he gasped, his voice cracking. "But I bring dire news from my clan."

The king motioned for him to speak.

"Our people... they are falling ill. It began with a few elders, but now even children suffer. They burn with fever, their skin hot like fresh embers. Their bodies weaken, and they soil themselves constantly. Nothing works—not herbs, not charms, not prayer. They waste away before our eyes, and every day we bury more."

His voice broke, and tears carved clean paths down his dirty cheeks.

"My mother is among them," he added hoarsely. "I don’t want her to die. Please, help us."

The kabaka’s face darkened with concern. He rose to his feet immediately, the folds of his royal barkcloth robes brushing the ground like thunderclouds on the move.

"Summon the elders," he ordered. "And send word to our herbalists and spiritual leaders. Have them go to the clan’s compound without delay."

That same evening, the kingdom’s finest herbalists arrived at the stricken village. As they approached, the stench of death met them—sour, fetid, and unrelenting. Flies buzzed thick in the air, and dogs whined from a distance, too frightened to scavenge. The villagers watched from doorways, their eyes hollow, their lips too dry for words.

"Stay back," one woman hissed as the herbalists passed. "You bring more death!"

"We come to help," one of the elder healers replied gently.

"No one helps. They just die," she whispered, her eyes haunted.

The sick lay on mats in dim, stuffy huts, their skin slick with sweat, lips cracked, moaning softly or shivering violently. The herbalists worked tirelessly—burning purifying herbs, preparing poultices, and chanting old incantations. But after three days, they had little to show. More died overnight, including two children. A boy coughed blood until he choked. A woman went mad from the pain and threw herself into the fire pit.

By morning, the elders arrived in the great hut, their faces drawn with concern. They sat in a circle, the hut filled with the musky scent of medicinal smoke and drying herbs. Kabaka Nakibinge explained everything.

"What sort of curse is this?" one of the older council members asked, tugging at his gray beard.

"We won’t know until the herbalists return," the Kabaka replied. "I am trusting their wisdom."

"This is unprecedented," another elder muttered. "We have faced drought, locusts, even war—but this? This feels like a punishment from the ancestors."

"We must offer prayers. Make sacrifices at the shrines. Perhaps we have offended the spirits," a spiritual leader suggested, clutching a string of beads.

The Kabaka nodded solemnly. "Let it be done. Every effort must be made." frёeweɓηovel.coɱ

By the end of the week, some villagers began to turn on each other.

"He is sick! Kill him before it spreads!" cried one man, lunging with a spear.

"No, no! I am not sick!" the accused cried, but his pleas fell on ears deafened by fear.

"They’re cursed," a trembling elder woman hissed from behind a reed fence. "Touch them and you’ll die next."

The herbalists exchanged uneasy glances. Their pouches of roots and powders suddenly felt small, inadequate.

In one hut, a young girl moaned softly, her eyes glassy with fever. Her skin was hot to the touch, her lips cracked. A sticky brown liquid pooled in a broken gourd beside her. Her father wept silently in the corner, too afraid to draw near.

"We have never seen an illness spread like this," whispered one herbalist. "It leaps from hut to hut like fire in dry grass."

Some villagers began chaining shut their homes at the first sign of sickness, refusing to let the ill back in. Others took darker measures—smothering the afflicted in their sleep or abandoning them in the fields to die alone.

The herbalists sent runners back to the capital. The message was clear: they were losing.

The kabaka, upon hearing this, convened his spiritual leaders once more. The main hut, though wide and airy, felt suffocating with dread.

"We have tried every ritual," said one priest, exhaustion etched deep into his features. "We have slaughtered goats and bathed in their blood, burned incense, fasted... but the spirits are silent."

"Perhaps they have abandoned us," another whispered.

"Is there no ritual, no spirit who can be bargained with?" he asked, desperation creeping into his voice.

The spiritual guides exchanged uneasy glances. One, an old woman with silver-painted cheeks, shook her head slowly.

"We have tried everything, my King. Either this is a curse beyond the reach of spirits... or it is no curse at all."

The Kabaka’s hands clenched into fists. Fear sat like a stone in his gut.

"Then we must find a way to make them speak again," the kabaka said firmly, though weariness tinged his voice.

But even his strength was wearing thin.

A month passed. Smoke from cremation fires stained the skies. Entire compounds were left abandoned. The air felt thicker, heavy with rot and sorrow. Birds stopped singing. Women wept in the mornings before they even stepped outside, already grieving the next death they knew would come.

And then, one evening, a lone traveler arrived.

He was an older man, stooped slightly from the weight of his trade pack. His eyes were sharp and observant, and though his sandals were worn, his steps were purposeful. A distant cousin of the kabaka, he had returned to Buganda after nearly a year of trading across the lake and through the mountain routes.

The scent of sickness slapped him the moment he entered the kingdom. He saw empty homesteads, wandering children with ash-covered cheeks, and pyres still warm with ash.

"This is not the Buganda I left," he whispered, disturbed.

At the royal compound, he was quickly granted an audience.

The kabaka greeted him, though the usual warmth was replaced by grim acknowledgment.

"You return at a difficult time, cousin."

"I can see that," the man said, bowing deeply. "What in the names of all gods has happened?"

They explained everything—the affliction, the death, the failure of every effort to stop it. The trader listened in silence, nodding occasionally.

When they were done, he paused, looking down at the dirt floor before speaking.

"On my journey here, I passed through a place. A kingdom unlike any I have seen before. Towering homes of stone, wide clean roads, water that flowed from channels, not pots. And the people—happy, strong, unafraid."

The elders stirred with interest.

"What is this place?" asked the katikiro.

"It is called Nuri. A new kingdom, but wise beyond its years. The people there do not fall to such illnesses. They spoke of cleanliness, of boiling water, of knowing the causes of disease."

The kabaka looked thoughtful. But one elder scoffed.

"So now you bring tales from across the lake to shame us?"

"I bring hope," the trader replied.

"We have always healed ourselves. Why should we beg from strangers?" another grumbled.

"Because we are dying!" the kabaka snapped. His voice echoed through the hut. "And every tradition we hold dear has failed us!"

The room fell into silence.

The older man stepped forward gently. "I do not ask you to abandon your ways. Only to consider help. Nuri is only across the lake. We can send envoys or go by the mountains. But the longer we wait, the fewer there will be left to save."

"I have never heard of this Nuri," one elder barked. "Why have they hidden from us?"

"They do not hide. They build. Quietly, but powerfully. They mind their affairs—but that is not our concern now. What matters is that they may have the wisdom or medicine to save us."

"They may also be the ones who cursed us," another elder snapped.

"There’s no proof of that," the trader countered calmly. "But there is proof that we are dying. Every day. You must act, Kabaka. Before there’s nothing left to rule."

The kabaka clenched his jaw, staring into the flickering firepit at the center of the room. Its embers seemed to pulse like the dying heart of his kingdom.

"I will speak with my council again," he said finally, his voice low but firm. "And then I will decide."

Outside, a new wind was blowing—cooler, steadier—but it did little to mask the scent of sickness still rising from the earth.

A woman’s scream pierced the air. Another death. The Kabaka’s hands trembled.