The Wrath of the Unchained

The estate of Muwanga of the Nyangabo clan stood tall amidst the lush hills to the east of Buganda’s royal city. It was an old, stone-built mansion passed down through generations—its outer walls veiled by creeping vines and moss, its grounds guarded by ancient fig trees that whispered with every gust of wind.

Torches flickered along the path, casting an eerie glow on the obsidian-carved pillars, while the scent of roasted goat meat and spiced banana wine lingered in the evening air. This was no ordinary gathering—within its walls, the true sickness that had plagued Buganda festered still.

Inside, three men sat in a dimly lit chamber around a round ebony table engraved with the Nyangabo clan sigil. Muwanga of Nyangabo, lean and cold-eyed, drummed his fingers impatiently. Beside him was Kasajja of the Balongo clan, thickset with a face weathered by age and ambition, and Kaboggoza of the Nsenene clan, youthful and sharp-tongued, whose eyes darted like a predator’s.

Muwanga spoke first. "Everything we built is in ruins. All those weeks of silence, careful planning—gone. Our people are alive. The Kabaka is stronger. The Nuri medics have made him a hero."

Kasajja growled, "We underestimated them. And now, worse, we have to explain this humiliation to our friends in the Kingdom of Kongo."

Kaboggoza snorted. "Friends? Lumingu Mbemba is no friend. He is a buyer. A buyer of power, influence, and nations. He will not take kindly to failed goods."

They fell into a heavy silence, the crackling of the hearth the only sound.

"It should have worked," Kasajja finally muttered. "The disease would have spread uncontrollably, people would have begged for a solution. Then Lumingu would swoop in with healers, foreign trade, and military protection. The Kabaka would fall. One of us would rise."

"Instead," Muwanga spat bitterly, "Nuri intervened. Those medics, those cursed songs, even their damn soap—"