CHAPTER 171: CHAPTER 171 - NO TRAITORS IN OUR MIDST

The sun broke over Bulemezi like a solemn blessing, its light filtered through the morning mist that clung to the ancient groves surrounding the royal shrine. It was a sacred place, built generations ago where the land hummed with old spirits. Today, its grounds were crowded with thousands. People stood shoulder to shoulder: villagers from the lake shores, warriors from distant provinces, elders wrapped in ceremonial barkcloth, clan heads in polished beads and feathers.

The shrine itself was shaped in a perfect oval, the thatched roof rimmed with red and black dye, its foundation ringed with ancestral stones said to whisper to the gods. A sacred fire burned in its center, fed by oils and herbs brought from every corner of the kingdom. Around the fire stood Buganda’s spiritual elders, their faces painted in ash and ochre.

The ritual began with silence.

Then a rhythmic drumming, slow and steady, mimicking the heartbeat of the land. The priests chanted names of the ancestors, calling them to bear witness. A pot of sanctified water was passed from elder to elder, each whispering into it the truths of the kingdom—its joys, its sufferings, its blood.

Finally, the Kabaka himself stepped forward, robed in deep indigo and gold, bare-footed on the sacred earth. He poured the water onto the fire, and smoke billowed up like a spirit freed from flesh. The people bowed their heads. This act—burning truth—was meant to purify the soul of the kingdom, to prepare it for what was to come.

When the smoke cleared, the Kabaka turned to face the people. His voice carried, not by force, but by the gravity of what he was about to say.

"My people of Buganda," he began, and the hush deepened, "the land we love has bled. You know this. You have buried your children, your mothers, your brothers. A plague swept through our homes like a beast with no name. We mourned together."

He paused.

"But it was not fate. It was not misfortune. It was betrayal."

Gasps rippled through the crowd. Some clutched their chests. Others looked to the clan heads, as if trying to read guilt in their expressions.

"There are those," the Kabaka continued, "who carry our name. Who eat of our soil, speak our tongue, claim our gods—and yet plotted to destroy us."

A woman in the back cried out, and others murmured prayers.

"Buganda still stands because our new allies, Nuri, gave us warning. They helped us find the root of this evil. But I grieve, for the rot came from within."

He let the silence settle before going on.

"To our clans, I say this—the betrayal of one is not the betrayal of all. These crimes are of individual cowardice, not of bloodlines."

A wave of uneasy relief moved through the gathered clan heads. All except three.

They stood stiff, faces tight with dread. Eyes darting sideways. They could feel the weight of a thousand eyes pressing on them.

The Prime Minister, dressed in ceremonial white, stood beside the Kabaka. His hands were clenched so tightly they shook.

The Kabaka took a breath, then thundered:

"Let them be brought forward."

Warriors moved with frightening speed. The crowd parted. The three clan heads cried out, two stumbling as they were dragged from their places of honor and thrown before the people.

Gasps became shouts. A man shouted, "That’s Muwanga of the Leopard Clan!" Another, "No! He gave our village cattle last year!"

The Kabaka raised his hand and silence fell again.

"These three sold our secrets to foreign hands. But they did not act alone."

The Prime Minister’s jaw tightened.

"Two others plotted with them."

Then, something in his eyes shifted. Resolve. He reached within his robe.

Time slowed.

The Kabaka shouted, but the voice was swallowed by the crowd’s roar.

Steel flashed.

But it was not the Prime Minister who struck.

The moment the blade plunged into his upper arm, the Kabaka gasped—not from pain, but from disbelief.

Time slowed.

His hand gripped the wound instinctively, blood oozing between his fingers, staining his ceremonial robe a deep crimson. But it was not the pain of the flesh that broke him. It was the face of the one who had stabbed him.

His queen.

The mother of Buganda.

His wife.

He staggered back a step, eyes wide, struggling to breathe as the crowd erupted in a sea of horrified gasps and cries. The prime minister had been reaching for his hidden dagger, but he hadn’t made the move.

She had.

The Kabaka stared at her, the weight of generations pressing down on his shoulders. The sacred oaths they had taken beneath the moon, the festivals they had presided over together, the child they had buried during the last famine—all of it collapsed under the jagged truth now dripping from his wound.

"Why?" he whispered hoarsely, barely able to summon the strength to speak.

Her expression was hard, but her voice shook with something deeper than malice.

"I never wanted this," she said through clenched teeth. "You... this palace... this life. All I wanted was to be with the one I loved. But I was sold for peace. Married for alliances. Buried alive in a crown I never asked for."

The Kabaka blinked, the world turning hazy at the edges.

Was that all he had been to her? A cage with a throne?

Before he could answer, the warriors surged in, subduing her with swift, brutal efficiency. The dagger clattered to the ground. Blood smeared the marble floor. The queen—his queen—was forced to her knees beside the prime minister, who had already been seized and disarmed.

Around them, the crowd became a wave of sound—shock, confusion, rage.

"She stabbed him!"

"Traitor! She was one of them!"

"The mother of the kingdom? How could she?"

"The ancestors will never forgive this..."

The Kabaka’s head spun. His chest rose and fell with trembling breaths. In that moment, he felt both ancient and impossibly young. His arm throbbed. His heart felt hollow.

He stared at the two kneeling before him—once his closest, now his ruin.

The queen avoided his eyes.

The prime minister looked defiant even as blood ran down his temple.

And the Kabaka... felt something inside him break.

Still holding his wound, he stepped forward, his voice like thunder trying to hold back tears.

"From today onward," he declared, his voice hard as iron, "we will have no traitors in our midst. I swear this to you on the bones of our ancestors. Buganda will rise."

The crowd roared their answer:

"Buganda!"

"We rise!"

"No traitors!"

The Kabaka stood beneath the smoke of the sacred fire, wounded and betrayed, but unbroken.

The purge had begun.