CHAPTER 172: CHAPTER 172 - THE FRACTURED THRONE

The Night After the Purge

The drums had fallen silent.

What was meant to be a day of triumph had turned into a wound no celebration could conceal. The royal grounds, once alive with anticipation, now sat heavy with stunned silence. The people had come to witness the celebrations and rituals. They left with heartbreak.

Kasajja. Kaboggoza. Muwanga. The Prime Minister. And... the queen.

The queen.

Kabaka Nakibinge sat alone in his chambers. Not a single torch flickered. He had dismissed the guards. Dismissed the attendants. Even the advisors who hovered outside his door like worried bees had stopped knocking.

The echoes of the queen’s voice still rang in his mind—the quiet hate in her eyes, the moment the dagger pierced his arm, and the chaos that followed. Her betrayal wasn’t just political. It was intimate.

She had kissed his forehead that morning.

She had held his hand just days ago.

She had laid beside him every night.

He gripped the edge of his seat, his knuckles white. There was no blood now, but he bled somewhere deeper.

A soft knock broke the silence. It was Omwami Wabwire, elder of the Mpindi clan and head of the Council.

The old man stepped in, bowing slightly. "Your Majesty. Buganda grieves with you. But it still looks to you."

Nakibinge did not rise. "My wife tried to kill me."

Wabwire’s face tightened. "Yes. And yet you live."

He walked slowly into the chamber, easing himself into a chair. "You must not let this break you, Kabaka. Betrayal has always stalked kings. But it is not betrayal that defines a reign—it is what follows it."

"I trusted her," Nakibinge said, barely above a whisper. "She broke bread with me. Prayed with me. I shared my thoughts, my dreams. How am I supposed to look my children in the eye? Some are in Nuri, once they return how will I tell them their mother caused the death of our people?"

"She was not alone in the betrayal," Wabwire cut in gently. "She merely shocked us the most. But your people still stand. You must stand with them. Your sons and daughters will one day walk this path, you cannot shield them from it. You will move with your head held high and the King of Buganda."

The Kabaka looked away. "How can I protect them when I failed to protect my own home?"

Wabwire leaned forward, voice firm. "By waking tomorrow, and facing her."

The Kabaka rose early.

Sleep had not come to him. His dreams were disjointed things—bleeding into memories of laughter, wedding chants, and whispered lies. He wore no crown. Just a plain tunic and a grim expression.

The dungeons beneath the palace were colder than usual. Torchlight danced against the stones as he walked alone, past silent guards who bowed low but said nothing.

She sat on the far side of the cell, her robes now dirtied, her braids undone. Still beautiful. Still composed. The chains at her wrists looked out of place.

"Why?" he asked, voice hoarse.

She did not look up.

"Why, Nabakyala?" His voice cracked. "Not to me. I understand your hatred for me. You felt trapped in our marriage and in your role as queen. All this time, I thought you were proud to be queen, I thought I made you happy. But why betray Buganda? Why sell her to those jackals?"

Only then did she lift her eyes to meet his.

"I did what I had to," she said calmly. "You speak of betrayal. I speak of escape. You loved your kingdom. I was never part of it. Not truly. My marriage to you was a cage built from silk and ceremony."

"But the people?" he asked. "They had nothing to do with us. You brought war to their doors."

She shrugged. "Perhaps. Or maybe I gave them a reason to see the truth—that your throne is not unshakable."

There was pain in her words, but also conviction. That terrified him more than her silence.

"Do you realize the consequences of your actions? Your selfishness would have delivered our kingdom to the hands of people intent on destroying it.

I held dying children in my arms from that plague. Men and women clung to my robes begging me to end their suffering! All this because you felt trapped, they had to suffer because you decided your freedom was worth more than hundreds. Please tell me its not true..." His voice broke.

She turned her head. "I have nothing more to say."

Later that afternoon, the Kabaka sat before the Council of Elders and his most trusted generals. The air was tense, the silence loaded. He wore his royal garb again, the cut on his arm hidden beneath layers, but the wound in his soul was plain.

Omwami Ssentamu, the youngest on the council and fire-tempered, broke the silence.

"We must execute them. All of them. Publicly. Let the people see that betrayal will not be tolerated."

Others nodded, murmuring agreement.

Priestess Nabirye raised her hand. "And what message does it send if we butcher those once closest to us without due ritual? Let us not be hasty. We are not savages."

Ssentamu frowned. "And if we spare them? We look weak. The people are scared. We must be strong now."

Elder Kayima leaned forward. "There are other ways. Trial by council. Exile. Ritual cleansing. Let the people see order, not vengeance."

The Kabaka said nothing for a long time. Then: "I am torn. Justice demands we act. My heart demands I grieve."

Omwami Wabwire said, "You are not just a man, Kabaka. You are the throne. If you crumble, Buganda crumbles. So we will hold you up—but the decision must be yours."

Nakibinge stared at the fire crackling in the brazier.

Option one: Public execution at the foot of the palace steps. Symbolic. Final.

Option two: Ritual banishment—stripped of titles and cast from the land with ancestral curses.

Option three: Quiet imprisonment and silence—risking whispers and rumors, but protecting Buganda’s soul from further bloodshed.

He closed his eyes.

"What would you do," he asked softly, "if it were your wife who betrayed you?"

No one answered.