CHAPTER 173: CHAPTER 173 - WHEN THE DRUM WENT SILENT

First if all let me start by apologising for taking way too long with the update, I fell sick for a little while and just recently recovered, I will drop as many Chapters as I can to make up for all the days I missed. Thank you all for staying so loyal and keeping my book in your library. This story will only get better as we go along, so look forward to it.

*****

Buganda did not sleep.

The night after the purge stretched into a dawn of whispers, into a midday of tears, into an evening of simmering rage. The betrayal did not end with the queen’s arrest, it had only begun to unfold in the hearts of her people.

They had called her Maama w’egwanga — Mother of the Nation.

She had stood beside the Kabaka when babies were born, when crops failed, when enemies threatened the borders.

Now, they could not even say her name.

The moment of her betrayal replayed in the minds of the people of Buganda. Right now the hurt out weighed the shock of her betrayal.

By the graves outside Mengo.

The wind carried the soft wails of women. Wrapped in faded barkcloth and worn shawls, they knelt before rows of shallow mounds, the graves of those who had died in the plague.

"My son was only five," whispered one mother, her hands trembling over a pile of red earth. "He screamed until he couldn’t anymore. And all this time... she knew. She helped them."

Another woman beside her let out a cry that shook her whole body. "I buried my husband here. I cursed the heavens. And she was sleeping beside the king while my world burned."

A young girl clung to her grandmother’s waist. "Why are you crying?"

"Because, child," the grandmother said, voice breaking, "the woman we trusted turned her back on us."

Women, men and children stood among the rows of graves, one after another they gripped the red soil and shed tears for their fallen. Their death and suffering is something that could have been avoided. They did not even care for the clan heads who betrayed them, nor the prime minister who aided them.

The mother of the nation, the woman who held them as they cried, the one who gave them hope is the one who caused them the most suffering.

At a tavern in one of the villages.

The calabashes passed from hand to hand — millet beer thick and bitter, the drink of mourning. Men and women sat shoulder to shoulder, their words heavy with sorrow.

"Do you remember when the queen came to the market during the drought?" one man asked, his voice already slurred. "She gave grain to my family. I kissed her hands in gratitude."

"And now?" another spat on the ground. "Now you know it was her hand choking your neck the whole time."

A silence followed. Then, an older woman spoke, her eyes misty but defiant.

"She did wrong. Horrible wrong. But she also built the clinics, brought healers to our villages. We cannot forget that."

Her words were met with sharp glares.

"Do not ask me to remember kindness from a viper," someone growled. "All that good means nothing now."

"That’s right!" Another exclaimed, "She betrayed us! I do not care if she fed my own child with her hands, she caused my entire family’s death. I am all that is left of my name, I buried them one after another," he chocked out, " She could die and I would drink in celebration." He spat on the ground, tears streaming from his eyes.

They all felt his pain, each one of them had lost someone, even those trying to defend the queen, were simply grasping at straws, if she could betray them, how many others won’t hesitate to do the same.

The tavern erupted into arguments — friends shouting over friends, grief twisting into rage, loyalty battling betrayal.

In the soldiers’ barracks.

The barracks were quieter than usual. Spears leaned forgotten against walls. The men spoke in low, bitter tones.

"She blessed our banners before every campaign," one soldier muttered. "We marched believing we carried the will of our king and queen."

"And all the while," another cut in, "she plotted to destroy the very land we bled for."

A younger warrior, barely past his initiation, slammed his fist into the wall. "We fight enemies beyond our borders. How do we fight betrayal that sleeps inside our palace?"

No one answered him. There was no answer to give.

"How are we supposed to proudly hoist our banners, when our leaders plot to destroy us? The king should have protected us, he slept peacefully while the enemy sleeps beside him!" He shouted angrily.

"Watch your tongue boy!" An older warrior said, " I understand your grief and frustration but the king has never and will never betray us. Don’t let your anger drive you to treason! We will await the king’s decision."

The soldiers clenched their teeth in frustration, the helplessness of the situation settling within them.

Across Buganda.

Fires burned low in hearths as families huddled together, talking late into the night.

Some cursed her name until their throats grew hoarse.

Some spoke of the good she had done, desperate to cling to the version of her they once believed in.

Some simply stared into the darkness, unable to reconcile the mother they knew with the traitor she had become.

And with every passing day — every moment the Kabaka did not speak, did not judge, did not act — the people’s grief curdled into something more dangerous.

Anger.

It seeped into the soil, into the rhythm of the drums, into the lullabies sung to orphans who would never know the queen who betrayed their parents.

Buganda was mourning.

But mourning, if left too long, had a way of becoming vengeance.

In the quiet corner of the royal compound...

Night had fallen, but one chamber still held a flicker of light.

A small clay lamp burned low before a carved wooden effigy of Mukasa, god of mercy. Kneeling on the cold floor beside it was Nakato — the queen’s maid for more than fifteen years. Her hands were clasped so tightly her knuckles whitened, her whispered prayers trembling in the stillness.

"Lule wange," she murmured, voice raw from crying, "great one who sees all hearts, show them her truth. Show them the woman I know."

Tears slipped down her cheeks and dripped onto the mat.

"She bathed the sick with her own hands. She fed orphans when no one else would. She taught me to read the king’s letters. This cannot be who she is... it cannot." Her voice broke into a small, desperate laugh. "She used to weep when a child died. How could she cause their deaths?"

A soft shuffle came from the doorway. Another maid, barely older than a girl, lingered there.

"Nakato... the guards say she confessed to plotting with the traitors."

Nakato’s head snapped up, eyes shining in the lamplight. "Lies. They twist her words. They want to see her fall."

"But she stabbed the Kabaka..."

"She must have been forced," Nakato whispered, as if saying it softly enough might make it true. "They threatened her, or bewitched her, or—" She stopped herself, fingers gripping her prayer beads. "She is not a monster. Not my queen."

The younger maid said nothing. She simply watched as Nakato bent forward again, pressing her forehead to the mat.

"Great one," Nakato prayed, voice shaking, "if she has done wrong, let me bear the shame beside her. If she is guilty, forgive her, for I cannot. I only know the woman who once saved a child with her own breath."

Outside, the drums of the city beat with anger and grief. But inside that small, dim chamber, there was only one woman’s stubborn, lonely hope — a fragile refusal to believe that the woman she had loved and served was truly capable of such darkness.