CHAPTER 175: CHAPTER 175 - A KINGDOM’S BROKEN HEART

The palace of Mengo was silent that night.

No drums beat. No horns sounded. Even the winds that swept across the royal gardens carried only the hush of heavy expectation.

Khisa walked the narrow corridor that led to the king’s private chambers, his boots soft against the woven reed mats. A servant bowed silently as he opened the carved wooden doors, and the prince stepped into a room dimly lit by oil lamps and the pale silver of moonlight filtering through tall windows.

Kabaka Nakibinge stood by the latticework, hands clasped behind his back, gazing into the darkness beyond the palace walls. He did not turn when Khisa entered — perhaps he already knew who it was, or perhaps he was too lost in thought to care.

"You could have summoned me tomorrow," Khisa said gently. "You should rest while you can. A king also needs sleep."

Nakibinge gave a tired, humorless laugh. "Rest has become a stranger to me, young prince. And dawn... dawn brings nothing but choices I do not wish to make."

Khisa moved closer, stopping a few paces behind him. "I heard about the queen."

The Kabaka exhaled, the sound heavy with months of bottled torment. "A title I still cannot bring myself to strip from her lips. And yet, every time I hear it, it feels like a blade twisting deeper into my chest."

Silence stretched between them. Outside, somewhere in the night, an owl called — a lonely, haunting sound.

"I loved her," Nakibinge whispered. "Not as a king loves a queen, but as a man loves the other half of his soul. And now... I must decide if that soul is to be broken in the name of justice."

Khisa’s gaze softened. "You are not the first king forced to choose between the man you were and the leader you must become. And you will not be the last."

Nakibinge turned at last, his eyes shadowed and weary. "Tell me, Khisa — if it were you, could you condemn her? Could you order death upon the one you once vowed to protect?"

Khisa did not answer immediately. He walked to the window, resting a hand against the cool frame, staring out at the faint glow of the city lights below.

"No," he said finally. "Not easily. Perhaps not at all." He turned to face the king. "But I am not Buganda’s king. You are. And kings do not have the luxury of loving without consequence."

Nakibinge’s jaw tightened. "I have delayed her judgment because I hoped for some reason — any reason — to believe there is another way. Banishment. Imprisonment. Something that would satisfy justice without tearing the last piece of me apart."

Khisa shook his head slowly. "If you imprison her, they will call you weak. If you banish her, they will call you a coward. But if you execute her..." He let the words hang heavy in the air. "...they will call you their king."

The Kabaka flinched as though struck.

"Your people are wounded," Khisa continued quietly. "They have buried their children, their brothers, their mothers — all because of betrayals that festered in your court. Mercy will not soothe them now. It will enrage them. And rage, left to grow, will consume Buganda from within."

Nakibinge walked away, dragging a trembling hand down his face. "And yet, execution is not justice. It is vengeance."

"Sometimes," Khisa said softly, "vengeance is the only language a broken people understand. The decision you have to make is hard, but for the sake of those who follow you, you have no choice."

The Kabaka stopped. His back was to Khisa, but his shoulders shook — barely, but enough. "Do you know what frightens me most? It is not her death. It is that the moment I give that order, I will have nothing left. Not love. Not trust. Only a crown — and the ghosts of what it cost me."

Khisa’s expression gentled. "That is the burden of kingship. It takes everything from you, piece by piece, until all that remains is the duty you swore to uphold. But if Buganda tears itself apart while you grieve, our enemies will not need to strike a single blow. They will simply walk over the ashes of your kingdom."

Silence again. The king’s breathing steadied, then slowed. When he finally turned, his eyes were no longer clouded by hesitation — they were filled with something harder, colder, and infinitely sadder.

"You are right," he said. "I cannot fight two wars — one on my borders and another in my streets. The people must see justice. Even if it breaks me."

Khisa bowed his head. "Then they will stand behind you when the real war begins. Your people need to see that no matter what, you are willing to put them first."

Nakibinge stepped closer, placing a hand on the prince’s shoulder — a rare gesture of vulnerability. "When the time comes... I hope i do not falter. If I falter, so will Buganda."

"You have Nuri backing you," Khisa promised. "You will not face this storm alone. Your ministers are by your side as well."

The king nodded once, firmly, as if sealing his own fate. "Tomorrow, Buganda will have its justice."

And with that, the conversation ended. Khisa departed quietly, leaving the Kabaka alone beneath the moonlight — a man about to sacrifice the last fragment of his heart to keep his kingdom whole.

Outside, in the sleeping city, grief still lingered like smoke. But with the coming dawn, it would be joined by something darker — the cold, unrelenting weight of justice.

Morning crept slowly over Mengo, painting the palace walls in soft gold. The city still lay heavy with silence, as if holding its breath for something it could not yet name. Inside the royal chambers, Kabaka Nakibinge dressed without a word. Gone was the robe of mourning he had worn since the purge. In its place, he donned the deep crimson and gold of the throne — the colors of finality.

When he stepped into the council chamber, the elders were already assembled. They rose as he entered, bowing deeply, but the air was different this time — heavier, more solemn. The Kabaka’s face bore none of the uncertainty that had shadowed him in previous days. His voice, when he spoke, was steady and cold as river stone.

"My heart has wrestled with this decision," he began, "but the time for hesitation is over."

The elders exchanged wary glances. One cleared his throat. "Your Majesty... have you reached your judgment?"

"I have." Nakibinge’s eyes swept over them — men who had served his father and grandfather, men who had seen kingdoms rise and fall. "The crimes committed against Buganda are beyond forgiveness. Our people’s wounds cannot begin to heal until justice is done. And so... justice will be done."

A murmur rippled through the chamber.

"The traitors — Kasajja, Kaboggoza, Muwanga, the former prime minister... and the queen — will stand before the people this evening," the Kabaka continued. "Before the sun sets, Buganda will hear their sentence from my own lips."

One elder, old and frail but still bold, spoke carefully. "And the punishment, my king?"

Nakibinge’s gaze did not waver. "It will match the weight of their betrayal."

The chamber fell utterly silent. No one dared speak further.

The Kabaka turned to his chief steward. "Send word to every village, every town, every field. By sundown, I want every soul who can walk to be gathered in the capital square. Let no one say they did not witness justice."

The steward bowed and hurried out. Messengers were dispatched within the hour, their drums and horns carrying the summons far and wide.

Across Buganda, people dropped their tools mid-harvest. Traders shuttered their stalls. Mothers called their children home. From distant riverbanks and forest paths, they began to walk — a tide of humanity flowing toward the capital, drawn by grief, fury, and a desperate need for closure.

By the time the sun sank low over the hills, the great square of Mengo was full — shoulder to shoulder, tens of thousands gathered in breathless silence. Soldiers lined the perimeter. The gallows and stone platforms had been raised in the night. And at the heart of it all, the throne stood waiting beneath the setting sun.

Buganda’s long-awaited judgment had finally come.