The Wrath of the Unchained-Chapter 145 - The Cure and the Curse

The triage center had been set up at the edge of the Buganda village, a hastily cleared area turned into rows of makeshift tents. The sick were isolated, covered in woven mats, their groans carried in the wind like a warning. The air was thick with the scent of herbs, sickness, and smoke from nearby fires meant to purify the air—or at least give the illusion of it.

The first three days were the hardest.

The people of Buganda were terrified—of the disease, of the strangers, and of what they didn’t understand. Some whispered that the afflicted had been touched by evil spirits. Others dared not go near them, even when their own kin cried out in agony. Despite Wanjiru’s constant assurance that proper cleanliness would protect them, fear ruled their hearts. The disease had no face, no mercy, and moved faster than words could contain.

The medics from Nuri, over thirty in total, worked tirelessly. They did not hesitate to do the nastiest of work—cleaning wounds, changing soiled bedding, and carrying the dying. They worked in shifts, rotating only when exhaustion forced them. Their efforts were relentless, their resolve unshaken, even as death brushed their shoulders.

Wasike and Tiriki supervised the efforts of the Mkono wa Giza, making sure the system held. They helped dig drainage trenches, carry clean water, and distribute rations. Every bit of effort counted. This wasn’t just about saving lives—it was about holding the line.

In the village center, where once laughter echoed around communal fires, silence and suspicion ruled. Some villagers no longer looked each other in the eye. Grief had turned to madness in more than one home.

One man—Mutebi—still bore the bruises from when his younger brother had tried to smother him in his sleep, convinced the disease had entered his soul. Saved only by a neighbor’s scream, Mutebi had not spoken since.

But today, as he sat hunched beneath a mango tree, his fever broken and breath still shallow, he watched two Shadows lift a sick child into their arms—gentle, unflinching. A Nuri medic crouched beside an old woman with trembling hands, washing her face with warm water as she murmured a lullaby from her own homeland.

Mutebi blinked. These strangers did not pray to his gods. They did not wear his colors or speak his tongue. And yet they stayed.

Something inside him shifted—not healed, not whole—but less hollow.

Maybe survival didn’t speak just one language.

One afternoon, as the sun lowered in the western sky, casting long golden beams across the tents and village rooftops, Bakemba ducked into Wanjiru’s tent where the scent of herbs and bitter medicine filled the air.

"Our Kabaka wants to see you," Bakemba said in a low voice. "I apologize for interrupting your work, but we’ve delayed long enough. He has summoned you to the capital."

Wanjiru wiped her hands on a cloth. "Understood. We do need more hands here, but my apprentices will manage. We can leave at once."

By carriage, they travelled to the heart of the Buganda Kingdom—Mengo, its capital. The road was slow, passing through villages whose silence was deafening. Even birds seemed afraid to sing. Homes were shuttered, markets abandoned, children absent from the roads. Accompanying the group were Bakemba as translator and guide, Wanjiru, Wasike, and Kasirye, the elder healer of Buganda.

Upon arrival, they were met by a procession of guards and worried citizens. Some stared with suspicion; others with desperate hope. Whispers followed them like shadows. The group was ushered to the royal hut, its tall, conical roof marked with the woven symbols of Buganda’s strength and heritage.

Inside, Kabaka Nakibinge Kagali awaited them, seated upon a carved stool. Around him were elders, nobles, spiritualists, and military commanders. The air in the room was heavy, not with incense, but with tension.

Bakemba and Kasirye bowed deeply. Wanjiru and Wasike, unfamiliar with the customs but respectful, followed suit.

Bakemba spoke first. "We have returned, my Kabaka. We found help from Nuri. They sent more than thirty healers, with medicine and strange practices. More are on their way."

Wanjiru stepped forward. "I am Wanjiru, the lead herbalist and head medic of the Nuri Kingdom. This is Wasike, a soldier and investigator, who travels with us for protection."

"I am Kabaka Nakibinge Kagali," the monarch replied. "You are welcome in Buganda, though I wish it were under better circumstances. I thank you for your efforts. Please explain the situation."

Wanjiru nodded. "We have controlled the spread as best as we can. Our hope is to save as many as possible. However, we believe it would be wise to investigate the root cause of the disease. Wasike is highly skilled in this. If we understand how it began, we can stop it from ever happening again. Our Queen fears it could reach Nuri."

"Why investigate?" one elder growled. "We all know this is a curse. The spirits have turned their backs on us. The answer lies in repentance, not curiosity."

"I understand your pain," Wanjiru said, gently. "You have lost much. But if we do not adapt, more will follow. If this is a curse, then let us fight it with every tool we have—including knowledge."

"Investigate? What is this? You come from foreign lands to stick your noses into our filth? Our suffering?" He turned to the Kabaka. "With all respect, my king, we do not need foreigners telling us how to bury our dead or wash our hands."

Wanjiru kept her voice even. "We’re not here to shame you, Omwami. We only wish to save lives."

Kagulu stood now, tall and broad, a scar running from cheek to collarbone. "You speak of saving lives while parading your medicine like magic. I have seen these medics—they chant nothing, they offer no sacrifices, they burn no incense. They bury our dead without proper rites. And now they speak of soap and latrines? Where is the respect for our ways?"

Murmurs rippled through the council. Tradition clashed against desperation, and no one moved to quiet the rising storm.

Another elder added, "If we let them take over our healing, what next? Our laws? Our children?"

Kabaka Nakibinge exhaled slowly, as though bearing the weight of two worlds.

"Enough," he said. "I understand your anger, Kagulu. But I will not watch our kingdom fall to pride. I will allow these Nuri medics to continue. Let Wasike investigate. If he finds something, we will listen."

The Kabaka studied her for a long moment. "What do you propose?"

"In the coming days, another squad with more medicine, food, and supplies will arrive. Your own healers and spiritual leaders must step forward as well—they are needed now more than ever, not to hide, but to give the people hope.

But above all, we must introduce hygiene."

"Hygiene?" the Kabaka repeated, uncertain.

"Yes," Wanjiru said. "The disease spreads through filth—dirty hands, stagnant water, contaminated food. We must dig latrines far from rivers. We have soap. It must be used—after every visit to the latrine, before every meal, and when caring for the sick. Even your children must be taught." frёeωebɳovel.com

A scoffing sound came from an elder wrapped in purple robes. "Soap? Latrines? Are you here to cure us or shame us? You wish to spread foreign ways, foreign ideas. Curse our kingdom with your outsider knowledge. Greed knows no bounds."

More voices rose in tension.

"Next you will tell us to abandon our gods!"

"They will write books about how we were once mighty before we bent to strangers!"

"This is how they take control—first your sick, then your soul."

Wasike took a step forward, his voice firm. "With respect—if we wanted to conquer you, we would have brought swords, not soap."

The room fell into a tense silence.

Wanjiru lifted her chin. "Kabaka, your people are dying. We ask nothing in return for our help. No land, no titles, no riches. Only that you listen. Only that you let us help."

The Kabaka closed his eyes for a moment, then opened them. "Your presence has already brought change. Whether it is for better or worse, we shall see. The old ways do not yield easily. But I will not be remembered as the king who let his people die out of pride."

Kagulu let out a disdainful grunt. "You think we are fools. That our traditions are filth to be washed away."

Wanjiru turned to him. "No. I think your people deserve to live."

Kabaka Nakibinge stood. "It is decided. You will be given temporary authority within the afflicted zones. Bakemba will oversee all communication. Our people will watch you—but I urge the council: give these strangers the chance to save lives."

Some nodded in wary agreement. Others looked away.

As the meeting ended, Wanjiru caught a glimpse of something not often seen in courts and councils—a flicker of fear in the eyes of kings and clan heads. It was not the fear of outsiders. It was the fear of change.

He turned to the elders. "Let them do what they must. But we will watch them. Closely."

Bakemba bowed once more, a flicker of hope on his face.

Wanjiru met Wasike’s gaze. The door was cracked open, just enough for change to slip through.