The truth had been exposed, but the roots of treachery were yet to be fully unearthed. Kabaka Nakibinge, ruler of Buganda, now knew the faces behind the rot in his court—three clan heads, once trusted allies, now revealed to be conspirators. But a deeper fear gripped him. What if there were more?
He needed help. Discreetly. Swiftly. And so, he summoned Musoke, his most loyal messenger, and whispered a task that had never been uttered in Buganda's long, proud history:
"Go to Nuri. Speak only to Prince Khisa."
The weight of those words lingered as Musoke rode out, days weaving past as he crossed borders and terrains, the breath of diplomacy heavy on his neck.
In the lush valley of Lusimba, Khisa stood knee-deep in the earth, sleeves rolled, his hands coated in soil as he directed irrigation lines with the local farmers. The sun beat down from a cloudless sky. The air smelled of damp earth, sugarcane, and sweat. He loved this work—simple, honest, vital.
