The sun bled gold and crimson across the horizon as it sank behind the hills of Mengo, painting the sky in the colors of both glory and grief. The capital square overflowed with people — a living sea of faces pressed shoulder to shoulder, their breaths shallow with anticipation, their murmurs swallowed by the weight of what was about to unfold.
The gallows and the beheading platform had been raised at the center of the square — simple, unadorned, and terrifying in their purpose. Soldiers stood in rigid formation around it, shields glinting, spears rooted into the earth like iron trees. The royal banners of Buganda swayed gently in the evening breeze, their crimson threads dancing like fire against the dying light.
