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.
