Downtown Kampala buzzed with its usual chaos—taxis hooting, vendors calling out their prices, and streams of people weaving through traffic like rushing water. Beatrice had not expected to see anyone she knew here, least of all him.
There he was, standing at the roadside near a bus stop, a brown travel bag slung over his shoulder. His face was older now, carved with the lines of hardship and years of labor. But Beatrice would have recognized him anywhere—Johnson, Zaria's father, the man she had once married before leaving everything behind.
For a brief moment, she considered walking away, pretending she hadn't seen him. But something in her heart—a mixture of guilt and curiosity—propelled her forward.
"Johnson," she called out softly.
He turned, surprised, his eyes scanning her face as if to confirm she was real. "Beatrice," he said flatly.
She smiled faintly. "Can we get somewhere and talk?"
He hesitated, his expression cautious. "Be faster. I'm on my way somewhere."
Without another word, Beatrice unlocked her car and gestured for him to get in. Johnson stepped inside, dropping his bag at his feet, still eyeing her with quiet suspicion.
---
She drove in silence until they reached Wandegeya, heading straight to Ham Towers. Parking in the basement, she led him to the fifth floor, where a modest restaurant overlooked the bustling streets below.
They sat opposite each other by the window. Beatrice ordered a bottle of water for herself, then turned to him. "Do you need anything?"
Johnson studied her for a moment, his face unreadable. Then he said, "They should give me rice, steamed matooke, meat… and soda." His lips curled into a faint smirk. "I hear when you left, you got married to a rich man. That's why I'm asking for such meals."
Beatrice's eyes dropped briefly to her hands. "It's okay," she said quietly. "Order whatever you want."
The waitress left, and for a moment, an uncomfortable silence settled between them.
---
Beatrice cleared her throat. "How is your daughter?"
Johnson's eyes snapped up to meet hers, his expression hardening. "Why don't you say our daughter?" His voice was calm, but his words cut like a blade. "Getting married again doesn't make you forget about your child. She is your flesh, Beatrice."
Beatrice shifted uncomfortably in her seat, her fingers tightening around the bottle of water. "And what about you?" she countered. "Have you ever been there for her? I hear your wife mistreats her… and when you come home, she's the one blamed for everything."
Johnson went quiet, his jaw clenching as he looked away. For a long moment, he said nothing, only staring out the window at the chaotic street below.
Finally, he turned back to her. "What do you want, Beatrice? You abandoned her. You have no right to ask me about her now."
Beatrice laughed softly, though there was no humor in it. "I'm just asking. By the way, where are you going?"
Johnson picked up his fork as the waitress set down his meal. "I'm traveling for work in Kapchorwa," he said simply.
Beatrice tilted her head. "So you're still working far away?"
"Yes," he said, cutting into the meat.
Beatrice sipped her water slowly, her eyes fixed on him. "So… how is our daughter? I mean… your daughter."
Johnson's hand froze briefly before he resumed eating. His eyes didn't meet hers as he said, "She's very fine. Thanks for asking."
But his tone was too quick, too dismissive. Beatrice noticed it immediately. There was something he wasn't telling her.
---
Inside Johnson's mind, the truth wrestled with his pride. She doesn't deserve to know. She left Zaria, left me, left everything behind. And now she wants answers?
The truth was, Zaria wasn't at Hilltop anymore. She had run away after years of mistreatment, leaving only a note that broke his heart and shamed his household. He had searched for her briefly but eventually gave up when the trail went cold. It was Sally, a man Johnson barely knew, who had later rescued her, treating her with a kindness he had failed to provide.
Looking at Beatrice now, dressed elegantly, her expensive jewelry catching the restaurant lights, Johnson felt both bitterness and relief. She had moved on, leaving him to carry the burden alone.
---
Beatrice, on the other hand, kept studying him, sensing he was holding something back. "Are you sure she's fine?" she asked again.
Johnson finally looked up, his eyes sharp. "What exactly are you trying to find out, Beatrice? You lost the right to ask about her when you walked out. You chose another man, another life. So why now?"
Beatrice inhaled deeply and leaned back in her chair. "Because…" she started, then stopped herself. She couldn't admit what she had discovered about Sally and Zaria, not yet. "I just… wanted to know."
Johnson gave a dry laugh, taking a gulp of soda. "Well, she's alive. That's all you need to know."
---
The rest of the meal passed in near silence, with only the clinking of Johnson's fork breaking the tension. Beatrice watched him eat, her mind spinning.
When he finally wiped his mouth and pushed the plate aside, he stood up, slinging his bag over his shoulder. "Thanks for the meal," he said curtly.
"Where exactly are you working in Kapchorwa?" she asked quickly, as if hoping for one more chance to keep him talking.
He shrugged. "Construction projects. I'm gone for weeks at a time. I have to catch my bus."
She nodded slowly. "Alright. Safe travels."
He gave her one last look, one she couldn't quite read—somewhere between disappointment and finality—before walking away.
---
Beatrice sat alone at the table for several minutes after he left, staring at the half-empty bottle of water in front of her. His words lingered in her mind: "You abandoned her… you have no right to ask about her now."
Her heart twisted with guilt, but alongside it was something else—suspicion. Johnson's reaction was too defensive, too quick to dismiss her questions. Something was wrong.
She whispered to herself, "If she's really fine, why couldn't he even look at me when he said it?"
The thought gnawed at her as she gathered her bag and left the restaurant. For the first time since visiting Hilltop, the illusion that Zaria was still there began to crack.
---
That night, as Beatrice drove home, her hands trembled slightly on the wheel. She had gone into the meeting hoping for closure, but instead, she left with more questions than answers.
And somewhere in the back of her mind, a dangerous idea began to form: What if Sally knows more than both of us?