The drums of Kyetubadde echoed through the night, their rhythm sharp and urgent, like the heartbeat of a village on edge. In the dim light of a mud-walled hut, Nalongo clutched her newborn twins to her chest, her breath shallow and her hands trembling. The elders had already gathered outside, their voices low but insistent, debating the fate of her children. "Twins," they muttered, as if the word itself carried a curse. "One must go." Nalongo's heart ached as she looked down at the two boys, their tiny fingers curling around hers. They were perfect, their skin as dark as the fertile soil of the Ula lands, their cries soft and harmonious. But in the eyes of the tribe, they were an abomination - a sign of imbalance that could only be corrected by sacrifice. She had heard the missionaries speak of a different way, a God who valued every life. Their words had planted a seed of defiance in her heart, and now, as the drums grew louder, she knew what she had to do. "Nalwanga," she whispered to her friend, who stood by the door. "Take him. Take him far from here." Nalwanga hesitated, her eyes wide with fear. "But the elders - " "They will not know," Nalongo interrupted, her voice firm. "I will raise one, and you will take the other. But first?" She reached for a small pot of Sacred dye made from crushed berries and ash. With trembling hands, she painted a unique pattern on each baby's wrist - a swirling design that, when joined, would form a complete circle. A mark of their bond, a promise of reunion. "Go," Nalongo urged, tears streaming down her face. "That boy will be called Mwanga, and may the spirits guide you."Nalwanga adjusted the sling around her shoulders, ensuring the baby was secure against her chest, before starting the journey. The path before her was unfamiliar, winding through dense forests and across rivers that shimmered under the morning sun. She had never ventured this far from Kyetubadde, but the urgency in Nalongo's voice had left no room for hesitation.The first day was the hardest. The baby - whom Nalongo had named Mwanga, meaning "light" in Luganda in Luganda - cried often, his tiny voice echoing through the silent wilderness. Nalwanga sang to him softly, her voice trembling as she tried to soothe his hunger. At night, she chewed on roots and leaves, squeezing the juices into Mwanga's mouth to keep him alive.By the third day, her feet were blistered, and her body ached with exhaustion. The forest gave way to open plains, where the sun beat down mercilessly. She stopped by a stream to rest, dipping a cloth into the cool water to wipe Mwanga's face. His eyes, wide and curious, stared up at her, and for a moment, she felt a surge of determination. She had to make it to Mungore, a land where displaced people settled. She had to save him.The journey took seven days. On the seventh evening, Nalwanga crested a hill and saw the sprawling settlement of Mungore below. The sight was both awe-inspiring and terrifying. The houses were unlike anything she had ever seen - tall and rectangular, with roofs made of tin that glinted in the setting sun. The air was filled with unfamiliar sounds: the clatter of carts, the chatter of people speaking a language she couldn't understand, and the distant hum of a market in full swing.Nalwanga hesitated at the edge of the settlement, clutching Mwanga tightly. She had no plan, no way to communicate, and no idea where to go. But she remembered Nalongo's words: "Sing. Sing in Luganda, and maybe someone will hear you."Taking a deep breath, she stepped into the bustling streets. The people of Mungore stared at her, their eyes curious but wary. She ignored them, focusing instead on the rhythm of her own heartbeat. Then, she began to sing.Her voice was soft at first, a lullaby she had heard People sing to their children. But as she walked, her voice grew stronger, weaving through the noise of the market like a thread of hope. She sang of the Ula lands, of the rivers and forests, of the sun rising over the hills. She sang of a mother's love, of sacrifice, of a bond that could not be broken.The crowd began to gather, drawn by the strange melody and the sight of a woman carrying an infant. Nalwanga's heart raced, but she kept singing, her eyes scanning the faces around her. Then, she saw him - a man with kind eyes and a familiar tilt to his head. He stepped forward, his voice cutting through the crowd."You speak Luganda?" he asked, his words a lifeline in the sea of unfamiliar sounds.Nalwanga stopped singing, her breath catching in her throat. "Yes," she replied, her voice trembling with relief. "I am from Kyetubadde. I need help."The man, Nyonge, listened intently as she explained her story. She told him of the twins, of the taboo, of the mother's desperate plea. She told him of the journey, of the hunger and exhaustion, of the hope that had carried her this far. And then, she made her request."Please," she said, her voice breaking. "Take care of this child. Just for a few weeks. I will return for him."Nyonge exchanged a glance with his wife, who had joined him in the crowd. They had no children of their own, and the sight of the tiny boy stirred something deep within them. After a moment, Nyonge nodded."We will care for him," he said. "But you must stay with us until you are ready to return."Nalwanga stayed with Nyonge and his wife for a year and a half. During that time, she helped care for Mwanga, watching as he grew stronger and more curious. She taught Nyonge's wife how to prepare the foods of the Ula tribe, how to soothe the baby when he cried, how to sing the lullabies .But as the days turned into weeks, Nalwanga grew restless. She missed her family, her village, her life. And so, one morning, she told Nyonge's wife that she was going to the market. She kissed Mwanga on the forehead, whispering a prayer for his safety. Then, she slipped away, disappearing into the bustling streets of Mungore.She did not look back.The twin left behind in Kyetubadde was named Kato, a name that carried the weight of his mother's love. From the moment he could walk, Kato was drawn to the rhythms of the Ula tribe - the drums that echoed during festivals, the songs that celebrated the harvest, and the stories the elders told under the moonlit sky. He was a curious child, always asking questions, always seeking to understand the world around him.But there was something different about Kato, something the other children whispered about when they thought he wasn't listening. He had a mark on his wrist, a swirling pattern that seemed to glow in the sunlight. No one else in the tribe had such a mark, and the elders would frown whenever they saw it, muttering about the old taboo.Kato's mother, Nalongo, loved him fiercely, but her heart ached every time she looked at his wrist. She would often take his hand in hers, tracing the pattern with her finger, wondering if his twin brother was alive, if he too bore the same mark. She never spoke of it, though. The secret was hers to carry, a burden she had borne since the night she sent Mwanga away.Nalwanga's journey back to Kyetubadde was long and arduous. She had left Mungore with a heavy heart, knowing she had abandoned Mwanga. When she finally arrived, the village was abuzz with activity. The harvest festival was in full swing, and the air was filled with the scent of roasted meat and the sound of laughter.But Nalwanga's arrival was met with silence. The villagers stared at her, their eyes filled with suspicion. She had been gone for Years, and no one knew where she had been or what she had done. Ignoring their stares, Nalwanga made her way to Nalongo's hut.Nalongo was outside, grinding maize into flour, when she saw Nalwanga approaching. Her heart skipped a beat, and she dropped the pestle, rushing to her friend. "Nalwanga!" she cried, pulling her into a tight embrace. "You're back! Where is he? Where is my son?"Nalwanga hesitated, her eyes filled with tears. "He is safe," she said softly. "I left him in Mungore, with a kind couple. They will care for him as their own."Nalongo's relief was palpable, but it was quickly replaced by guilt. She had sent her child away, and now he was growing up in a foreign land, far from his family, far from his twin. She looked at Kato, who was playing nearby, his laughter ringing through the air. How could she ever tell him the truth?That night, Nalongo and Nalwanga sat by the fire, their voices low so as not to wake Kato. Nalwanga told Nalongo everything - the journey to Mungore, the kind man named Nyonge, the period she had spent caring for Mwanga. She spoke of the guilt she felt for leaving him, but also of the hope that he would grow up strong and happy.Nalongo listened in silence, her heart breaking with every word. When Nalwanga finished, she took her friend's hand and squeezed it tightly. "You did what I could not," she said. "You saved him. And for that, I will always be grateful."But the weight of the secret was too much to bear. The next morning, Nalongo went to the elders and told them the truth. She spoke of the twins, of the taboo, of the mark on Kato's wrist. The elders listened in silence, their faces unreadable. When she finished, they exchanged glances, their expressions grave."What you did is against our traditions," one of the elders said. "But it is done. The child is safe, and the gods will judge your actions."As Kato grew older, he began to notice the way people looked at him, the way they whispered when they thought he wasn't listening. He asked his mother about the mark on his wrist, but she would only smile and say, "It is a gift, my son. A reminder of who you are."But Kato wasn't satisfied. He felt a strange pull, a longing for something he couldn't name. He would often sit by the river, staring at his reflection, wondering why he felt so incomplete. Little did he know, his twin brother, Mwanga, was feeling the same pull, thousands of miles away.Mwanga grew up in the bustling town of Mungore, a place where the air was thick with the scent of spices and the streets echoed with the sounds of a language he had come to call his own. Nyonge and his wife, Amani, loved him as if he were their own child, and Mwanga never questioned his place in their family. To him, they were his parents, and Mungore was his home.As a young boy, Mwanga was fascinated by the vibrant culture of Mungore. The market was his playground, a place where he could lose himself in the colors, sounds, and smells of a world so different from the one Nalwanga had left behind. He learned to speak the local language fluently, his tongue wrapping around the unfamiliar words with ease. He played with the other children, his laughter blending with theirs as they chased each other through the narrow streets.But there were moments when Mwanga felt out of place, though he couldn't quite explain why. Sometimes, he would catch himself staring at the horizon, a strange longing in his heart. Other times, he would trace the mark on his wrist, wondering why it felt so familiar, yet so foreign.As Mwanga grew older, he began to take on more responsibilities in the family. Nyonge was a trader, and Mwanga often accompanied him to the market, learning the art of bargaining and the value of hard work. He was a quick learner, and Nyonge was proud of the young man he was becoming.But Mwanga's curiosity about the world beyond Mungore grew with each passing year. He would often ask Nyonge about the traders who came from distant lands, their goods and stories sparking his imagination. "Where do they come from?" he would ask. "What are their lands like?"Nyonge would smile and pat his shoulder. "One day, you will see those lands for yourself," he would say. "But for now, focus on what is here. This is your home."By the time Mwanga reached his late teens, he had become a skilled trader and a farmer in his own right. He was well-liked in the community, known for his charm and his ability to connect with people from all walks of life. But despite his success, he couldn't shake the feeling that something was missing.It was a sweltering afternoon, and the market was unusually quiet. Mwanga had spent the day helping Nyonge with a shipment of goods, but his mind was elsewhere. The altercation he had weeks ago with a trader who jealous his success, claiming that he'll mobilize the people for Mwanga to sent away from the to his home also calling a bad luck, a Cursed marked being. He had tried to push the thoughts aside, but they kept creeping back, gnawing at him.As they packed up their stall, Mwanga finally snapped. "Why won't you tell me the truth?" he demanded, his voice louder than he intended.Nyonge looked up, startled. "What are you talking about?""This!" Mwanga held up his wrist, the mark glaringly visible in the sunlight. "There's something you're not telling me!"Nyonge's face hardened. "Mwanga, this is not the time or place - ""Then when is the time?" Mwanga interrupted, his frustration boiling over. "I'm not a child anymore! I deserve to why I have this mark, why you and mother always avoid my questions!"The marketgoers nearby turned to stare, but Mwanga didn't care. He was tired of the secrets, tired of feeling like an outsider in his own life.Nyonge's composure cracked. "You think you're ready for the truth?" he said, his voice rising. "You think you can handle it? Fine. You want to know where you came from? You're not from here. You're not even from this land!"Mwanga froze, his anger momentarily replaced by shock. "What are you talking about?"Nyonge took a deep breath, his shoulders slumping as if the weight of the secret had finally become too much to bear. "Sixteen years ago, a woman came to this market. She was from a distant village called Kyetubadde , and she carried a baby - you. She begged me to take you in, to keep you safe. She said it was a matter of life and death."Mwanga's heart pounded in his chest. "Who was she? Where did she go?""I don't know, but maybe went back to Kyetubadde . " Nyonge admitted. "She stayed with us for two years, then left without a word. She never came back."Mwanga stared at him, his mind reeling. "And you never thought to tell me?""We wanted to protect you," Nyonge said, his voice softening. "You were just a baby. We didn't want you to grow up feeling like you didn't belong.""But I don't belong!" Mwanga shouted, his voice cracking. "I've always felt it, even if I didn't know why. And now? now I find out that my whole life has been a lie?"Nyonge reached out to him, but Mwanga stepped back, his eyes blazing. "Don't," he said. "Just? don't."Without another word, Mwanga turned and walked away, leaving Nyonge standing alone in the middle of the market.Mwanga wandered the streets of Mungore aimlessly, his mind a whirlwind of emotions. Anger, betrayal, confusion - they all swirled inside him, threatening to overwhelm him. He found himself at the edge of the town, where the bustling streets gave way to open fields. He sat down on a rock, staring at the horizon.The mark on his wrist seemed to burn, a constant reminder of the truth he had just uncovered. He thought about the woman who had brought him here, the mother he had never known. Who was she?and Why had she left him?Mwanga clenched his fists, determination hardening in his chest. He didn't know where to start, but he knew one thing for certain: he couldn't stay in Mungore. Not now. Not when there were so many unanswered questions.That night, Mwanga packed a small bag with the essentials - a change of clothes, some food, Nyonge's Mapping point towards Kyetubadde and He left a note for Nyonge and Amani, thanking them for raising him but explaining that he needed to find the truth for himself.As he slipped out of the house, he took one last look at the place he had called home for so many years. It felt strange to leave, but he knew he had no other choice. The answers he sought were out there, somewhere beyond the horizon.Kato grew up in the shadow of the Ula tribe's traditions, his life shaped by the rhythms of the land and the whispers of the elders. From a young age, he was taught to respect the customs of his people, to honor the spirits of the earth, and to carry the weight of his ancestors' legacy. But there was always something that set him apart - the mark on his wrist.The mark was a source of fascination and fear for the villagers. Some saw it as a blessing, a sign that Kato was destined for greatness. Others saw it as a curse, a reminder of the taboo that had haunted the tribe for generations. Kato himself didn't know what to think. He would often trace the pattern with his finger, wondering why it felt so familiar, yet so mysterious.As a child, Kato was full of questions. He would sit by the fire at night, listening to the elders tell stories of the tribe's history, and ask, "Why do we have these traditions? Where did they come from?"The elders would smile indulgently, but their answers were always vague. "It is the way of our people," they would say. "It is not for us to question."But Kato couldn't help questioning. He felt a restlessness in his soul, a longing for something he couldn't name. He would often wander away from the village, exploring the forests and rivers that surrounded Kyetubadde.One day, while sitting by the river, Kato overheard two elders talking. "The boy carries the mark of the twins," one of them said. "It is a dangerous thing. The spirits are not pleased. I think it is the reason why there is drought in the village. "Kato's heart pounded. Twins? What were they talking about? He wanted to confront them, to demand answers, but he knew it would only make things worse. Instead, he kept the secret to himself, burying it deep inside.Kato's relationship with his mother, Nalongo, became strained as he grew older. He could sense that she was hiding something from him, something about his past. He would often catch her staring at his wrist, her eyes filled with a mixture of love and sorrow.One evening, after a particularly tense dinner, Kato finally confronted her. "Mother," he said, his voice trembling, "why do you always look at my wrist like that? What are you hiding from me?"Nalongo's face fell, and for a moment, Kato thought she might tell him the truth. But then she shook her head, her eyes filling with tears. "It is nothing, my son," she said. "Just an old woman's worries."Kato didn't believe her, but he didn't press further. He could see the pain in her eyes, and he didn't want to hurt her. But the unanswered questions continued to eat away at him.The breaking point came during the annual harvest festival. The village was alive with music and dancing, but Kato felt like an outsider. He watched from the sidelines as the other young men and women celebrated, their laughter ringing through the air.One of the elders, a man named Okello, approached him. "Why do you not join the festivities, Kato?" he asked, his voice tinged with disapproval. "Do you not honor the traditions of our people?"Kato's frustration boiled over. "What do you know about honor?" he snapped. "You and the others whisper about me behind my back, calling me cursed. But none of you will tell me why!"Okello's eyes narrowed. "You dare speak to me like that?" he said, his voice cold. "You are lucky we allow you to live among us, marked one."Kato's hands clenched into fists. "What do you mean, 'marked one'?" he demanded. "What are you hiding from me?"Okello hesitated, then shook his head. "Some truths are not meant to be known," he said. "Be gratefulforwhatyouhave,boy. "Kato had had enough. He turned and walked away, his heart pounding with anger and determination. He didn't know where he was going, but he knew one thing for certain: he couldn't stay in Kyetubadde. Not when there were so many unanswered questions.Thatnight,Kato had been banished from Kyetubadde, blamed for the prolonged drought that plagued the land. Seen as a curse, he became a shipman on the great Nalubaale River - the boundary between the Ula lands and the South.That very night, on the opposite side, Mwanga walked southward using a trader's map he had secretly taken. The map clearly showed routes leading toward Kyetubadde. The night air was icy, and exhaustion forced Mwanga to seek shelter in the bushes.At dawn, he resumed his journey, tracing the path that brought him to the banks of the great river Nalubaale. As he stood there, planning to cross, someone called out to him."Kato!" the voice rang out. Mwanga turned in confusion."Who is Kato? I think you're mistaken," Mwanga said.The shipman squinted at him. "I didn't see you cross from Kyetubadde. Where are you coming from? What time did you leave your village? I've been here all night and saw no one cross.""I'm not Kato," Mwanga replied, puzzled. "My name is Mwanga. I come from a distant land. I don't know this Kato you speak of."The shipman laughed, uneasy. "Stop joking, Kato. You've always been mysterious. First your strange mark, now a new name? Or is it because you were given two market days to leave Kyetubadde for being cursed?"Before Mwanga could respond, the shipman called his colleagues, urging them to come witness what he believed to be Kato pretending - or possibly mad.At that very moment, the real Kato was crossing from the opposite side. Hearing the commotion and his name being shouted, he asked, "Why are you calling my name? Have you turned against me like the rest of the village?"Then he saw Mwanga - and froze. So did everyone else.The two young men stood staring at each other as if facing a mirror. They were identical. The onlookers scattered, shouting, "Ghosts!""Is this real?" Kato asked, stepping forward."Your wrist?" Mwanga whispered.In stunned silence, the twins sat in Kato's boat, exchanging stories - of separation, the mark, the curse, and their mother.Mwanga was eager to see her, but Kato warned him about returning to Kyetubadde. Still, Mwanga insisted: "We cannot keep running. We aren't the curse. We must face this."Kato agreed, reluctantly.Meanwhile, word of the twins' reunion spread quickly. Panic gripped the village. Their mother, Nalongo, fainted. The elders gathered in an emergency baraza, declaring that the gods must have returned the twins for sacrifice - to break the drought.A group was dispatched to bring them in. But upon meeting the twins on the path, the warriors were stunned. Instead of fleeing, the boys walked confidently toward the village.Kato led Mwanga straight to the Kajiji, the sacred site. They were prepared to face whatever judgment awaited.At the Kajiji, beneath the towering wooden deity, Mwanga was bewildered by the rituals. He had been raised with the teachings of a single, all-powerful God."Silence!" one elder barked. "The cursed blood returns. The gods demand balance. Two identical beings cannot coexist. One is real. The other, a spirit. We must send one back.""How will you decide?" Mwanga asked.The elder handed them each a sword. "The one who falls is the one who does not belong."But the twins refused to fight.Kato, knowledgeable in tribal law, stepped forward. "Then let us face the sacred fire. If we are spared, the gods have spoken."Before the ritual began, thunder cracked above. Rain fell in torrents. The drought was broken.Everyone gasped. Nalongo rushed forward. "You call them cursed, but the heavens bless us. Who are we to judge?"The high priest nodded solemnly. "The gods have spoken. Their reunion has brought us rain. The divided sun is whole again."The twins were spared.Mwanga ran into his mother's arms, tears flowing freely. Nalongo held him tightly, marveling at how much he had grown. It became a day of celebration.In the weeks that followed, Kato introduced Mwanga to the village. Mwanga shared farming methods he'd learned in Mungore, like crop rotation and soil nourishment. When the harvest came, the villagers whispered, "This is magic."After the harvest feast, Mwanga proposed a journey: "Come with me to Mungore. Let Nyonge and Amani meet our mother."They travelled, and soon Nyonge and Amani were welcomed in Kyetubadde. The village honored them with gifts - woven goods, bananas, and sacred artifacts bearing the twin's wrist mark.As the shipman ferried them back, Nalongo placed her fingers on each son's wrist, completing the circle. "No more hiding."Years passed. Kyetubadde flourished. Granaries overflowed. The twins' teachings ended old superstitions. Trade brought missionaries, who established schools at the village center.One day, Mwanga and Kato stood outside the school with their mother."A circle," Kato said, raising his wrist."No end," Mwanga replied, locking wrists with his twin.Then he turned to his mother. "You've told me many things. But one question remains?""What is it, my son?" she asked."Who is our father?"