Life in Exile: Act Three – The Return of Shadows (Chapter Twenty: The Cost of Healings (Part Two))

Chapter Twenty: The Cost of Healings (Part Two)

With no one else to turn to, I went looking for Peter Kaburu early the following morning.

Sleep had abandoned me long before dawn. I had spent most of the night sitting upright on my bed, staring into the darkness of my small house in Butabika. Every sound seemed amplified. The scratching of rats in the ceiling sounded like footsteps. The rustling of leaves outside sounded like whispers. Even the occasional barking of dogs from neighboring compounds made my heart race.

I had not found another bat that morning.

Yet the absence of one frightened me almost as much as their presence.

I kept wondering whether I had simply failed to find it.

Peter had recently moved in with Waisswa Jalobo, the retired hydrographer from Bulamogi whose knowledge of forgotten places often bordered on the supernatural. Jalobo possessed an unusual ability to connect events that appeared unrelated. While most people saw isolated incidents, he saw patterns.

I hoped he would have answers.

When I arrived, Peter was seated on the balcony with Jalobo drinking from a plastic cap. Jalobo sat nearby reading an old notebook whose pages looked older than some governments.

Peter looked up and smiled.

“You look terrible what have you been to and what drug are you smoking now?!…” His words hanged loose, for Peter was not known for making jokes or I guess he was terrible at cracking joke, or maybe he just controlled his words all the time.

“I feel terrible.” I answered him without a thought

“It’s like you haven’t slept, for days what is going on with your life?”

“Is someone messing you up, are you scared to become a father?”

He laughed.

“Or maybe!” “Ahha! those horror movies will finish you one day.”

“I am serious.” He continued.

So I did narrated to Peter everything and ended by asking him if he could have experience the same phenomenal or maybe if we needed to liable In order to move on.

I told him about;

The dreams shadows caves voices and the headless bats.

The growing fear that something inside me was changing.

Peter listened patiently.

When I finished, he burst into laughter.

The old hydrographer looked up from his notebook and frowned.

“This is not funny.”

Peter wiped tears from his eyes.

“You honestly think you become some creature at night?”

“I don’t know what to think anymore.”

“You spend too much time listening to village stories.” Peter continued

His laughter gradually fading.

Then his expression changed.

For a moment he seemed thoughtful.

“Although…”

“Although what?”

“Do you remember what I told you after Soroti?”

I nodded then he leaned back and said.

“Practice your skills on those who need them more.”

The statement struck me differently that morning.

A strange uneasiness settled inside my chest.

It was then that a disturbing realization began to form.

What if the healings were not actually healings?

What if they were transfers?

The thought arrived quietly but refused to leave.

Every person we touched became well.

That much was true.

But what happened afterward?

Where did the pain go?

Where did the sickness go?

Where did the suffering go?

The questions that had never concerned me before now consumed me whole heartedly.

“I think I understand,” I said.

Peter frowned.

“Understand what?”

“What if I don’t remove pain?”

Neither of us spoke.

“What if I simply move it somewhere else?”

Silence followed.

Even the birds seemed quieter.

The old hydrographer slowly closed his notebook.

His face had become unusually serious.

“You have finally reached the same conclusion I reached weeks ago.”

I looked at him.

Peter looked at him.

Neither of us expected that response.

“You knew about the Soroti miracle, what exactly are you?” I questioned expecting an answer and not knowing that I had just powered a handful of stupidity.

“I suspected.” Waisswa said in a low tone looking towards his solder

“Why didn’t you tell us?” I frowned with inquisitive.

“Because suspicion is not proof.” He answered nodding his head lightly before standing up.

“The world is governed by exchanges. Nothing disappears without consequence. Rivers do not swallow water. They carry it elsewhere. Fire does not destroy matter. It transforms it into something new, and I suspect you too could have been upgraded.”

He pointed toward me.

“And suffering may obey the same law.”

The words sent a chill through my body.

I suddenly remembered the hospital and the animals.

The strange incidents that followed our healings.

The moments I had dismissed as coincidence.

For the first time, they seemed connected.

A terrible pattern began to emerge.

My appetite for bat meat had been another concern.

Before Dokolo, I had barely noticed bats.

After Dokolo, I craved for them.

The smell.

The taste.

The texture.

The craving had become almost uncontrollable.

I hated admitting it.

The meat seemed to calm something inside me.

To silence a hunger I could neither understand nor explain.

Fortunately, I had stopped eating it after returning from Dokolo.

Yet the desire remained.

Sometimes when darkness fell, I could almost smell roasted bat meat even when none existed.

I never told anyone that.

Not even Peter.

Not even Okello.

Some secrets are too embarrassing to confess.

Others are too frightening.

This one was both.

Jalobo listened quietly.

When I finally finished speaking, he sighed.

“There are things in this world that awaken inside men.”

“What does that mean?”

“I do not know.”

The answer was strangely honest than a carefully thought answer that most people pretended certainty.

Jalobo never did.

His uncertainty frightened me more than confidence would have.

Because if Jalobo did not understand what was happening, perhaps nobody did.

Then I remembered another incident.

One I had nearly forgotten.

A woman.

The mad woman from Nakawa-Luzira Road.

The memory returned suddenly.

Several weeks earlier, while shopping, I had accidentally brushed against her shoulder.

The moment our skin touched, something happened.

The sensation was immediate.

Like electricity moving through water.

A pulse.

A transfer.

A release.

For a brief second, I felt lighter.

Healthier.

Stronger.

The woman froze.

Her eyes widened.

Then she simply walked away.

I thought nothing of it.

Until three days later.

I saw her again.

Standing outside a supermarket.

Watching me.

The following week she appeared near a taxi stage.

Again she stared.

Days later she appeared near a fuel station.

Then near my workplace.

Then near my house.

Always watching.

Never speaking.

At first I convinced myself it was coincidence.

But the sightings continued.

Eventually I began changing routes.

She still appeared.

The woman seemed drawn toward me by some invisible force.

As though a connection had been established.

When I told Peter and Jalobo, neither laughed.

That worried me.

A lot.

Because Peter laughed at everything.

If Peter was silent, the matter was serious.

“Perhaps she feels it,” Jalobo finally said.

“Feels what?”

“The connection.”

His answer did nothing to comfort me.

Over the following days, more strange events occurred.

Plants around my compound began dying.

Not all of them.

Only specific ones.

Healthy flowers would suddenly wither overnight.

Grass would turn yellow without explanation.

A mango seedling collapsed despite regular watering.

Neighbors complained about unusual animal behavior.

Cats gathered near my fence.

Dogs barked at empty spaces.

Birds seemed to avoid my compound altogether.

I found myself becoming increasingly paranoid.

Every event felt connected.

Every coincidence felt deliberate.

Every shadow appeared alive.

News of my concerns eventually reached Pastor Okello.

Unlike Peter, he did not laugh.

Unlike Jalobo, he did not speculate.

Instead, he investigated.

That was the soldier in him.

The strategist.

The intelligence officer.

The man who had survived wars, conspiracies, betrayals, and political purges.

He trusted evidence more than fear.

One evening he visited my home.

He walked around the compound carefully.

Examined the fence.

Checked the windows.

Studied the trees.

Measured distances.

Asked questions.

Took notes.

For nearly two hours he said very little.

Then he left.

A few days later he returned.

Again he inspected everything.

Again he asked questions.

Again he departed without explanation.

I assumed he had found nothing.

I was wrong.

Very wrong.

What I did not know was that Okello had secretly installed surveillance cameras around my property.

Small cameras.

Hidden cameras.

The kind most people would never notice.

He never informed me.

Perhaps he feared I would object.

Perhaps he wanted genuine results.

Whatever his reasons, the decision changed everything.

Three nights later my phone rang.

It was Okello.

His voice sounded unusually calm.

“Come immediately.”

“What’s wrong?”

“I have answers.”

The journey felt endless.

Peter accompanied me.

Neither of us spoke much.

When we arrived, Okello was waiting.

Beside him stood a laptop.

His expression revealed nothing.

“Sit.”

We obeyed.

The footage began.

The first night showed nothing unusual.

The second night showed stray cats.

The third showed heavy rain.

Then came the fourth night.

A figure appeared near my gate.

A man.

He carried a bag.

My stomach tightened.

The figure looked around cautiously.

Then approached the doorway.

He reached into the bag.

Removed something.

Placed it on the ground.

And walked away.

Okello paused the video.

The image zoomed in.

A headless bat.

My heart nearly stopped.

The footage continued.

The same man returned two nights later.

Another bat.

Then another.

Then another.

Again and again.

Always late at night.

Always when nobody was watching.

Peter leaned forward.

“You know him?”

Okello nodded.

The answer shocked me.

“A pastor.”

I stared at him.

“What?”

“A pastor.”

The room fell silent.

According to Okello’s investigation, the man belonged to a growing ministry that had recently begun losing members.

People were abandoning his church and attending ours.

Donations were decreasing.

Attendance was falling.

Influence was shrinking.

Jealousy had taken root.

The man believed that destroying my reputation would weaken ours.

So he created evidence.

He planted bats.

Fed rumors.

Encouraged gossip.

Manipulated fear.

The scheme had worked almost perfectly.

The only problem was Pastor Okello.

A former intelligence officer is a difficult man to deceive.

By the time the footage ended, I felt exhausted.

Relieved.

Embarrassed.

Angry.

The bats had not come from me.

The evidence had been manufactured.

The nightmare had been engineered.

At least part of it.

Because although the mystery of the bats had been solved, many other questions remained unanswered.

The dreams remained.

The shadows remained.

The woman remained.

The strange transfers remained.

The fear remained.

Pastor Okello closed the laptop.

“Do you understand now?”

“Understand what?”

“The cost of healings.”

I looked at him.

He looked tired.

Older.

Wiser.

“The moment people believe you possess power,” he said quietly, “some will worship you. Others will fear you. And a few will dedicate their lives to destroying you.”

Nobody spoke.

Outside, distant thunder rolled across the night sky.

For the first time in weeks, I felt a measure of peace.

Yet deep within my heart another fear remained.

The bats had been explained.

But something from that cave still followed us.

Of that, I was becoming increasingly certain.

And whatever it was, it had not yet revealed its true purpose.