By Sir Dean Lubowa Saava
Deep State Political Desk
The sun was already heavy over Mpigi by mid-morning. White tents stretched across the compound, and the low sound of mourners’ hymns mixed with the murmur of people greeting each other.
It was a burial. A time for grief, for remembering, for lowering voices.Hon. Ameria Anne Kyambadde arrived early. She wore black, with a kitenge scarf tied neatly. For years she had served this district in different capacities. People knew her face.
Some came to greet her. Others just watched.Across the compound, former MP Hillary Kiyaga was also moving through the crowd, shaking hands, stopping to talk with elders.
He was loud in the way he laughed, and quick with words. Politics had made him that way. No one expected what happened next. It started as a whisper. Then raised voices.
From near the back of the tent, two people who had once worked in the same political circles were now standing too close, both refusing to step back.”Stop abusing me,” Ameria’s voice cut through the hymns.
It wasn’t shouting. It was firm, tired. “I contributed to your life.” The crowd froze for a second. Even the children stopped running.
Hillary turned, surprised, then defensive. Words went back and forth — about loyalty, about the past, about who helped who get where. Old wounds that politics never really buries. An elder between them raised both hands. “Today is not the day,” he said quietly.
“Today we bury one of our own.”That sentence did what no security could. Ameria exhaled, looked toward the casket, and stepped back. Hillary did the same. They didn’t speak again. They sat on opposite sides of the tent.When it was time for eulogies, both listened.
When it was time to lower the body, both stood.After the burial, people would talk about it in taxis and at trading centers. “They clashed at a burial.” “She said she contributed to his life.”
But those who were there remembered something else: two people who had once believed they were building the same thing, reminded in one hard moment that grief is bigger than grievances.Under the mango tree at the edge of the compound, an old woman who had watched it all whispered to her granddaughter:
“Power comes and goes. But character is what people remember when the tents are taken down.” And the wind moved through the mango leaves, like it always does.
