The click of my mother’s ivory handled cane against the polished terrazzo floor of Room 104 sounded like a slow, rhythmic countdown to an execution. The smell of her expensive French perfume the heavy, suffocating scent of jasmine and vintage musk instantly crowded out the clean, sterile odor of the military hospital. Outside, the tropical afternoon sun beat down on the palm trees of Lugalo, but inside this private VIP wing, the air had turned as cold and heavy as a deep mountain vault.
Two state security soldiers stood behind her, their automatic rifles slung low and tight across their chests, their expressions as rigid as stone. They weren't checking the perimeter for intruders anymore; their boots were planted firmly in front of the door, blocking the only exit to the corridor.
"Mama.
