The afternoon sun was beginning to fade into dusk as Beatrice sat at a corner table in Café Javas along Jinja Road, nervously sipping her Mountain Dew. Her fingers drummed lightly on the table, and her eyes kept darting between the cafe entrance and her wristwatch.
Thirty minutes, Carol had said. But with this Kampala traffic… Beatrice sighed heavily.
She had arrived early—too early. Her impatience had gotten the better of her. Now, every tick of her silver wristwatch only added to her frustration. The soda had already gone flat, but she kept sipping it to distract her anxious mind. The fizz, though fading, somehow matched the swirl of thoughts fizzing in her head.
Angela.
That name had become a shadow in her mind—always there, lurking just out of reach. It was impossible to ignore now. Sally had been calling her almost daily. Beatrice had tried to be subtle—monitoring his habits, listening in, checking his call logs—but she was hitting a wall. She didn't have a full name. No address. No connection.
Kampala was enormous—bustling, chaotic, unpredictable. Even if she tried hiring a private investigator, she had nothing to go on. Angela was a common name. Nurse Angela? That could be anyone. Any hospital. Any clinic. She might as well be looking for a whisper in the middle of a storm.
She shifted in her seat, glancing toward the entrance again. No sign of Carol. Her frustration grew.
Her thoughts returned to her husband. She hadn't confronted him—not yet. But the way he spoke to Angela—warm, gentle, caring—was different. He hadn't used that tone with her in months. It hurt, not knowing what was going on behind her back. It burned to be left in the dark, especially by the man she had once trusted above all.
What if he's having an affair?
What if this Angela is someone younger? Someone who gives him something I don't?
Or…
What if it's something else?
She shook the thoughts off. The not knowing was worse than any truth. That's why she had called Carol. If anyone could help her find some answers, it was her.
The waitress passed by her table, and Beatrice waved for another soda—anything to keep her distracted. She stared blankly at the menu for the tenth time.
Fifteen more minutes passed. Still no Carol.
She picked up her phone and called.
"Where are you?" she asked sharply.
"Still in jam in Wandegeya," Carol's voice came through. "I told you thirty minutes was ambitious. But I'm almost there. Don't burst."
Beatrice rolled her eyes. "Just hurry. I need to talk."
"I'm coming. Order me a passion fruit juice, chilled. chips and chicken."
Beatrice ended the call with a sigh and placed the order. Her mind, however, was far from food.
She pulled out a small notebook from her handbag and flipped it open to a blank page. With her pen, she began listing everything she knew about Angela:
Nurse
First name Angela
Works closely with Sally
"Takes care of her" — unclear who "her" is
Not seen in person
Receives money regularly
That was it. No last name. No clinic name. No visible online presence. No voice messages. Sally was careful.
"Ugh!" Beatrice whispered, tapping the pen angrily against the paper. "Who are you?"
She imagined herself walking into every hospital in Kampala asking for Nurse Angela. How ridiculous would that be?
Still, she wasn't ready to give up. Not yet.
Moments later, the bell above the door jingled, and Carol walked in, her handbag slung across her shoulder, a silk scarf tied around her hair, and frustration written all over her face.
"This traffic is satanic," she declared, sliding into the seat opposite Beatrice.
"You're lucky I didn't explode," Beatrice replied, pushing the soda aside.
Carol leaned in. "What's so urgent?"
Beatrice hesitated. She wasn't even sure how to say it. "I need your help."
"With?"
She glanced around to ensure no one was listening, then lowered her voice.
"I think Sally is cheating on me."
Carol blinked, then burst out laughing. "Sally? Your Sally? No way."
Beatrice frowned. "I'm serious, Carol."
"Sorry. Just… he's not the type. But okay—tell me everything."
Beatrice launched into it. The secret calls. The name Angela. The long hours. The tender tone. The secrecy. She laid it all out, her voice growing sharper with each sentence.
Carol didn't laugh this time. She listened, biting her straw thoughtfully.
When Beatrice finished, Carol leaned back and said, "So… you've never met this Angela? Never even seen her?"
"No."
"And Sally never mentioned a child or anyone named Zaria?"
Beatrice stiffened. "What does Zaria have to do with this?"
Carol quickly sipped her juice. "Nothing. I just… I remember that name coming up once. Thought it might be connected."
"Don't start with your riddles, Carol. If you know something—"
"I don't!" Carol interrupted. "But I know you. And I know Sally. If there is something going on, maybe it's not what you think."
Beatrice narrowed her eyes. "Then what is it?"
Carol shrugged. "Maybe it's something from before. Something he's protecting. Maybe he's not cheating… maybe he's just guarding a secret he thinks will hurt you."
Beatrice felt her stomach turn. "Then why lie? Why not trust me?"
Carol raised her eyebrow. "Would you have listened?"
Beatrice didn't answer.
Their food arrived. Carol dug in while Beatrice barely touched hers. The silence between them was thick.
After a while, Beatrice muttered, "I just need to know who Angela is."
Carol paused. "You want me to ask around?"
Beatrice nodded.
"Kampala's big, Beatrice. Even I don't know where to start."
"I don't care. Just… keep your ears open."
---
Later that night, Beatrice lay awake in bed beside Sally, who was fast asleep.
She turned to look at him. The man she once loved fiercely. The man now guarding his phone even in sleep. Her chest ached with questions.
She looked at the notebook again—the few useless clues she had scribbled earlier.
She felt stuck.
Alone.
Angela, whoever you are… I'll find you.
But deep down, she feared that by the time she did, it might already be too late.