By the time the sun climbed over Mbubi Zone, Dave Hotel and Suites had already begun to feel wrong. Asasira Shivani stood behind the reception desk at exactly ten in the morning, phone pressed to her ear, irritation sharpening her voice. Lawrence was never this careless. The night guard was quiet, reliable, the kind of man who answered before the second ring. But his phone rang unanswered. Again. And again.
She called the owner. “I can’t find Lawrence,” she said. “His phone is off. I don’t like it.” An hour later, when the owner tried to call her back, the line rang into silence. The hotel, usually alive with footsteps and murmurs, seemed to have swallowed its own sounds.
At three in the afternoon, the owner arrived. The gate stood open. The white Toyota Harrier—UBH 633M—was gone. No engine heat lingered in the air, only a strange stillness, thick as dust.
He found Lawrence first, in a back room meant for resting guards. The young man lay twisted, eyes open, a dark bloom spreading at his neck. Shock froze the owner in place before instinct pushed him forward, shouting Shivani’s name down the corridor.
She was in another room. Separate. Silent. Her neck bore the same cruel mark. The hotel felt suddenly enormous, every door a witness, every shadow a question. There were no signs of struggle loud enough to be remembered—only the precision of knives, the calm efficiency of someone who knew exactly where to strike.
By evening, police tape sealed the entrance. Officers from Lungujja Police Station moved carefully, measuring, photographing, collecting the fragments of a story that refused to speak plainly.
The bodies were taken to Mulago Hospital Mortuary. The hotel lights were turned off. Somewhere beyond Mbubi Zone, a stolen car rolled through Kampala traffic, carrying with it unanswered calls, switched-off phones, and the quiet certainty that whoever did this had planned to disappear long before the first body was found.