The afternoon heat had been thick and moody all day, pressing against the skin like a warning. But Sandra didn't expect the rain to come the way it did sudden, violent, and so loud it drowned her thoughts.
They had left the J&M site in Namanve later than planned. The road back toward Kampala was slow with traffic, and even James's driver had looked uneasy behind the wheel.
But James was calm, unreadable.
And he had simply sat in silence.
Until the clouds cracked.
Until the downpour began.
"Take the next turn," he said suddenly.
The driver didn't question him. He turned off the highway onto a narrow murram road lined with eucalyptus trees, where the world felt like it had forgotten how to speak.
"We'll wait it out," James said.
Sandra looked at him. His voice was still calm, but something in his posture had shifted. He wasn't leaning back anymore. He was tense. Quiet in a different way.
The car came to a stop in front of an old guesthouse. Wooden porch. Dim yellow light above the entrance.
Sandra hesitated. "We're staying here?" she asked in a lot of fear.
"Just for a bit," James said. "Let the rain pass."
The rain didn't pass.
It only got heavier.
The inside of the guesthouse was warm but worn. Wooden floors. A small reception counter. The woman at the desk blinked at James like she recognized him but couldn't believe it.
"One room or two?" she asked.
Sandra froze, in a sock what? She asked out of surprise.
And then
James looked at Sandra.
Then said, "Two."
Sandra let out the breath she didn't realize she'd been holding.
They followed the receptionist down a narrow hallway. The light bulbs flickered. The air smelled faintly of old fabric and rain-soaked soil.
The receptionist showed them
Rooms 3 and 4.
Across from each other.
"Call if you need tea," the woman said before disappearing.
Sandra stepped into her room. And so did James Mugeni.
The moment the door closed behind her, she sat down on the edge of the bed and listened.
Rain.
It roared against the tin roof like a river looking for escape.
She removed her shoes. Her blouse was damp at the collar. Her hair stuck slightly to her neck.
She stood at the window and looked out.
James was outside his room, standing under the porch roof, smoking a cigarette in silence.
She had never seen him smoke.
She opened her door.
He looked up.
Said nothing.
But didn't turn away.
She stepped outside.
No umbrella. No hesitation.
She joined him under the narrow roof.
He dropped the cigarette and crushed it with his heel, out of surprise, he did not expect her to come out of her room.
"Didn't know you smoked," she said.
"I don't. Not usually."
He didn't explain.
She didn't ask.
The silence between them had become a kind of language.
"Do you hate the rain?" she asked after a while.
"I used to."
"And now?"
He looked at her.
"I don't know." he replied with a smile on his face. "Haha"
Sandra hugged her arms. "It reminds me of childhood."
He didn't reply.
Instead, he asked, "Did you ever go back?"
"Where?"
"To the village. Where we met."
She blinked. "You remember?"
"Every detail."
The thunder rolled.
Sandra looked at the sky. "I went back once. It didn't feel the same."
"It never does," he said with a sharp look.
Another silence.
Then, softly:
"You gave me that umbrella," he said. "I thought you were a ghost."
"I thought you were a ghost too," she whispered.
They both laughed softly.
But it wasn't a joke.
Inside again, they sat at the small table in Sandra's room. A single dim bulb above them. Two cups of black tea between them.
James Mugeni didn't take sugar.
Neither did she.
A common thing between them.
"You don't talk about your family," she said quietly.
"They're gone," he replied.
"All of them?"
He nodded.
She looked down. "I'm sorry."
He sipped his tea. "It was a long time ago. Mbale. The storm."
Sandra didn't move.
"I lost mine in pieces," she said. "Not all at once. My dad left. My brother fell sick. My mother works too much. Every year, I lose a little more."
James didn't speak.
But he watched her.
And then—
"You don't need fixing," he said.
She blinked. "What?"
"You survive. That's enough."
Her throat tightened.
"People always try to fix me," she whispered.
"I won't."
She looked at him.
His eyes were soft.
And for once, open.
"I don't need fixing either," he added. "But I do need…"
He stopped.
She leaned closer. "What?"
James stood suddenly.
Too fast.
"I should check on the car," he said.
She stood too. "James—"
But he was already at the door.
She didn't stop him.
She didn't have to.
Because his words stayed behind, like heat after lightning.
He didn't come back for half an hour.
When he did, he was soaked. Hair dripping. Shirt stuck to his chest.
"Still raining," he said.
She rushed to the small shelf and grabbed a towel.
"Here."
He dried his hair roughly.
Sandra stared at him.
He looked… human.
Not the CEO.
Not the legend.
Just a man. Tired. Cold. Alone.
She whispered, "You don't have to be alone all the time."
James paused.
Then he stepped closer.
Too close.
"I am alone," he said. "Even when I'm with people."
"But not with me."
He didn't answer.
He just looked at her.
Like she was something he didn't want to break but didn't know how to hold.
Then, slowly
He raised a hand.
Touched her face.
Fingertips brushing her cheek.
She didn't move.
Didn't breathe.
Then,
He stepped back.
Too fast.
Too far.
"Goodnight, Sandra."
And he walked out.
She sat on the bed long after he left.
The sound of rain was softer now.
But inside her, a new storm had started.
And she didn't know how to stop it.