Phoebe Mukasa was just nineteen years old when fate altered the course of her life. A university student with dreams stitched together from hope and resilience, she had never imagined that her story would be rewritten by violence and betrayal.
After her mother died suddenly, almost immediately after she started her freshman year at Makerere University, Phoebe's life took a dark turn. Her father got remarried within months of her mother's funeral. Her stepmother was a bully and she hated Phoebe with passion. Soon, her college fund was cancelled by her father because her stepmother insisted that Phoebe should get married instead of studying.
Phoebe never wanted to get married, so she moved out of the only home she had ever known to avoid being forced into marriage. She didn't give up college, but instead found a job in a nightclub to pay for her tuition. Things seemed like they might workout. She had found herself a small room near campus and in the evening, she went to work at a nightclub.
But tragically, just after a few months of feeling hopeful, the son of a Ugandan millionaire, shielded by privilege and the menace of his bodyguards, forced himself on Phoebe one humid evening at the Half London bar in Kasanga, on the restless edge of Kampala.
In the aftermath, Phoebe's world shrank—her trust broken and her voice stifled by the weight of shame and fear. Night after night, she lay awake in the dark, her heart pounding, questioning what she could have done differently and why the world was so quick to turn a blind eye to the suffering of a girl like her.
When the truth of her pregnancy revealed itself, Phoebe wrestled alone with impossible choices. In the secrecy of her cramped hostel room, she counted her meagre savings, searching for a way to end a pregnancy she had never wished for. But the price of escape was always just out of reach, and the paths were shadowed by risk.
The whispers of judgment from neighbours and classmates seemed to crawl beneath her door. Each day, she felt the walls closing in—her body becoming a prison, her spirit battered by guilt and dread. All the while, time pressed ever forwards and hope grew thin. Yet somewhere inside, a spark of life stubbornly flickered, refusing to be extinguished.
Then, as if delivered by some cruel twist of fortune, Phoebe was approached by a group of Eastern Europeans who promised a way out. "If you want to leave Uganda, we can help you. London—you could start over. We leave at the end of the month."
The prospect shimmered in front of Phoebe like a mirage. She didn't dare to speak of her pregnancy, clinging instead to the idea that, with distance, answers would come. She packed her few belongings, locked her hopes away and slipped into the unknown, trusting only in the promise of something different.
The flight to London was a blur of fear and anticipation. Phoebe's heart leapt with every roar of the jet engines, each mile carrying her further from everything she had ever known.
London was nothing like she had imagined. The city's grey skies pressed down upon her and the chill seeped into her bones, a stark contrast to the sunlit streets of Kampala.
The estate in Fulham, with its wrought-iron gates and watchful windows, belonged to Russians whose dealings were whispered about, but never named. Drug shipments, prostitution, an endless ledger of unspeakable things—this was a world where survival was currency, and trust was a liability.
Phoebe learned quickly to move quietly and to avoid the gaze of men whose intentions were barbed and cruel. The pungent odours of the kitchen mixed with her anxiety and loneliness, and every corner of the mansion seemed to be haunted by secrets.
She found an unexpected ally in Kocka, the elderly Romanian housekeeper whose sharp eyes missed nothing. Kocka's own life was a tapestry of secrets, and she quickly discerned the truth that Phoebe desperately hoped to hide.
"You work with me," Kocka had said in her thick accent, pressing Phoebe's trembling hands into a mound of flour. "Kitchen is safe. You help me, I help you."
From that day, they became co-conspirators in the delicate game of concealment. Kocka shielded Phoebe with a fierce, maternal protectiveness, watching over her like a hawk.
As the months passed and Phoebe's belly grew, Kocka became her confidante and guardian, whispering prayers in the dark when fear pressed in too close. They washed dishes, mopped floors and traded stories over boiling pots—two exiles, bound by necessity and kindness.
There were days when Phoebe would break into sobs, overcome by the crushing burden of her situation. Kocka would wrap her arms around Phoebe, rocking her gently, promising that somehow, they would survive.
But safety was an illusion that could not hold. When the baby cried for the first time in a cramped attic room, both women understood that time was running out. The estate's masters were growing suspicious, and for a child born into their world, there would be no mercy. The fear was palpable, every footstep in the corridor a potential threat, every glance from the others a reminder of the peril they faced. For Phoebe, the thought of losing her child to these people was more terrifying than any nightmare she had ever endured.
"You must leave the baby," Kocka urged, her voice brittle with sorrow. "Write your name, a detail—something. Leave him where someone will find him. If you keep him here, they will take him, and we cannot even imagine what they will do."
The decision weighed on Phoebe like an anchor. Each moment spent with her new-born son felt both precious and doomed. She wept silently, clutching him to her chest, whispering apologies and promises that she was powerless to keep.
In the silent hours before dawn, Phoebe wrapped her new-born son in a threadbare blanket. Her hands shook as she wrote a note with trembling hope—a name and a plea.
Kocka her Phoebe's hand as they walked through the deserted streets to the bus stop in Fulham. Their hearts were heavy with the knowledge that this, at least, might save the child.
The city was eerily quiet, the first hints of sunlight brushing the rooftops, as if London itself was holding its breath. They lingered a moment, tears streaking their cheeks, before slipping away into the shadows.
For Phoebe, leaving her baby was the greatest heartbreak imaginable, but it was the lesser evil in a world of impossible choices. The memory would stain her heart forever, a wound that would never fully heal, yet she carried the hope that somewhere, somehow, her son might be found by someone who would give him the chance in life that she could not.