The day I learned that peace was not the absence of tension but the presence of justice, my mother stood in our living room, clutching an eviction notice with trembling fingers. The government had decided that our home in Rukuba Road, along with dozens of others, would be demolished in forty-eight hours. No prior notice, no alternative housing - just a command wrapped in bureaucratic indifference.

She did not cry. My mother never cried. Instead, she exhaled sharply, dropped the letter on the table, and shut herself in her room. Outside, life carried on —vendors hawking bread, keke riders honking, a world blissfully unaware that ours was crumbling.

I stepped onto the balcony and pulled out my phone.

“Rukuba Road is being stolen. If you care, say something. #SaveOurHomes”

I hit post.

The tweet spread like wildfire. Journalists called. Lawyers offered free counsel. Strangers shared their own stories of evictions —whole families erased with the stroke of a pen. By afternoon, Rukuba Road was a trending topic.

By evening, the media vans arrived.

The government issued a statement: something about “urban renewal” and “progress.” Empty words. Then, at midnight, riot police appeared at the junction.

I should have known then, this was never about justice. It was about power.

At 2:00 a.m., the first gunshot shattered the silence.

I bolted upright. Outside, voices rose in panic, footsteps pounded against asphalt. Then—another shot. Closer.

I ran to my mother’s room. She was already on her feet, eyes wide. We grabbed what little we could and ran.

The estate had become a war zone overnight. Thugs swarmed the streets with machetes and iron rods. Fires burned. People screamed.

At the gates, the police stood aside, watching.

We were never meant to win.

By dawn, Rukuba Road was unrecognizable. Homes stood in smoldering ruins. Families, stripped of everything, gathered in stunned silence.

Then, a sleek black SUV pulled up. Bako Katlong, the Commissioner for Urban Development, stepped out, surveying the destruction with calculated detachment.

“This is unfortunate,” he said, voice measured, rehearsed. “But progress requires sacrifice.”

A bitter laugh rose in my throat. “Sacrifice?” My voice cracked. “Sacrifice is a mother working overtime so her children can have a home. Not this.”

The cameras flashed. Journalists scribbled furiously. The world was watching.

And this time, they could not erase us.

Days turned into weeks. Protests erupted. Investigations were launched. Bako Katlong resigned. Arrests were made.

But justice, when it finally arrived, was slow and imperfect. Compensation was promised, lawsuits filed, but Rukuba Road was gone.

One night, as we sat in a relative’s cramped apartment, my mother turned to me. For the first time in weeks, she smiled.

“You were right,” she said softly. “Peace isn’t silence. It’s justice.”

And though we had lost our home, I knew we had won something greater.