All Waf’s Exes Are Crazy VI

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental. Thank you for your time.

If you must look back, do so forgivingly. If you must look forward, do so prayerfully. However, the wisest thing you can do is be present in the present…gratefully. -Maya Angelou

Chapter VI: Peace Be With You (Winona Michaels)

“Did you see Peace? How is she?” I stared into blank, expectant eyes. “She must be older now. Prettier too, I bet. She always had glorious skin, you know? Like Asians–glass-like, but dark. I always thought it was stunning. Black as night. I hope she has grown to love it as well, has she?” I didn’t know where to start. I couldn’t divulge any information to Winona, but the way she asked, the genuine longing in her voice, confirmed her deep care. 

“Peace is well,” was all I could give. I was here to hear from her. 

I could see she was jumpy, excited. I doubted she found people to chat with often. Seeing that I didn’t add anything, she calmed herself a little. “You can’t tell me. I know. It’s rough, being here. Sometimes I just want someone to tell stuff but everyone else is just so glum and I can’t handle it. Today’s a great day, though. When Penny mentioned you I knew I just had to come. So, about Peace. Wow, where to start. Peace and I were friends literally from the womb. Our moms were besties. They met at the maternity clinic in PGH.” 

“You mean the Provincial General Hospital?” I interrupted her. “It was renamed.” 

“Really? To what? Don’t tell me a politician’s name because I will cry and pull all my hair out I promise you–” Instantly, I regretted interrupting her flow. 

“It’s now the Nakuru Level 6 Hospital.” 

“Oh,” she placed her index finger on her chin, feigning deep thought. “I guess that works. What’s the other levels?” 

“Health care facilities are classified in levels now. From level one to–” 

“Our beloved PGH. Sorry, I mean Nakuru Level 6 Hospital. Well deserved too. I can’t tell you how many times we walked down that road to the Showground from Milimani and back simply because we were bored out of our damn minds.” 

“Winona.” 

“Yes?” I allowed the silence to fill the air and return us back into the story. “Right. Me and Peace. Besties.” 

Peace and I. I corrected her in my mind to avoid another tirade. 

“So we grew up together. Same schools. Deskmates. Walked home together. Till I joined boarding school and Peace didn’t, because, and hear this, her father refused her wishes. That’s what she told me when I was being shipped off, well, I joined the same school we were in. It still stung when she would pick her backpack at four and leave me at school. Boarding school was her idea in the first place. She said she was going and I had to go. It was obviously easy to get my mom to agree to it. Then Peace picks her bag on the first day of Class Four, after I had enrolled the previous day to her absence, claiming she would join the next week, then the next term, then Waf said she wasn’t even planning on it, hadn’t broached the subject with her dad. But he told me this the day of the party so,” she sighs, long and deep. “I hated having to taste the food made at home, the weekend stories, the movies I only got to watch through her telling, and I’ll have you know, that girl can’t tell a story to save her life. We drifted apart a bit. We still sat together, walked together, shared items. We still bought beads for each other’s hair, got our periods at roughly the same time and shared lunches. However, we couldn’t stop the secrets. Well, I’d say the end of it all started with me. I developed a crush.” 

She stared into the distance, as if looking at the horizon but not really seeing it. I remained silent, simply because I wanted her to go on. There is no room for deviation when you encounter a rambling brain. You only have to give it grace. Instead, I watched her as she remembered. 

“I’m not sure if the crush would have developed if I never went to boarding school. I never wanted to go, you know. But my parents were rarely there and the commute was insanely long and there was no time to start teaching me routes to take and which public means to choose because everyone was busy at home. It was always something about the election.” 

Her mother was either planning for it, recovering from it, thinking of plans to take when the electioneering period approached. “There were campaigns, travel plans, issues with political opponents, which strategies to use and how did they compare to what the other parties were doing, post campaign meetings, pre-campaign periods. I had to stay in school, and I did, despite hating it. I hated being away from Peace. We had made our lives one from childhood. It would be easy to just say doing that was hard. Sometimes, before boarding, we even slept in each other’s bedrooms on school nights,” she shifts the conversation. “Waf only came home during the holidays and he was always so serious looking so we rarely bothered him. However, at school, my parents asked him to take care of me when I joined. My mattress was still folded, the metal box beside it as sweat covered my palms, my mother made him promise to take care of me. He was in class six and had spent all six years in boarding school, so he joked about being a true expert in the field. I remember all his jokes because they were the most corny shit you ever heard.” 

“Most people join boarding school at class four or five. How old were you?” “I was nine. I guess my parents were normal. Peace said Waf went to boarding school because their parents didn’t want him damaged by their divorce. He was five. I don’t know about that.”

Winona’s eyes, still fixed on a distant memory, softened further. “Parents do things to kids, whether they know it or not. The crush, it was Waf. Of course. He was in Class Six, so much older, so much cooler. At school, he was different. Not like the serious Waf at home. He’d spend time with me in the library, talking about Harry Potter, even though I knew he probably thought it was childish. He’d help me with my math homework, his patience a surprising contrast to his usual dismissiveness. I’d try to make him laugh, to impress him with my quick wit, but he’d just give that small, knowing smile that made my stomach flutter. I knew he was just being nice because my mom asked him to look out for me, but a girl can dream, right?”

She paused, a wistful smile playing on her lips, then leaned in conspiratorially, as if sharing a sacred secret. “Peace and I were still close then, before… everything. I remember one afternoon, we were sitting on my bed, flipping through a fashion magazine. I was telling her about Waf, probably for the hundredth time, and I said, ‘You know, if I ever married him, my name would be Winona Wafula. Winona Wafula! It’s written by the gods in alliteration! It’s meant to be, right?’ Peace just stared at me, then rolled her eyes so hard I thought they’d get stuck. ‘You’re insufferable, Winona,’ she muttered, then snatched the magazines and started flipping through each one aggressively, pretending to be engrossed. From my window, we could see Lucas in the yard, leashing the guard dogs for their evening run, their barks echoing faintly. Peace didn’t even glance up. But I knew. I always knew she hated it, even then.”

A shadow crossed her face, and her gaze shifted, a flicker of genuine worry. “But then Peace… she changed. It started slowly, after she got involved with that Dr. Owuor’s congregation. Her clothes… they just kept getting longer, more layers. Her hair was always covered, even when she came to visit. She started looking at me differently. Like my clothes, my music, my jokes… they were all wrong. Unholy. I remember one time, I was wearing a new pair of jeans, and she just looked at me, her eyes so cold, and said, ‘You look like a man, Winona. God doesn’t want women to dress like men.’ It hurt, you know? We used to share everything. Now, she just… judges. I tried to talk to her, to understand, but she just says I need to find God. It felt like I was slowly losing her, and I didn’t know how to get her back.” A faint tremor touched her voice, a vulnerability that resonated with my own understanding of loss. “She even noticed my crush on Waf. She pretended it didn’t bother her, but I could feel her irritation, like a prickle in the air whenever I brought him up. I think she hated it, actually.”

---

The party was in full swing when Lucas, Winona, and Wafula arrived, the air thick with the scent of cheap perfume and teenage exuberance. The sprawling Upperhill house, usually so quiet, pulsed with a controlled chaos. About twenty kids, mostly from Friends Academy, mingled in the living room of one of the houses in the street and spilled out onto the patio. Music thumped from an unseen speaker, and groups huddled, whispering secrets and sharing laughter. There was soda, crisps, a few awkward attempts at dancing, and the usual teen-appropriate games. Winona, usually so reserved around Wafula, seemed to blossom in the crowd, her laughter a little louder, her movements more fluid. Lucas observed the subtle glances she cast at Waf, the way her eyes lingered on him when he wasn’t looking. Wafula, for his part, seemed to revel in the attention, a casual king holding court, his polished charm on full display.

As the night wore on, the two oldest girls, both Class Eight leavers, announced their departure. “Winona, you coming with us?” one of them called, already halfway out the door.

Before Winona could answer, Wafula stepped forward, a possessive hand lightly on her arm. “She’s with us,” he stated, his voice smooth, leaving no room for argument. “Patricia asked us to look out for her, and that’s what we do.” The girls shrugged, exchanged knowing glances, and left. Lucas felt a familiar prickle of unease. Wafula’s control, even over something as minor as Winona’s departure, was absolute.

Minutes later, an older boy Lucas vaguely recognized from Form One, a known troublemaker, emerged from the kitchen, two dark glass bottles clutched in his hands. Gin. The air in the room seemed to shift, the innocent buzz replaced by a sharper, more dangerous energy. “Got these from… a friend,” he slurred with a triumphant grin.

Wafula took one of the bottles. “It’s fine,” he announced, his voice carrying over the music. “My dad lets me drink with him. We’re cool like that.” 

Lucas felt a cold knot tighten in his stomach. He hesitated, his gaze darting between the bottle and Wafula’s confident smirk. This felt different. This felt wrong. But then Winona, her eyes bright with a dangerous excitement, reached for the second bottle. “Come on, Lucas,” she urged, her voice a little too loud, a little too eager. “It’s a party!” Her support was an unspoken challenge that sealed their fate. Lucas stayed.

The next thing Lucas knew, he was waking up, a jarring jolt into a profound, suffocating darkness. The music was gone. The laughter, the whispers, the very presence of others – all vanished. He was alone. The house, once vibrant, now felt hollow, haunted by the echoes of a party long past. A chilling silence pressed in on him, broken only by the frantic pounding of his own heart. He felt a cold dread as a premonition of something being terribly wrong, seized him. He fumbled for his phone, the screen a dead black. Panic, cold and sharp, began to claw at him. He had to find them. He had to find Winona.

He stumbled out of the house, the night air a shock against his skin. He was naked. The street was empty, eerily so. He walked, then ran, the familiar path home stretching endlessly before him, each step fueled by a growing terror for his friends. His mind raced, replaying fragmented images of the party, of Winona’s eager face, of Wafula’s casual arrogance. What had happened? Where were they? He stayed in the shadows and used the back gate to the servant quarters he shared with his mother.

When he finally walked around the main house to Winona’s gate, his lungs burning, a strange sight greeted him. There were people. Many people. Huddled figures, hushed voices, a sense of urgency in the air. He pushed through the small crowd, his eyes scanning frantically, searching for a familiar face. And then he saw him. Wafula. His face was pale, his eyes puffy, red-rimmed, a mirror of his mother’s on that morning years ago. He was leaning against the gatepost, his usual composure shattered.

Lucas stumbled towards him, a desperate question forming on his lips. Before he could utter a sound, Wafula looked up, his gaze hollow, and the words, thick with a raw, unfamiliar pain, fell from his lips like stones.

“Win is hurt, Luc. Badly.”

And in that moment, as the words hung in the cool night air, Lucas and I feel a chilling resonance echoing of the past and a terrifying premonition of the future. The same darkness that had consumed Penny, that had claimed his own life, now reached for Winona. The threads of their lives, so intricately woven by Wafula’s presence, were beginning to unravel, one by one.

***

Kids, we’re behind schedule, I know. We’ll fix it.

All Waf’s Exes Are Crazy V

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental. Thank you for your time.

You don’t have to turn this into something. It doesn’t have to upset you. – Marcus Aurelius

Chapter V: Look Again

The tapestry of Wafula’s individualism, Lucas now tells me, was woven from threads spun in the earliest days of childhood. He lays it in a pattern as my vision unravels, a relentless current, pulling me back to a quieter, yet equally pivotal moment in Nakuru. I see mere boys of six, standing on the precipice of Class One.

The Wafula house in Nakuru was a testament to Kenyan moneyed decor. There was plush, slightly oversized furniture, gleaming wooden surfaces, and an air of comfortable, if a little ostentatious, prosperity. A house fit for a mheshimiwa. It was the weekend before school began, the air thick with the scent of new textbooks and the nervous anticipation of first-graders.

Wafula’s mother, her eyes puffy and shadowed, as if she had spent the night wrestling with a fresh, bitter truth, handed the boys their back-to-school items. The faint tremor in her hand almost went unnoticed as she gave them the wrapped bags. Consolata sat in her bedroom, a silent acknowledgment of the secret recently discovered. Wafula’s mother’s burden was a shadow of a past indiscretion now made painfully real.

Upstairs, I sensed Wafula Snr, his movements brisk. I hear the sharp click of suitcase latches echoing faintly. Undeniably, he was packing his things, barely preparing his family for the sudden departure that would reshape their lives.

“Look, Waf!” Lucas exclaimed, his small hand tearing at the wrapping paper, revealing a bright blue backpack adorned with Batman artwork. His eyes, wide with unadulterated joy, turned to his friend. “It’s just like yours!”

Wafula, however, did not share his delight. His own backpack, identical in every detail, lay open on the polished floor. A flicker, quick as a snake’s tongue, crossed his face. He had wanted his backpack. His gift. How dare Lucas have the same? The joy on Lucas’s face, a complete mirror of his own, became an unbearable affront. I see him eye the small, sharp glint of the kitchen scissors, left carelessly on the table. Lucas didn’t notice his friend’s expression, nor when Wafula snatched the pair and carefully placed them in the bag. He forced a smile and thanked his mother, echoing Lucas’s words.

A few minutes later, in the upstairs bathroom, there was a swift, decisive snip. Then another. The blue fabric of the new backpack, moments ago a symbol of shared excitement, was now a jagged, ruined mess, Batman’s face bisected, his cape shredded. Peace stared, her mouth open, staring directly into her brother’s face. Wafula merely dropped the scissors, a faint smirk playing on his lips, and walked past her with the tatters. They did not speak. In fact, until long after both Wafulas had departed into the night, did his mother find the trash can full. Her digging led to a discovery that broke her heart for the millionth time that night.An hour before, the house was a flurry of hushed activity. Wafula Snr, his face a mask of controlled urgency, emerged from upstairs.

“Come on, Waf,” he’d said, his voice clipped. “We’re going to Upperhill.”

Consolata emerged from her room, her own face pale, eyes downcast. A small bag was clutched in her hand. She, too, was leaving with them. She remained a silent passenger in the unfolding drama, her fate inextricably bound to the Wafula family’s secrets.

---

Years later, in a different kitchen, the air remained charged with the brittle tension of unspoken truths. Lucas was there when Waf first flirted with Consolata, a predatory game thinly veiled as casual banter. He was seated at the kitchen counter, a silent, unwilling audience, as she did the dishes by the sink. Waf walked downstairs with his languid, entitled stride, and straight to the fridge. He stood with the fridge door open for a few moments, the cold air seeping into the room, before turning to him.

“Hey, Luc, what are you in the mood for?”

Consolata had already offered a cup of tea that Lucas had readily accepted. “I’m good, bro. Suit yourself.”

“Come on. I can’t eat alone. She can make us something.” He nodded sideways towards the sink.

“Hey, you. Si you can make us cheese omelettes?”

Lucas watched Consolata at the sink, her back to them. She had her Oraimo airpods in and was humming a tune, oblivious to the hungry teen boys staring at her.

“She can’t hear us?” Wafula whispered, his lips widening to a cheeky grin, a cruel glint in his eyes. “Let’s make this fun.” He let the fridge door close with a soft thud and walked towards the sink.

“Waf.” Lucas started, dreading what was to come. A cold premonition settled in his gut. He was met with an index finger on the lips, a silent command for silence.

Waf turned his back to his friend and continued, prancing like a lion in the Serengeti, a predator surveying his prey. He opened his palms and crouched low, as if trying to catch a hen marked for slaughter on Christmas Day. Moving slowly, deliberately, he approached, trying to avoid his reflection showing in the window in front of her.

“Dude.”

He ignored the unspoken plea. Wafula bent lower when he got to her, his hands already charting a course. Quickly, he decided to make the most of it and divide the tasks between his left and right hands. His left remained high as his right hand went low, lower than Lucas anticipated. By the time Lucas realized what his friend was planning, the alarm stuck in his throat. He tried to call him back, but his mouth forgot what to say, paralyzed by a sickening certainty. He watched in horror as Wafula bent low and snaked his left arm up Consolata’s skirt. Up it went, now his forearm was in uncharted waters. Still, it went. Higher till the piercing scream she let out marred the diabolical laughter he gave.

“What are you doing?!” She screeched, huddled in the corner, legs stuck together, one Oraimo airpod taking a soapy swim in the sink. Lucas watched as his friend fished the airpod and wiped it on his shirt casually, with an almost indifferent gesture.The study room door opened.

“What’s going on?” Wafula’s step-mother, Lucia, asked into the hallway, her voice sharp with annoyance. “Conso? What is it? Why are you yelling?”

If Lucia had left her desk at that moment, walked to her kitchen and asked Consolata to her face, she would have received the truth. But she waited, and sat, and called again.

“Conso?”

“Everything’s fine, Lucia. Conso just saw a gecko in the sink. You know how she gets.” Wafula’s voice, smooth and practiced, filled the silence.

“Okay Waf,” she replied to her step-son, her voice softening, already placated. “Please help take it out. We don’t want any more shrieking.”

“Sure thing.”

“And can you boys keep it down, please. I’m trying to work on my dissertation.”

“Okay Lucia,” the boys said in unison.If Lucia had left her desk for a minute, she would have seen the look Consolata was giving Waf at that moment. She might have noticed how scared the help was, a tear still dangling on her right eye as her hands desperately tried to cover what was already covered. She would have noticed the predatory grin plastered on Waf’s face, the embarrassed expression Lucas wore, and the profound disgust clouding Consolata’s features.

“You know,” Waf said quietly, his voice a low, insidious whisper, leaning in close to Consolata. “You don’t have to pretend. We all know you liked it.”Lucas let out the breath he was holding, gasping with a mix of relief and revulsion.

“Maybe we should go eat out.” Waf turned his attention back to him, the predatory gaze momentarily diverted.

“Yeah,” he agreed, a casual shrug. “Let’s get some wings instead. Conso puts too many onions on her omelette anyway.”

Turning to her, he realized her airpod was still between his thumb and index finger. “Here,” he stretched out his hand to her. “It should work.”

Consolata stared at Wafula, her eyes boring holes into him, a silent scream in their depths. She watched as he took two steps and towered over her. She did not raise her head as he placed the device back in her ear. Nviiri the Storyteller and Bien’s Niko Sawa was on the first chorus. She was not okay.

“Let’s go bud. We can pick some kicks in tao up before the wings.” Wafula walked out of the kitchen through the back door and into the garage. He threw open the passenger seat and settled in.Back in the kitchen,

Lucas pushed himself off the stool by the kitchen counter and walked around the bar into the kitchen. He stopped by Consolata and placed an unsure hand on her forearm.

“You know what he’s like,” he tried to find the right words, his voice a hesitant whisper. “Will you tell on him?” he paused. She looked up at him, and the dangling tear fell from her right eye, tracing a path of silent agony. Lucas wiped her cheek, a gesture of unexpected tenderness, then asked again. “Will you tell his father?”

She hesitated, her lips trembling. “I–”

“I’d advise you not to. His father won’t believe you, or will just brush it off. And you know your situation. It’s easier to keep this to yourself.” Lucas’s voice was low, pragmatic, a chilling echo of the world he was learning to navigate.She remained silent, her gaze fixed on some distant point.“He’s a good guy. He’s my friend. I know him. I’ll talk to him.” He wanted to assure her some more, to offer a comfort he couldn’t truly provide.

Suddenly, he was interrupted with a prolonged hoot from the garage.Lucas hurriedly followed his friend, leaving Consolata to soothe herself, her thoughts gaining heavy weight in the now quiet kitchen. He walked to the passenger door, where Waf was sprawled, the car keys dangling from his pinky finger out the window.

“You’re driving,” he said as soon as Lucas was next to him, a casual command.

“Dude.” They stared at each other until Lucas couldn’t take the blank, unyielding look he was receiving any longer. He knew, with a certainty that chilled him, that Waf would never truly understand.The narrative he had tried to build all his life shattered once more, pulling me away from the echoes of his memories.

All Waf’s Exes Are Crazy III

Chapter III: You Can Look But…

A man’s word is his bond. That is the command of Were when he was made. It is the measure of his being. He is only as good as his word, and when they were younger, when Winona and Peace were closer, Lucas had promised to always be there for his friend. He took his promises seriously. After he went cold, when Lucas didn’t have a lot to do, which was often, he would watch over him. No one can really pinpoint the genesis of their relationship. It was not like Peace and Winona, whose union began with their mothers at the clinic and lasted only eleven short years.

He, however, recalls a time before Waf. “It was a quieter existence, punctuated by a yearning for a sibling. “Days when I would do anything to gain the absence of my parents’ escalating arguments. If they asked me, I’d have supported their divorce when I was in preschool.” On the first day of school, their teacher placed him next to Waf, launching his career as a silent observer of his friend’s whining about his mother’s shifting attention to the new baby.

As an only child, Lucas could only imagine how annoying a crying baby in the downstairs bedroom could be. Now, a more complex web of emotions keep him close. He harbors a lingering sense of obligation perhaps, or the echo of a void Waf had unknowingly filled in those solitary childhood hours. In their first few weeks together, a subtle puppeteer resided within Waf. He held a quiet understanding of Lucas’s deep-seated need for belonging. When boarding school stole his friend, Lucas’s desperate plea had almost swayed his father, but his mother’s firm ‘no’ was absolute, a premonition of a darkness she couldn’t articulate.

Still, when the time came to find a school for him to start class one, her boy had begged and pleaded and done everything but grovel, followed by sleepless nights filled with him crying in bed, annoying his parents enough to let him join Wafula at Friends Academy as a day scholar. This compromise was born of his own silent rebellion against food. When he stopped eating as a last resort, she couldn’t watch her child hurt himself. She cried herself to sleep every night for a month after he enrolled. Reunited, their days blended into a shared landscape, yet even then, a subtle imbalance existed. The truth lay in his mother who noticed when his deliberate academic slump in class four had allowed Waf’s perceived brilliance to shine brighter. It was a sacrifice Lucas had made willingly, unknowingly setting a pattern for their uneven path. A quiet voice that sometimes resembled his mother’s worried tone, would occasionally whisper doubts about Waf’s easy acceptance of their dynamic, but Lucas always silenced it, mistaking his unease for mere overthinking.Lucas would often joke that he was Waf’s errand man. From a young age, he was the clandestine mailman when his friend had letters, folded into precise squares, to smuggle to girls.

Their friendship became a thrill both illicit and bonding. He ferried messages, sometimes accompanied by crisp banknotes, from Waf’s mother who had been reduced to a silent accomplice in her son’s teenage escapades. A sense of purpose, however manufactured, bloomed in Lucas with each task.

Lucas’ parents existed on the periphery of Wafula’s privileged world. His mother, a quiet, hardworking woman, was the Havis’ househelp, her family housed in the modest servants’ quarters. The Havis had lived on the same sprawling street as Wafula’s parents’ for two decades. Lucas’s mother had dedicated the last two of those decades to the Havis household, orchestrating the household’s children’s upbringing. Her own child had naturally gravitated towards the Havis offspring, creating a casual mingling across the class divide, most notably with the house’s lastborn, Winona Michaels, who attended the same school as her son. The Havis, recognizing Lucas’s quiet intelligence, had generously sponsored his education, a debt Lucas felt keenly. After the first day of school, when the teacher placed him next to Waf, Lucas ventured into the neighbors’ manicured lawns, looking for his newfound brother. At that tender age of three, his search for a kindred spirit his own small house couldn’t provide, blossomed into a friendship that felt as immutable as the ancient trees lining their street. His own mother, initially wary, hadn’t minded the boys’ early camaraderie, their innocent games unfolding under her watchful eye as she navigated her chores.

Once, when the boys were about four, their bond still nascent, Mrs. Wafula herself had pressed money into Lucas’s mother’s hand for watching them, a gesture met with a polite but firm refusal. “They keep each other company,” she’d said, a truth that belied the free childcare Mrs. Wafula gratefully accepted. The favor was rarely returned when the boys were at the Wafula mansion as Waf preferred to orchestrate their escapes from the confines of his home, and Lucas provided the willing accomplice. From then, their lives intertwined, almost every waking hour a shared experience. Wafula would materialize at the Havi’s every morning after breakfast, a casual invasion of Lucas’s more modest space, and usually only retreat to his own opulent home well after darkness had fallen, leaving Lucas with a strange mix of fulfillment and exhaustion.

---

They had walked that path countless times, the familiar cracks in the pavement a silent testament to their shared history. After she first noticed the small, mewling creatures abandoned near their gates, Winona made it her ritual to carry a can of her mother’s tuna, a small act of kindness in a world that often felt indifferent. She sometimes used the cats, their pathetic cries a convenient lure, to get Lucas to accompany her on these missions of mercy.

Not that Lucas truly minded being used in this way, especially when the destination was the imposing Wafula mansion. Who could refuse such pretty eyes? Certainly not this Lucas, whose spectral form still felt the pull of her gaze. So he went by her whim, becoming a silent shadow beside her vibrant presence. He’d feign a token resistance when she’d casually ask whether he knew if his friend was home, if they could possibly visit. Her true aim, Lucas knew even in his state, was to see Peace. Did he mind going to see if Peace was over her latest heartbreak? Certainly not. He would have followed Winona to the ends of the earth, even in a submarine bound for Mars, if she’d asked.

Peace, as usual, was rarely at the mansion. There was a strained politeness between her and Lucia and distance was a mutually appreciated buffer.When Peace was visiting, in bursts of emotional hurricanes that colored the entire neighborhood, Winona would gladly spend time at the Wafula mansion. It was the perfect excuse, hiding behind friendship to be around the boys. It got her access.

In their earlier years, Winona was shy, worsened by a crush that turned her into a fragile, unspoken thing. She would only visit when Peace was around, using their shared history as a shield, buffering against the intimidating presence of Wafula and Lucas’s aloofness. She’d try to catch Wafula’s eye with a new hairstyle or a particularly witty remark, always failing to elicit more than a casual glance. Peace, ever observant, noticed the subtle shifts in Winona’s demeanor, the way her voice softened when addressing her brother, the lingering glances. Inwardly, a sharp pang of irritation would pierce Peace’s carefully constructed composure. She hated it, this unspoken adoration for her brother, but she would pretend it didn’t bother her, a silent battle fought behind her placid expression.

The tension between Peace and Lucia was a constant hum beneath the surface of the estate’s polished calm. Lucia, barefoot and pregnant, resented Peace’s presence. The girl had inherited her mother’s face, giving her an uncanny resemblance to her brother and a living reminder of Wafula Snr’s past. Peace, in turn, saw Lucia as an interloper, a woman who had displaced her mother.

Their clashes were often subtle, a raised eyebrow from Lucia when Peace left a cup on the counter, a pointed comment from Peace about the lack of traditional food. Once, Lucia had found Peace rummaging through a cupboard for a specific type of tea her mother preferred. “Peace, this is my home now,” Lucia had said, her voice tight with thinly veiled irritation. “You ask before you take.” Peace had simply stared, her eyes wide and unblinking, before deliberately taking the tea and walking away, leaving Lucia fuming. “It is my father’s house,” Peace yelled when she was on top of the staircase. Another time, Lucia had tried to enforce a stricter bedtime, only for Peace to calmly inform her, “My mother allows me to stay up later when I’m reading.”

There was always an unspoken challenge hanging in the air, either a testament to Peace’s quiet defiance or Lucia’s feigned stubbornness. Over the years, the distance widened, both geographically and ideologically.

By the time they were nine, a significant shift had occurred within Peace. An unexplained devotion, bordering on obsession, had taken root, its tendrils wrapping around the teachings of Dr. Owuor, a charismatic religious leader whose influence permeated her entire being. His congregation adhered to strict doctrines, particularly concerning women’s attire: hair perpetually covered, the abandonment of pants, and a layered modesty enforced by wearing two or even three dresses at once. Peace’s transformation was startling. Her vibrant childhood clothes were replaced by long, shapeless dresses, her hair always covered by a scarf, even indoors. Her laughter, once free and unrestrained, became muted, her movements more deliberate.During her increasingly rare visits to Upperhill, Peace’s judgment of Winona became palpable. She would cast disapproving glances at Winona’s trendy outfits, her bare arms, the way she spoke of music and movies. “That skirt is too short, Win,” Peace had once said, her voice devoid of warmth, her eyes fixed on Winona’s knees. “It’s unholy.” Winona, initially bewildered, had responded with a defiant shrug. “It’s just a skirt, Peace. What’s wrong with it?” Peace’s reply was a cold, familiar, dismissive silence.

Winona’s choices, her very being, were now viewed through a prism of unholiness, her laughter deemed frivolous, her interests worldly and sinful. The easy camaraderie of their early childhood had curdled into disapproval and thinly veiled criticism, the chasm between them widening with each passing year and each fervent sermon Peace absorbed. Their friendship, once a default, became a burden, eventually snapping under the weight of Peace’s rigid new beliefs. Winona stopped seeking her out, and Peace offered no resistance to the growing void between them.

Lucas, before his spectral form, observed this fracturing with a melancholic understanding. He remembered the brief, innocent connection between the girls, a fleeting reflection of the simpler times before adolescent complexities and fervent beliefs had driven a wedge between them. He also felt a pang of protective anger towards the judgmental rigidity that had consumed Peace. A rigidity, he now realized, that mirrored, in its own way, Waf’s unyielding self-assurance.One afternoon, as Winona and Lucas approached the familiar gates of the Wafula residence, a scene unfolded that sent a jolt of icy shock through Lucas. Consolata, her face etched with a raw grief he’d only glimpsed during the overheard argument, was being escorted out of the house by two uniformed policemen. Her eyes, red-rimmed and swollen, caught Lucas’s. They locked eyes and it gave him a fleeting, haunted connection before she was guided into the back of a waiting police car. Wafula Snr stood on the porch, his expression a mask of cold indifference, watching her departure as if she were a discarded piece of furniture.

A chilling realization slammed into Lucas, a truth far more horrifying than any overheard argument: Consolata hadn’t just been arguing; she had been accusing. And Wafula Snr hadn’t just been angry; he had been silencing. The weight of the secrets Lucas had unwittingly stumbled upon now felt like an unbearable, spectral burden. His hand reached for Winona, a silent scream trapped in his throat. He had to tell her. He had to make her understand the darkness that lurked beneath the polished surface of the Wafula family. But how could a ghost speak? And would she even believe him, especially now, with the widening gulf between her and Peace, a tangible symbol of the growing darkness surrounding them all? The tuna for the stray cats lay forgotten in Winona’s bag, the small act of kindness overshadowed by the chilling spectacle they had just witnessed, a stark premonition of a danger far closer than either of them could have imagined.

All Waf’s Exes Are Crazy: II

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental. Thank you for your time.

…let me live, love, and say it well in good sentences. -Sylvia Plath.

Chapter II: Consonants and Vowels

Consolata had been in Wafula Snr’s official employ since graduating high school, her B plain and a glowing recommendation from the Christian Union hinting at a future brimming with potential. A job offer awaited her alongside a blank check intended for her university enrollment. She strategically chose a Business Administration course at the Rift Valley Institute of Science and Technology, Nakuru Town campus. Its proximity to the highway meant she could avoid long walks after alighting from the matatu each morning. The campus was close enough to town for quick errands but just distant enough from the CBD to provide a convenient excuse to avoid unwanted social engagements. Consolata had no particular aversion to the CBD itself; she simply loathed the forced pleasantries and endless chatter with classmates she considered as more of acquaintances than friends. Being late also meant she had to suffer through a tongue lashing from her boss’s pregnant wife, on matters pertaining the young Wafula and his meals. Long after her graduation, even after she had secured a job as the minister’s main bookkeeper, her days often ended with ironing the young master’s uniform, ensuring the boy had fed appropriately and was tucked in ready for the next day.

Frank, Wafula Snr’s driver, became an exception to her endless chatter rule. A lifelong resident of Race Course estate, driving the MP granted him a status symbol he could never have afforded independently. He was the envy of the estate, second only to Chege, whose family held generational wealth. Chege didn’t even count anyway since he rarely interacted with the estate guys. Frank’s peers respected his work ethic and the sleek black SUV he commanded. He held the position of Consolata’s clandestine lover with pride, guarding the secret jealously, relishing the illicit thrill of their connection.

A few weeks into his employment, Frank was ambushed at the T-junction near his home. Three men brandishing what appeared to be firearms forced him out of the vehicle. Their words were minimal, save for one who coughed, a sound that sliced through the night and revealed his identity. Frank recognized that distinctive, tuberculosis-laden cough instantly. He had grown up in the area and only one man coughed like that since childhood.

“Jayden?” He tilted his head, his assailant’s cough catching in his throat. “Jay, I know it’s you.”

The masked men exchanged glances, and Frank watched as the tallest among them gestured for the coughing man to remain silent.

Jayden snatched Frank’s phone, his eyes scanning the screen. Consolata was on the line, her voice a frantic plea for reassurance. They had developed a habit of talking on the phone while Frank drove the minister’s car home “Jay, come on. What is this?” Frank begged.

“It’s not personal. Tell Conso you’re okay,” Jayden held the phone to his ear, but the driver remained silent. “Speak!”

Frank shook his head, a silent act of defiance.

The tallest of the masked men seized the phone from Jayden. “Conso, he’ll be unharmed. Don’t worry.” He ended the call and hurled the phone against a wall, shattering it. An account of the next moments remains lost to the night sky.

The moment Frank limped home, he used his mother’s kabambe to call his boss. His assailants had attempted to break his leg with a rungu, but only managed to inflict severe bruising. The senior Wafula, to Frank’s dismay, remained unnervingly calm. He was summoned to the house to repeat his narration in person. Upon arriving at his boss’s Upperhill residence, Frank was ushered into Consolata’s care. She offered him a glass of freshly squeezed orange juice and tended to his injuries. Before he could finish the drink, three men arrived. Two were uniformed policemen, standing like statues just inside the main entrance as their bosses conferred. They took Frank’s statement and confirmed he could identify where one of the carjackers lived. He guided them to the culprit’s home. 

Frank locked up for the night, leaving the police Land Cruiser parked on the street. He called Consolata, assuring her he was safely under his blankets. Zakayo’s Street and the wider Race Course area fell silent. In the days and weeks that followed, no one dared to meet Frank’s gaze. News of Jayden’s disappearance spread like wildfire.

Conso was his refuge. She didn’t look at him as if he were responsible for Jayden’s vanishing act. If a man chooses to leave a place, Frank reasoned, who could stop him? He had no hand in Jayden’s disappearance. He had his job, a decent salary, and a girlfriend who seemed eager enough. Or so he thought.

---

Lucas, at thirteen, frequently encountered Wafula Snr during his visits to his friend’s Nairobi home. For a few months, during and after his own parents’ divorce, he had practically lived at the Upperhill mansion. Without that divorce, Lucas muses, he wouldn’t have been allowed to even think about spending more than a weekend. He used it to blackmail his parents into allowing him longer stays until he had been able to keep a suitcase at his friend’s home, not that Waf allowed him to wear anything he owned. Wafula’s closet was also Lucas’s, the latter having no other alternatives to the latest designer teen fashion. Even before the divorce, Lucas would go back home after visits with a strange jacket or pair of jeans, rewards for his company. 

Wafula’s stepmother maintained a home of pristine order. Crisp white curtains mirrored the neatly folded fur blankets on the plush couches. Lucas spent hours walking on the cold, polished tiles, staring at his reflection, his young mind a whirlwind of thoughts. He also observed Wafula’s interactions with the household staff, including Consolata, who, Lucas knew, lived with them in Upperhill since Wafula’s mother moved to Kakamega.

Sleepovers lasted entire holidays, with Lucas getting a front row seat to Wafula’s treatment of the help, which was a constant stream of dismissive orders and casual demands. He’d snap his fingers at the cook for his juice and address Consolata as if she were an extension of the furniture. “Conso, where are my shoes?” “Conso, if you had a mind you would’ve already ironed my shirt.” “The other one, what was it? With a red faded hat that looks like you found it on Moi Avenue at 8pm.” His entitlement grated on Lucas, the way Wafula seemed utterly oblivious to the fact that he was barely king of any castle, and these were people, not servants. Lucas often found himself apologizing to the staff on Wafula’s behalf, a gesture that earned him polite smiles and the occasional, weary shake of the head.

Lucas recalls one afternoon as teenagers when he and Wafula were on their way to a hangout organized by some of the older kids from school. The boys were to pick Winona up, the daughter of Wafula Snr’s campaign manager, a formidable woman named Patricia. As a result of the demanding nature of her job, Patricia was always on the move, so dedicated to her work that she seemed to forget Winona’s existence. Winona, though a few years younger than the boys, was a constant presence when they hung out. She, too, was a boarder at Friends Academy and the boys were tasked with looking after her, an unspoken responsibility extended to the holidays. They were all invited to the party, to be attended by some of older students who went to Friends’ and also lived in Nairobi and its environs. The trio was both eager and nervous to attend. The event’s poster, commissioned from and designed by Lucas, was dubbed “Nairobi’s Friends” and called to those of similar interests in games and fun with splashes of color. It was not the first time Lucas’s artistry opened doors they otherwise wouldn’t have known existence of. As part of his compensation, Lucas had asked for a plus one, which had now doubled. The boys were walking the path to Winona’s when a stray cat darted across their path a few houses before her gates. Wafula, without breaking stride, kicked it hard. The cat yelped and scrambled away, disappearing into the bushes.

Lucas stopped. “Waf, what the hell?”

Wafula shrugged, a casual, almost bored expression on his face. “It was in my way.”

Lucas wondered what Winona would have done had she been there. The casual cruelty of the act, the complete lack of remorse, unsettled him. It was a fleeting moment, but now, looking back, Lucas realizes it revealed a side of Wafula that he hadn’t fully acknowledged before. A coldness that lurked beneath the surface of his privileged existence. In the moment, he pushed the thought aside, focusing on the party, but the image of the cat stayed with him, an evolving scar on his perception of his friend.

Lucas recalls carrying within him a disquiet born of observing Wafula’s casual dominion over the household staff. Well into their teens, a more insidious disregard had festered. This casual assumption of superiority, however, stood in stark contrast to the Wafula who navigated the social dynamics at school. In uniform, his friend moved with a performative charm, a carefully calibrated suave towards teachers and their peers. This duality sowed seeds of doubt in Lucas’s mind, making him question whether his being uncomfortable with his best friend’s character was valid. It was as if Wafula shed skins between these two worlds, inhabiting each with a disconcerting and absolute conviction, leaving Lucas to grapple with the unsettling truth that the boy he thought he knew was, in fact, a shifting landscape of carefully constructed personas.

Lucas remembers wandering aimlessly around the mansion in the months he spent there, escaping his own parent’s separation. The time morphs together in his memories but one afternoon, the day his mother told him of her plans to get a job away from Upperhill, he was staring at the pieces of African picturesque art Lucia had adorned the white walls with. His friend had gone upstairs to retrieve a video game brought in by his father from his last trip to Greece. The house was quiet, the only sound was the distant hum of traffic from the city. Lucas wandered towards the open study room, drawn by the cool, polished wood of the doorframe. He didn’t intend to eavesdrop, but the hushed voices inside stopped him in his tracks.

“You can’t keep doing this,” a woman’s voice hissed, sharp and strained. It was Consolata.

“Doing what? Providing for you? Ensuring you have a future?” Wafula Snr’s voice was low, a dangerous rumble.

“Providing? Or controlling? You think money makes up for everything? For… for what you did?” Consolata’s voice cracked, and Lucas felt a jolt of shock through his body. His curiosity got the best of him as he held his breath, waiting.

“Don’t be dramatic, Consolata. We’ve been over this. It was a long time ago. And it was for the best.”

“The best for you! You sent him away! And now you parade your perfect family, your perfect life, while he… while he’s out there, somewhere.” There was a raw pain in her voice that Lucas had never heard before.

“He was a mistake! A youthful indiscretion. I have a family here, a reputation. I won’t have you ruining it with your sentimentality.” Wafula Snr’s voice hardened.

“Sentimentality? He’s my brother! And I won’t let you keep pretending he doesn’t exist. I swear, if you don’t try to find him, if you don’t even acknowledge him, I’ll tell Lucia everything.” Consolata’s threat hung in the air, heavy with unspoken accusations.

In the corridor, just outside the study, Lucas felt a cold dread creep up his spine. Brother? Did the help have a brother? Consolata and Wafula Snr? The implications of what he was hearing were staggering. He pressed himself further against the wall, heart pounding in his ears.

“You wouldn’t dare,” Wafula Snr rumbled, but Lucas says he noticed something he is certain he had never heard before. Something he is certain he would never have heard if he wasn’t eavesdropping. The older man held a tremor of uncertainty in his voice.

“Try me,” Consolata spat. “I’m done being your secret. I’m done pretending to be your charity case. He deserves to know the truth, and so does Miss Lucia. My brother and I deserve the same things Waf gets.”

“You’re comparing yourself to a teenager?”

The conversation ended abruptly, truncated by the unmistakable cadence of Wafula coming back down the stairs. Lucas recognized the subtle shift in weight with every other step, Waf’s familiar rhythm against the polished wood of the staircase. A wave of panic washed over him. He scrambled back to the sitting room, his movements jerky and uncoordinated, desperately trying to smooth his expression into one of casual indifference. He was feigning interest in one of Lucia’s hollowed out books that worked as decor when Wafula appeared, the video game case swinging lightly in his hand. Wafula furrowed his facial features as he registered Lucas’s slightly disheveled state, but the expression vanished as quickly as it appeared. “Ready?” Wafula asked, his tone nonchalant, already heading for the three-seater. He threw his legs up and settled with his head on the armrest. “Go on then, set it up,” he gestured to the case placed on the coffee table next to the second controller pad. Lucas swallowed hard, the echoes of the explosive argument still ringing in his ears. He forced a smile, a brittle mask, and grabbed the case, the weight of the overheard secrets a heavy burden as he pushed the disc in and sank into a snow-like cushion. He needed to resume the deceptive normalcy of a teenage afternoon.

---

When the boys were eight years old, Lucas had a dream that his back teeth were floating. He vividly saw his molars rising in a sea whose tributaries he could not see. Right before he felt the wet on his skin, he woke with a start, his bladder full. They had had enough milkshakes to last their entire class during break time and it had all settled just below his navel. He rushed to the bathroom, letting out a stream aimed at the porcelain to minimize the noise and not wake his friend.  As he closed his eyes and let loose his bowels, he overheard a phone call. Waf’s bathroom was connected to his father’s den in the study, the same study where Wafula Snr conducted his business. The wall separating bathrooms on both ends was thin and Lucas, initially, didn’t intend to listen.

“…it has to look like an accident,” Wafula Snr was saying, his voice low and menacing. “I want him to learn. A lesson he won’t forget.”

There was a pause, then a hesitant voice on the other end. “Sir, are you sure? This is… dangerous.”

“Do I sound like I’m asking for suggestions? Just make it happen. And make sure Frank is not involved. He needs to understand his place first.”

The call ended. Lucas felt a knot of fear tighten in his chest. What accident? The pieces didn’t fit. He lay awake for hours, tossing until Wafula woke up. “What’s up with you?”

“There’s people in the house,” he whispered.

“There’s always people in the house, dumbass.” Wafula mumbled.

“No, like, makarao.”

“What do you mean policemen?”

“I swear,” Lucas continued, whispering. “There’s policemen in the house.”

Wafula turned to lay on his back. “Probably just here on official business for Dad. He’s important. Siasa.”

Lucas rolled his eyes in the dark. “We should go see what’s happening. It sounds interesting.I doubt it’s just politics.”

“No. We should sleep.” 

Lucas propped himself on his right elbow and listened. The front door opened for a few seconds then banged shut. Waf sat up with a start. “Okay, let’s go check what’s going on in this house.” He swung his legs over the bed and found his fluffy house shoes. Lucas was at the door before him, opening it slowly so as to make no noise. He let Waf walk past first. 

The boys tiptoed downstairs and found Consolata washing up in the sink. A glass of half filled with orange juice sat on the counter. 

Tainted Saint

She was sure they were watching her. They had to believe her. If not, she was doomed. She wished she could hear what they were saying, but inasmuch as her hearing was slightly better than average, she could not hear through walls. The two-week battle in her mind on whether or not to come to the station had been lost.

Behind the mirror, the two detectives stood watching her, unsure of what to do. 

“Morio, is this something?”

“What?” Detective Morio turned to look at his colleague in surprise. Considering it as the truth was insane. “Come on Otieno, we’ve known Bacha for how long now?”

“Well, since I came to the precinct.”

“Correct, and since I was just a kid. We threw rocks into the river on the way home from school, ate samosas on Saturdays after football at Afraha Stadium. If anything, I know the guy.”

Detective Otieno watched her keenly through the glass. When she came in, she seemed very frightened. Her words echoed in his head. Just listen to me and if you don’t believe me, then at least I have done my part.

“I mean,” Detective Morio continued. “The guy is my friend. He makes most of my meals for heaven’s sake. In fact, I’m hungry for some chips masala.” His colleague smirked. “You know what this is? I’ll tell you.”

Detective Otieno remained silent.

“Always thought she was trouble. I just didn’t know how much. I mean, Jesus! To make such an accusation on someone who provides for you, especially when they didn’t even have to. That Bacha’s a saint, you know? She’s his father’s bastard. Showed up on his doorstep a week after the guy died, talkin’ ‘bout she just found out. And sure, I advised Bacha to take a test, with the blood thing, there’s a test for that these days. So I told him, take a test, man. But bless his heart. The guy took her in. No questions asked. Just opened the door and asked her to move in.”

“But she has the sock,” Detective Otieno said. “Surely that’s something.”

“The sock doesn’t prove anything,” his colleague retorted. “How many pairs of socks do you have?”

“I don’t know. Sometimes I even wear mismatched coz I can’t find partners…”

“Exactly, my friend,” Detective Morio said. “Who knows where the sock came from. Bacha just needs to let this girl go. If she starts with this, imagine what damage she could do to him.” He placed his left hand on Otieno’s shoulder. “Let’s get her over there. Might take the chance to have some lunch.”

Detective Otieno sighed and turned to leave the room. Maybe Morio was right. With their history, Bacha and his half sister would have to solve their issues at home. He walked into the interrogation room and found her sitting just as they had left her. She looked like a statue, with her braids tied in a neat ponytail and her sunglasses placed perfectly to hide the milkyness of her eyes.

“You have to leave, miss.”

She jerked. “What?”

“Get up,” he said, handing her the cane. “We can drop you home.”

Her forehead creased into a frown. “No, wait-”

“There is no wait. You should know better than to waste policemen’s time like this. Come on,” he was helping her to her feet as she struggled.

“Please. You can’t take me back. He will be so angry. You can’t do this!”

She was screaming when Detective Morio walked in asking what was taking so long.

“Now, girl. We cannot waste time here. I am a hungry man, and the only thing that keeps me going is your brother’s plate of chips masala. If you do not walk out of here with your so-called evidence, we will have to find a crane to lift you from the premises.”

***

In the car, she sat at the center of the back seat, her cane folded on her lap. She had been so sure they would believe her, a stranger who had lived in the town for four months, over her brother who was a local. She had to leave.

“I knew your father,” she heard Detective Morio say. “Good man.” She also heard what he was not saying. That the man who had fathered her could not have had a child out of wedlock and kept it to his grave. He was a church going man. He could have made some mistakes, but he was a saint and she was the taint on his gravestone. Bacha had opened his house to her but the town was yet to give her the key. “Yes, thank you,” she said to him.

During the10-minute drive, Detective Morio gave an anecdote about a camping trip her father had taken with him and Bacha when they were ten. It involved hunting and shooting and some details she missed.

She used those 10 minutes to mentally locate all her belongings so she could pack as fast as possible and sneak out. She would not wait to fall victim.

***

At the cafe, Bacha was in the kitchen and Mrs Wanjohi was cleaning the floors, so the detectives had to wait outside. She walked in, said hello to the cleaning lady and found her way to the staircase that led to the upper floor. She had to be quick.

“Hey,” Bacha’s deep voice startled her. “Why are you tiptoeing?”

Her mind went blank. Was she tiptoeing?

Mrs Wanjohi’s ripple of laughter followed almost immediately, easing the tension she felt creeping in. “Oh I think she’s trying to show my floors a bit of respect. It’s alright love, you can walk alright. Your cane doesn’t do much damage.” She opened the door to clean outside.

“No.” Bacha’s voice boomed again. “Don’t go upstairs. I have a surprise for you.”

“Is it upstairs?” she asked.

“The surprise? Um, not exactly. I need to clean up over there before you can go in. I left quite a mess this morning.”

She stood with her right foot on the first step. Her mind raced with what to do. She needed an excuse to go upstairs. “I have to get my book.” That would do it.

“Look,” she heard a bang as Bacha threw her huge braille Sherlock Holmes copy. “I brought it down for you already. It’s on the table.”

Turning from the staircase, she tapped her cane towards the table that was closest to the kitchen entrance. When she reached it, she felt for the book, grabbed it and took a seat.

“Aren’t you going to read?”

“I’m waiting for my surprise,” she told him.

“Where were you?”

“I went for a walk.”

“Don’t lie to me.”

“I’m not…”

“What are Morio and Otieno doing outside?”

She shrugged. “I don’t know. Maybe they want some chips masala?” She sat back in the chair. It was over. She knew that he knew. His voice was strained with a tension that thinned her blood.

“I know what you do,” she said to him in a slow, menacing tone. 

Everything was silent except for the chatter of Mrs Wanjohi and the detectives.

“Oh yeah? What’s that?”

“You murder people.”

He scoffed.

“It’s true.” She continued. “I had suspicions, until two weeks ago. Then Joni brought me home that day, and we stayed up late listening to foreign films. Well, I listened, and he described. Why hasn’t he called me back, Bacha? Why did he leave without saying goodbye? Why did I smell blood, just like I did a couple of other times, and the bleach that always followed?”

Bacha was silent. She felt his eyes on her. She could only imagine what his face looked like. Was he scared? Would he show it?

“You can’t blame me if some random guy doesn’t think you are worth a call back.”

“But that’s not it, Bacha.” she continued. “After I came from the bathroom and you told me Joni had left, I went back to my room to read. But it didn’t feel right. Then, I heard you leave the apartment and got out of my room.”

She heard him move away from the table.

“I could smell it. It was so strong, I think you messed up big time with him. There was more blood than usual.”

“You don’t know what you’re talking about,” his voice came from the kitchen.

“Don’t I?” she smirked. She knew he was watching her. He brought back a knife. The blade scraped the counter top as he picked it up. She had to be careful. Her back was straight, her arms cradling the Sherlock Holmes copy on the table. “I walked into the living room that day, and you know what happened, Bacha? I tripped.”

He laughed. “You trip all the time.”

“True. On couches, tables, even my own feet. But never on a body.”

Ten seconds passed in eerie silence. “When I tripped,” she added. “I felt around for what had made me fall, because there is never anything on the floor. I touched his face, Bacha. There was a sock in his mouth. It was Joni. I am sure of it. His beard…”  She felt his eyes drilling holes into her. Her body was tense. Her heartbeat quickened. Her palms started sweating around the book. She balled them into fists to stop herself from trembling. She had to show him she was not scared of him. 

“You know,” he said, finally. “Some people said I shouldn’t take you in when you showed up. They claimed you were a liar. There is no way my father would have a bastard.” He dragged that last word like a nail in wood. “They all said,” he continued, “that you were just a dirty little leech here to take my money. You were just looking for a handout. How else would you conveniently show up after dad had passed? They say things about you, but I never listen.”

“I know…” she began.

“No! You don’t get to talk.” He banged a fist on the table, startling her. Mrs Wanjohi peered through the door and asked in her singsong voice if everything was okay. “Yes, of course.” Bacha replied, his voice back to its sweet harmless tone. She closed the door to finish with her cleaning. “You make accusations,” he continued, his voice low, menacing. “You accuse me of these vile things, like… an animal. I have been nothing but good to you. But you don’t know just how bad I can be.”

She was trembling to her bones. Tears stung her eyes as her chest constricted in panic.

“Stand up.”

“What?” her trembling voice asked, even as she picked up her cane, unfolded it and got up from the chair. “What are you going to do?”

“Let’s take a walk. We’re going upstairs.”

“Please. I’m sorry”

“Move, or I will use this.” The cold blade touched the small of her back. She felt the tip cut through her skin.

“Bacha, please,” she begged. The pressure of the knife on her back forced her to move forward. Blood trickled down to the waistband of her jeans. “I’m sorry.” She took the stairs slowly, trying to listen for the detectives. If they could walk in.

“No apologies,” he whispered.

As she opened the door, the smell of copper filled her nostrils. “Bacha,” his name escaped her lips.

“Don’t worry. I’ll get some bleach later.”

***

When Mrs Wanjohi finished cleaning, she returned to find no one in the cafe. The chips masala order was almost done. She prepped it and served them on the outside verandah.

Bacha came downstairs after the detectives were almost done with their meal. 

“Where’s the girl? She promised to read to me some more adventures of Mr Watson.”

“Sleeping,” he replied. “Headache.”

“Oh, poor thing. I’ll make her some soup.”

“No, I will,” Bacha said. “Oh, and Mrs Wanjohi, please get some bleach when you go to the grocery store. We’re out upstairs.”

She made a note in her book as entry number 12. Bleach.

Nights

Nights like these

2:46am, a cup of black tea

Pen in hand, free flow

Pitter patter on my pane

Socks on warm feet

Nights like these

Need no wish

Creep in with contented chests

Cloud covered skies

Moon glowering through

Nights like these

2:53am, a warm blanket, crocheted

The final sip of black tea

A body in the covers

Held till daybreak

Counting down hours

On nights like these

To forget naught what day brings

Grey skies and showers

To never forget

SHOP

S – Sometimes I think

H – However

O

P