The bed sheets crumpled beneath her as her left hand reached out, seeking purchase. Meanwhile, her right hand slid downward, two fingers tracing circles along her most sensitive spot. She teetered on the edge of release when an unexpected ringing interrupted her. An exasperated sigh escaped her as she reached for her phone on the bedside table, only to realize it was just the alarm. She'd forgotten to turn it off. She leaned against the plush teddy bear, lost in thought for a few moments before rising to take a shower. Moving unclothed, she ambled to the bathroom, brushed her teeth, indulged in a shower, and then commenced preparing for church. She rummaged through her closet for something suitable when her phone began to ring. Unlike before, this wasn't an alarm; it was an unknown number calling. Reluctant to answer, she considered it might be the anticipated call from her gynecologist. With caution, she answered and held on for a few moments, considering hanging up, until she recognized the voice on the other end.
"Hello, beautiful?" It was him, Nigel Kiragu. How did he even get her number?
"Nigel Kiragu, matters pertaining school…"
"I'd like to offer an apology," he spoke in a velvety, drowsy tone.
Despite her desire to deny it, his voice was unexpectedly alluring. "I accept your apology," she responded before promptly ending the call.
As she perched on the edge of the bed, she took a moment to gather her thoughts. With a deep breath, she reached into the drawer, her fingers gently grazing the smooth, cool surface of the vibrator. Slipping off her bathrobe, she laid back on the bed, the soft fabric giving way to the delicate touch of the sheets. With a click, the vibrator hummed to life in her hand, its gentle vibrations eliciting a shiver down her spine. Her mind ventured into an imaginary realm, painting vivid scenes and scenarios with him in all of them. In this private sanctuary, she allowed her fantasies to intertwine with the sensations of the buzzing toy against her skin. The room was enveloped in silence, broken only by the low buzz of the device and the rise and fall of her breath as she surrendered to the pleasure and the vivid images dancing through her mind. When it was all over, Natalie was swallowed by an overwhelming swirl of emotions that churned deep within her, a concoction of guilt and inner conflict. The mere thought of her infatuation with her student ignited a sharp pang of guilt, an emotion that anchored itself heavily in the pit of her stomach. It was an unsettling mix of self-reproach and discomfort, a sensation that clung to her conscience like a heavy fog, clouding her sense of right and wrong. Every fleeting moment of attraction toward her student felt like a betrayal to her moral compass, casting a shadow on her sense of integrity and professionalism. The weight of guilt bore down upon her, entwining with the twisted tangle of her emotions, a maze of confusion and regret. She brushed the guilt aside and proceeded to dress for church.
Lying on the bed, I wrestled with the exhaustion of a long sleep. How had I managed to snooze through the entirety of Saturday? My eyes flickered open, greeted by the sight of an Accounting textbook, triggering an immediate recollection of her. Natalie Saru. The thought lingered in my mind as I reached for my phone, contemplating the decision before dialing her number. My heart fluttered when she answered, nearly leaving me breathless.
"Hello, beautiful," I stammered, my voice shaky with anticipation.
I cursed my own foolishness inwardly, embarrassed by my initial words. What had I been thinking? Her response, delivered with a hint of severity, struck a chord of fear within me. Was this a colossal misstep? I was on the brink of apologizing when she abruptly ended the call. The sting of rejection lingered, a bitter pill to swallow. It was painfully clear that she held no interest in me. I eased into the steaming bath, the water's warmth enveloping me. I reclined against the porcelain, my skin tingling as it submerged. Wisps of steam curled and danced around me, carried up by the heated air, concealing and revealing my form. The room was hushed, the only sound was the occasional drip from the faucet. The steam that rose created a gauzy haze, veiling my silhouette as I lay back, surrendering to the soothing waters. The room was filled with the gentle scent of bath oils, the aroma mingling with the rising steam. As I submerged myself, the water lapped over my shoulders, teasing my collarbone and chest. I leaned back, my muscles loosening, the heat absorbing into my skin. Droplets cascaded down my body, drawing intricate patterns as they merged into the bathwater. Hands traced the water's surface, creating ripples that spread across the tub. The tension in my muscles slowly dissolved, body relaxing into the water's embrace. The warmth of the bath offered a sanctuary from the night's trials, allowing me to find solace in the quiet indulgence of this moment. I needed to go and apologize to Musyoka, hoping he'd consider giving me my job back. I came from a background where financial struggles were a constant companion. My father passed away when I was young, leaving my mother to shoulder the weight of the family's financial responsibilities alone. Their home, a modest rented space, echoed the reality of their meager means.
As I reached my late teens, I understood the dire straits my family faced. My mother worked tirelessly, often taking on multiple jobs to keep a roof over our heads and food on the table. Despite her efforts, our lives were a series of compromises and sacrifices. I, recognizing the need to ease my mother's burden, decided to seek employment. However, with limited job opportunities and lacking higher education, I found few options. In a city where nightlife offered a glimmer of hope and a means to make ends meet, I reluctantly turned to a part-time job in a strip club. It was a tough decision, but one I felt compelled to make. The club, a world of dim lights and flamboyant entertainment, was far from the life I envisioned, but it became a means to survive. The evenings at the club were spent dancing and entertaining patrons, the pulsating beats providing a soundtrack to my struggle. Each dollar earned held a story of sacrifice, echoing the persistent drive to ensure my mother's comfort and their financial stability. The work was a source of both income and shame, yet it was the only way I knew to support MY family and retain a glimmer of hope for a better future.
The scene around Murang'a University's mini-gate was surprisingly lively for a Sunday. Students bustled about, some rushing to catch up with friends, others dragging their feet with weekend lethargy. It was the typical Musyoka visitation day, and people traversing the road caught my attention, breaking my stride. The unexpected sight of Code and Quiny added an abrupt twist to the day. As I maneuvered across the road towards them, the intensity in Code's eyes couldn't have been more piercing. People passed by, unaware of the charged atmosphere, while students, clutching their books and backpacks, eagerly headed for the university gates. Quiny's half-hearted smile seemed more like a silent cry for help than a welcoming gesture. Her hug had an underlying urgency, as if she were trying to convey something through the pinch she discreetly administered. The collision of seemingly normal activities with this tense encounter was quite unnerving.
"What took you so long?" Quiny inquired as I joined them.
Playing along, I offered, "Had a bit of a hangover. Are you ready?"
"I guess we could hang out another day?" Code's voice softened, throwing me off guard. Was that the same intimidating voice from before? Did he have feelings for her?
Quiny walked alongside, her grip tight around my hand. I shot a surprised glance at Code, deliberately avoiding his gaze.
"Is he courting you?" I stammered in disbelief. She responded with a playful nod.
"I'm not sure," she added, her tone heavy with uncertainty.
"How about we grab some snacks and hang out, just the two of us?" I suggested.
Relief washed over me. Having company, especially in the absence of Musyoka, would shield me from being alone with Kylie, who had a way of sapping energy. After gathering some snacks, we made our way to Kylie's place, but to our disappointment, Musyoka didn't show up.
As the convoy came to a halt, Omar noticed the flashing lights of the police vehicles in his rearview mirror. With an air of familiarity, he reached into the console, retrieving two stacks of a thousand Kenya shilling notes. Without a word, he handed them out the window to the officers, who promptly waved them through. It was a common practice; a simple transaction that kept the goods flowing without any unnecessary trouble from the law. The convoy resumed its journey, determined to reach Nairobi before the afternoon deadline. Omar felt the weight of the mission on his shoulders; failure wasn't an option, not when his life was at stake. His partner, fast asleep beside him, showed no concern, his snoring evidence of a peaceful rest in the face of danger. Omar's ambitions soared as he imagined taking over the drug trade, plotting to end The Supreme's life. The Supreme was the boss among bosses, the top echelon in the drug world. He ultimately answered to Mr. Geoffrey Ofeko, the man at the summit. Omar despised being under someone's thumb; it was a feeling that gnawed at him relentlessly, fueling his desire to ascend in the hierarchy. The road stretched out before them, but Omar's thoughts were fixed on the heights he aspired to reach.
As the congregation streamed out, the air buzzed with the chatter of joyous women, the laughter of children darting about, and the cordial exchanges between the men. Amidst this hubbub, Natalie could not help but spot her family lawyer. He was engaged in conversation with a young girl, clearly distraught at Natalie's sudden arrival. Their interaction began as introductions unfolded; the young girl, Rebecca, stood as one of the lawyer's clients. Natalie excused herself and was her my way home when she decided to stop by one of her favorite cafes. Coincidentally, she met Rebecca again. She did not want to engage with her considering how she acted earlier but it was on a Sunday and it will not be Christian of her. The café was bathed in sunlight, the golden rays streaming through large windows that stretched along the brick walls. Customers sat at small, round tables, the air alive with the chatter of friends and colleagues catching up. The gentle buzz of conversation mixed with the clinking of cutlery and the sizzle of the kitchen. Natalie and Rebecca found a cozy spot by the window. They had chosen a table dressed in a crisp white cloth that complemented the sunlight pouring in. The menu was perched on a stand, casting a slight shadow across the table, as if presenting the variety of choices available. The vibrant décor of the café boasted potted greenery, which soaked in the sunlight, bringing life to the interior. Pastel colors danced on the walls, matching the blossoming flowers in vases on each table. The soft murmur of contented voices and laughter added a jovial atmosphere to the charming place. As they settled into their seats, a server appeared promptly, wearing a warm smile. The day's specials were presented with a flourish, described in vivid detail to entice their palates. The aroma of freshly baked bread and roasted coffee beans wafted from the nearby counter, adding to the delight of their lunch outing.
At first it was an awkward silence, however, they found a topic they were both fond of. Rebecca and Natalie chatted eagerly, the sunlight framing their animated faces as they discussed both light personal stories and legal matters. The scene was a delightful respite, a sunny interlude in their lives. Rebecca and Natalie stepped out of the café, the warm glow of the sun enveloping them. The gentle breeze carried the faint scent of flowers, the day still vibrant and alive. As they walked, their laughter floated in the air, a joyful echo of their time together.
Rebecca adjusted the strap of her bag and turned to Natalie, a smile gracing her features. "Thank you for this. It was wonderful."
Natalie returned the smile, her eyes bright.
"Absolutely, it was great getting to know you better. And thank you for chatting with me."
The sun painted the city in gold, casting long shadows across the pavement. The buzz of the streets blended with the comforting familiarity of their conversation. For a moment, they simply stood there, content in each other's company.
"Take care, Rebecca," Natalie said, moving in for a warm hug. Rebecca reciprocated, the hug radiating a genuine sense of connection and comfort.
"You too, Natalie. Let's not make it so long until the next time, alright?"
Natalie nodded, and they slowly parted ways, each heading off in different directions. As they walked away, the afternoon seemed brighter, the conversation lingering in their minds, a pleasant memory to carry them through the rest of the day.
In the heart of the floriculture warehouse, an air thick with the scent of blossoms and soil mingled with the grotesque reality of the criminal underbelly. The lorries rolled in, ominous entities in a world pretending innocence. Security, tight and unwavering, scrutinized every detail before granting them entry, the credentials providing passage to this concealed world. Omar's heavy frame emerged from the vehicle; weariness etched in every line of his being. He extended his arms in a futile attempt to loosen the knots of tension. The crew, bearing the marks of shared exhaustion, joined him, their weariness a collective emblem of the perilous journey they'd ventured through. As they advanced, they trod past the vivid flower garden, a sanctuary of vibrant blooms tended to by unknowing souls, their honest toil standing in stark contrast to the malevolence that thrived in the shadows.
The warehouse loomed, its metallic facade giving way to a hushed, code-protected threshold. With a sequence of numbers and clicks, the forbidding doors parted, revealing a tableau that snatched the breath from their lungs. An eerie silence blanketed the space, punctuated by the disturbing sight before them. Naked figures, faces concealed behind masks, hands gloved in an odd juxtaposition of innocence and sinister intent, meticulously handled parcels of cocaine. Across from them, two men, their chests emblazoned with inked declarations of defiance, coolly counted wads of illicit cash. The macabre centerpiece of this nightmarish setting was a man crucified on the wall, his feeble form affixed by nails driven into his flesh. A gag, a crude silencer, robbed him of speech, the crimson stains tracing paths down the wall to the buckets set to catch the grotesque spill of his lifeblood. Whether he was in the grip of unconsciousness or had succumbed to the eternal silence of death remained an unanswered question. The ungodly scene proved too much for one of Omar's men, who buckled under the burden of this ghoulish sight, retching as the women, in their chemically induced haze, cruelly cackled at his torment. The air was thick with a perverse cocktail of fear, revulsion, and the discordant laughter that echoed in the corners of the warehouse, an unsettling symphony in this haven of crime and debauchery.
They approached the opaque glass door that guarded the passage to the deputy Supreme's office, where secrets whispered louder than the city's rumors. The door, half-concealing the clandestine world within, bore marks of mistreatment; a testament to the unchecked authority that Truth wielded. Omar's knuckles met the glass with a calculated knock. An unexpected silence followed, shattered only by the subtle creak of the door as it parted, revealing a young woman, her pallid form unclothed, standing guard. She exhaled an acrid cloud, a pungent smoke wrapping around them like an invisible shroud, a sentinel marking the threshold. The setting within was a portrayal of decadence concealed by a veneer of authority. Truth, ensconced in his upholstered chair, sat as a sovereign amid the debauchery. His eyes remained shielded, the darkness of the room complementing his air of power and disinterest. Another figure, a woman, was knelt beside him, engaged in a salacious act, their union veiled in shadows and vice. Moments later, Truth's demeanor shifted, an abrupt reversal as he brandished a gun, a tangible extension of his dominion. The perilous silence was amplified by the authoritative click as the weapon aimed in their direction.
"State your business," his voice carried the weight of ominous command, even with closed eyes, a ruler concealed in the shadows, his will a force to be reckoned with.
"We've got a shipment from Mombasa," Omar stated, an air of unflinching resolve concealing the thunderous cadence of his racing heart.
Omar's heart pounded as he entered the room, a palpable tension in the air. He had faced many challenges, but facing this man was different. Truth, as they called him, had a reputation for unpredictability and extreme violence. His excessive drug use had seemingly fried his brain, making him a loose cannon. In the dimly lit room, four men were bound to chairs, and among them, Omar recognized Ian, a manager from the Kisumu crew. The reasons for their captivity remained a mystery. Behind them, two men in gas masks stood guard, gripping axes. It was a disconcerting sight. A few men were engaged in sexual activities with frightened women, presumably kidnapped against their will. The room was a disturbing blend of chaos and depravity. Truth abruptly pushed one of the women away, zipping up his pants before turning his attention to Omar's group. A hoarse, unsettling laugh escaped him, sending shivers down their spines. Omar knew he had to maintain a tough façade, even as fear coursed through his men.
"Incompetent fools, are you the ones who lost our goods?" Truth's voice was a snarl, his gun still trained on Omar.
Omar knew better than to respond. Truth's unpredictable nature and penchant for violence were well known; answering his questions often led to gruesome consequences, frequently involving the loss of body parts, with eyes being a particularly favored target. Truth lowered his gun, beckoning for a receipt with a flick of his fingers. Omar cautiously stepped forward and handed it over, noticing the new gold teeth and earrings adorning Truth. The man's intense gaze bore into Omar, each moment feeling like an eternity, before he retrieved four brown envelopes.
"Take it and leave," he commanded, lighting up a joint.
Omar swiftly grabbed the envelopes, leading his crew in a hasty exit from the warehouse. His heart pounded in his chest, struggling to catch his breath. Relief washed over his men, evident in their teary eyes as they emerged from the building. Omar distributed the envelopes of money, each man taking his share before they dispersed in different directions. As the group disbanded, Omar, shrouded in an unsettling silence, took to the wheel. The headlights cut through the darkness, casting long, shifting shadows over the winding road. His grip on the steering wheel was tense, knuckles almost white against the synthetic leather. The street lamps flickered past, the orange glow contrasting the foreboding darkness that lingered within. The echoes of that encounter, seeped in the warehouse's eerie atmosphere, swirled through his thoughts. His mind raced back to the frantic moments—the sight of Truth and the menace he exuded. The memories played like a grisly film, the faces of the men and the girls they had left behind flickering in his rearview mirror, haunting his conscience.
The road was desolate; not even the usual symphony of night creatures or distant cars broke the eerie stillness. Each traffic light became a momentary pause in the journey, a fleeting respite from the ordeal they had just survived. Omar's breaths were shallow, his chest heavy with the trauma that the night had unleashed. The streets became a labyrinth of dark pathways, reflective of the maze his thoughts had become. His knitted brow and tense jawline betrayed the emotional strain he was under, the turmoil he was trying to keep at bay. Arriving at the hotel, Omar's hands trembled slightly as he parked the car. The dim lobby greeted him with a sterile, welcoming hush. He stepped out of the vehicle, his movements mechanical, an attempt to shake off the residual fear that had sunk its claws into his psyche. The elevator ride up to his room felt never-ending. Each floor passed like a slow descent into the nightmarish memories he wanted to shake off. He fumbled with the room key, his hands betraying the turmoil within. Once inside, the silence of his hotel room enveloped him, offering a deceptive sense of security. The only solace lay in the flickering glow of the muted television screen. Omar sank onto the bed, the night's events a heavy burden. As he lay there, the somber hush of the room provided a stark contrast to the cacophony of emotions echoing within him. Sleep, despite its invitation, remained elusive, his thoughts held captive by the torment of what had just transpired.