The Nairobi sun blazed in the January sky, casting a golden hue over the sprawling, tree-lined avenues of the upscale residential area. It was Sunday—the only day the gates of this secluded world were opened to the common folk, allowing them to worship alongside the powerful and privileged.
The church stood like a monument to both God and wealth, its grand architecture gleaming under the sun. Inside, the air was split into two worlds. At the front, on the elevated podium, the elite sat in plush, cushioned seats, their comfort ensured by the gentle hum of air conditioning. Below them, the rest of the congregation squeezed onto aged wooden benches that groaned under their weight, their Sunday best clinging to their damp skin.
Makena sat in her usual place on the podium beside her family. Her father, Melvin Munene, whose name showed just who he was, a revered lawyer with unparalleled influence, sat with his hands clasped, eyes closed in a perfect depiction of humility. Beside him, her mother, Dr. Njeri, played the role of the dutiful, supportive wife with flawless grace. Her brother, Martin, lounged beside them, indifferent to the spectacle yet fully aware of his place in it.
Makena, however, felt disconnected. The priest's sermon floated over her like distant echoes, speaking of charity and love, about God's mercy and the duty to serve others. She gazed past the cushioned seats to the crowded benches below where the less fortunate sat, their backs straight with reverence despite the discomfort. The sweat on their brows was evidence of their devotion, or perhaps their desperation. She took in their worn yet neatly pressed clothes, the shoes that had seen too many miles, the hopeful, expectant looks on their faces.
Were they here for God, or for something else?
Did they truly believe, or did they just need to believe?
She didn't know whether to pity them or envy them. Pity them for their blind faith, for believing in the words spoken from a pulpit built on hypocrisy. Envy them for the certainty of their beliefs, for having something to hold onto, something that let them forget—if only for a few hours—that the world outside these walls was unkind.
The sermon droned on. She stood when required, kneeled at the right moments, sang when the choir led, her actions purely mechanical. It was a well-rehearsed routine—stand, pray, sit, repeat. She watched her father bow his head in prayer, his hands clasped in perfect humility. And she wanted to laugh.
This man, revered and feared in equal measure, was nothing like the pious figure he presented here. She had seen the real him. She had heard his deals whispered in the dead of night, seen the priest—this very priest—leave their home in cars he could never afford on his own, gifts from her father.
Her father's name rang out from the pulpit. "We are blessed once again by the generosity of our beloved servant of God, Mr. Melvin Munene," the priest declared with a beaming smile, though the nervous tremor in his voice was unmistakable.
The congregation erupted into applause, some even standing. Makena watched as her father rose with the well-practiced humility of a saint, placing a reverent kiss on her mother's cheek. Njeri responded with a well-rehearsed smile, the same one she wore in interviews, at charity galas, in the hospital corridors where she was both adored and feared, urging him forward as though she wasn't intimately aware of the man behind the mask.
Melvin strode toward the podium, shaking hands with the priest, whose eager expression held a mixture of reverence and submission. A perfect performance that hid their relationship which extended beyond the church's walls, into the corridors of power where favors were exchanged in hushed tones over expensive whiskey.
"I am but a vessel of the Lord," Melvin began, his voice deep and measured, perfected from years in the courtroom. "All that I have, all that I give, is through His grace."
The priest nodded in fervent agreement. "And through your kindness, my son."
A chorus of "Amens" rippled through the congregation. Makena barely contained her scoff. She had seen this performance countless times—the giving, the praise, the eventual disbursement of just enough charity to maintain the illusion of goodwill.
When the service ended, they followed another ritual. The elite exited first, stepping into the sun-kissed courtyard, where pleasantries were exchanged. Women complimented each other's outfits, men discussed politics in hushed tones, and children, segregated by class even in play, huddled in their respective groups. Some of the common people hardened their hearts to break this system just to shake hands with her father, uttering praises hopping that more 'blessings' and 'donations' would come their way.
Makena stood beside her mother, nodding and smiling when required. She envied her brother, who had already disappeared to join his friends, likely indulging in conversations about the previous night's debauchery. She was stuck hear, listening to women praise her mother for raising such polite and well behaved children. For having it all in life, a perfect husband and successful business. These women knew what they needed to say to stay in the doctor's good graces.
Makena was used to it, she tuned them out, her mind wondering as her faced remained plastered with her practiced smile.
Then she heard it—laughter. A sound she hadn't heard in years, yet it gripped her with an unrelenting force. It was richer now, tinged with maturity, but unmistakably his.
Her heart constricted. She turned, drawn to the sound against her will. And there he was.
Next to his grandfather, just as he had been the first time she saw him. Only now, he wasn't the tearful boy she remembered but a man. His features had sharpened, his posture more confident, yet his eyes held the same warmth.
Their eyes met.
The world around her faded. For the first time in years, emotions surged beyond her control. Shame. Fear. Longing.
She wanted to run. To disappear before he could see her for what she had become—a shadow of herself, molded by her family's expectations. But her feet were rooted to the ground.
"Makena," her father's voice shattered the moment. "Time to go."
She tore her gaze away, forcing herself to move, to obey. But as she walked toward the waiting car, she knew one thing for certain—he had come back, and with him, the past she had tried so hard to bury.