The last teardrop.

Chapter one.

I reminisce my meeting with Camillah as one of the greatest epics of my life. When I was shortlisted as one of the competitors in "Nurturing a contemporary writer," a writing competition sponsored by the University of Nairobi, my aim was to emerge the best of the junior writers of that time. The competition was aimed at nurturing contemporary authorship of the short story, as a fast growing genre of written art. As we sat in the auditorium where the winner would be announced, anxiety was evident on everyone's face. Next to me was a beautiful young lady. She was calm and composed. 

Loose, wavy brown hair hang down to her shoulders. She had a fringe over her forehead that almost hid her beautiful brown eyes. I loved her nose, definitely it was her best feature-pointed and beautiful. She had a set of regular cristle white teeth and she was full-lipped. Her fragrance and dressing heightened her status in society. She was a noble. Camillah was simply an epitome of beauty.

"Ladies and gentlemen, let us all be up standing for a prayer from the secretary to the panel."

The announcement signalled me back from my world of admiration to the queen next to me. 

"Amen," everyone responded.

Another shocker! The prayer had just been concluded without my knowledge. My heart almost leapt through my mouth when our eyes met. She had discovered I had been stealing glances at her during the entire session we had sat with her. Her face sank. She looked even more beautiful that way. I smiled. I said hi. She smiled back and stretched her hand. My heart warmed with inner jubilation and a mere return of the greeting. Angels must have sighed with approval in heaven. 

"I'm Camillah. Your name please?" She spoke in a soft voice. 

I was confused. I paused for a moment.

"I'm Hassan Musa. Hassan Musa Ali." I fumbled to achieve a perfect pronunciation. 

"Pleasure. I guess Ali is your dad?" She said. It was more of astatement thañ a question.

She smiled. She knew I was weak in her presence. I smiled back.

"Yes. Ali is my dad. Musa is my grandpa." I said rather confidently. "Our naming tradition you know. 

The ceremony had began but these strangers were deeply engaged in a conversation as though making up for the lost unknown moments. 

"You look nice Hassan. I love your shirt. Oh my! Your shoes are wonderful!" She said in an almost loud voice that could get to people's nerves. Some turned and looked at us in amazement and disapproval in equal measure. 

"They've just met at the right time." Someone said from among those on the front bench. Utter silence followed. Calmness engulfed the entire auditorium. 

"Distinguished ladies and gentlemen," the master of ceremony began in a composed tone. He wore a nicely fitting navy blue suit. 

"Today amongst us we have the best of this generation's writers." He paused, taking focused glances at the audience. 

"I must admitt that this year has presented a huge task to the panelists to come up with the best stories from those you presented. 

My heart sank. My stomach rambled to my disappointment. I feared losing to any of my competitors. I had siched myself but anxiety took me by storm. 

"Without going into much details, allow me introduce the panel and the after invite their comments on your scripts." He said. 

Speaker after each emphasized on the impartance of the annual writing competition to the growth of the literary world. Personally I was intrigued by the vice chair's speech, which centred on the invaluable role of young writers in shaping the reading culture and morals of the society through literature. 

"Today, ladies and gentlemen. We have managed to break the stereotype that serious literary works are a reserve for the reknown and seasoned writers. It is self evident from the results we are going to present that our country is glowing with talents that only needed a stage to be showcased."

A round of applause cut him short. His speech was not only reassuring but also restored my confidence that I might have done a good job. 

The chair's time came. He gave a brief speech and everyone sank quiet in their seats. Silence ushered the long awaited moment. Fear. I could hear my heartbeat loudly in my ears. Camillah stayed calm. She must have been an epitome of unwavering strength over adversity. 

"I must admitt that all competitors did a commendable job that can safely go through any genuine publishing house, and we will help you achieve your dream. Therefore, ladies and gentlemen, as a panel we have a reward for any of you who took part in this completion."

Another round of applause. 

"However, the three that I will present before you this afternoon ladies and gentlemen, are considered the best of this year's articles. Ranging from the menace of civil war in African countries to gender violence and the African girl child education, the three authors artistically weaved their pieces to emotionally present the tribulations and achievement of their subjects."

The mention of civil war braught a bubble of joy and liveliness in my heart. That must have been my story. Whichever position, I was now confident that I had a podium finish. Moreso, the order in which they had been mentioned, if it meant anything, I could carry the day. 

"I will call the finalists to the stage in the ascending order." He said amid deafening silence. 

"The three have proved beyond reasonable doubt that this country is a wash with great minds. Their art has painted a vivid description of what an African society is like. On the damaging effects of civil war in African states, Hassan, one of the competitors passionately recounts the ordeal of civilians; women and children in war-torn countries. I don't know if it is a personal reflection, but some of us couldn't hold our tears as we discussed this article. Nonetheless, it is the artistic representation of the story that made it stand out. Amid our son's the writer managed to bring some light moments that everporated the jitters of fear and empathy."

It was my story under discussion. I was lost in pleasant thoughts. I never heard the mention of position three. Amid cheers I heard Camillah's name. 

"Camillah Hassan's; the lost treasure takes the second position." The chair said, as he gave a brief narration of the gender-based violence story.

"Finally, ladies and gentlemen, it is with great pleasure that I present this year's overall winner." Silence and anxiety embraced tenderly in a cruel encounter to devour my inside. I felt a cold sensation under my feet. I grew feeble. Impatience! Fear!

"Ladies and gentlemen, Hassan Musa Ali." The hall broke into jubilant cheers. Deafening applause. "Let us all be standing to welcome the three winners on stage for awards." He said.

A standing ovation of its kind. Never in my life had I ever been given such an appreciation. As I took to stage I recalled my life as a minor with mixed hatred and pleasure. My past had shaped my experience and creativity. My free will to talk of the anguish of refugees and civil war astounded many. People thought I was so huge a topic to be developed by a minor. A section of the audience wiped their tears as I gave my acceptance speech that was partly a background the award winning story. 

        *** *** ***

"Are you a victim of the violence in the North?" Camillah asked in a sad tone, as we walked to the bench in aboretum.

"I felt your tears as you gave your speech. I'm sorry." She said gently. 

She held my hand and looked me in the face. 

"Hassan you've not said anything. You don't want to talk about it. Right?" She said.

I kept mum to find the right words but she interjected before I said anything. 

"It's okay. We'll talk about it some day when you feel like talking about it." She said as she motioned me to sit on a bench under the dense canopy of trees. The ever green folliage of trees doting the aboretum danced lazily to the slow wind. We were in worlds apart deep in thoughts, arms interlocked like a couple. We had just met. Confusion stirred in my mind as we sat quietly. Our first meeting had just been married by elements of unspoken drama. I felt her tenderness. I had fallen for her at first sight. 

After close to half an hour of listening to the silent breeze and the rhythm of our heartbeats, she bolted again, as if she had just woken up from deep slumber.

"Then tell me something about yourself." 

I tried to gain my composure and looked her in the face. She had just picked on the lane I had anticipated our conversation to take. 

"Mhmm what exactly do you want to know about me?" I said amid a feverish smile.

"I noticed you were stealing glances at me during the entire session." She said with a straight gaze in the space ahead of us, though talking to the wind. I was taken aback. Was she offended? I thought to myself.

My restless in the face of the feminine gender had been put to test. I admired them from a distance, yet I had never made effort to engage them closely as I was with this beautiful figure before me. I was not going to let her go without trying, but I still didn't want to make a fool of myself, neither look stupid before her. Words had just deserted my lips. My mind and heart had suddenly become a desert with less thought of affection. Was she interested in me? Or was she, like many of her calibre, seaking solace in my company just for a while? These sour questions numbed my lips. I tried to utter a word but air escaped. In my utter confusion and shock, she held my chin with the tip of her slim and soft fingers. Our eyes met, again. Love and confusion jostled for a share of the moment. 

"Hassan you will make me sad," she said, enunciating her words slowly. "Though we've never met before but I think I like you. Your thoughts are so distant. I can tell that from your face." She said as though she had spent some good time with me to understand my whole being. 

I sighed heavily,gently holding her by her palms. She smiled.

"Never had I ever been close to such a stunning beauty before." I said. "That's why I lack words to express my gratitude to Allah for such a day." I carried on.

"Thank you." She said as she fell on my chest and rested her head. "I fancy your company too. Such a great pleasure being around a now and soon going to be a famous writer." She said. I was flattered. I felt at home with my feelings for her. 

"I think I also like you." I said gently, in almost a whisper. 

She abruptly disengaged from my embrace and walked a few steps away. She stood still without a word. She didn't look at me either. I wondered whether I had misinterpreted her initial gesture for love and fondness. I wanted to apologize before she could say anything but my move was cut short by two well built men in black suits and sunglasses. One gave me a hand-off that sent to the ground while the other reached for her.

"Just keep off!" The guy said authoritatively. 

"Miss, it's time to leave." Said the other guy.

They escorted her to the black Range Rover that had been parked few metres away from where we sat. Who was she? It was all like a dream. Vanishing just when you are enjoying it. I picked my heavy that contained the present and slowly left the scene after the car had sped off.

            

Chapter two.

Mum and dad would not return that day till the following weekend. They had travelled back to Mombasa where we had settled after a troubled life in Uganda. I placed my bag on the dining table without confirming the actual contents of the present and headed to the kitchen to prepare something for dinner. By 20:00hours I was done. I set the table but my appetite deserted me. Subsequently, I had developed a blotted stomach. I took a glass of warm water and headed to bed. 

I ran after Camillah as she reached for the car. She didn't stop. Just as she reached the door, she stoped and looked at the men in black. 

"Give him a good treat." She said looking away.

In my utter naivety I didn't comprehend what a treat meant, until the men descended raining blows on me. Just then she motioned them to stop. She moved close as she opened her handbag and reached for a gun. She aimed. She fired. Just then, I shook from my sleep panting. I realized I had left the television on and the late night movie was still playing. It was 11:42 pm. 

Camillah had ordered my beating. She had said nothing when earlier on I had been pushed to the ground like a piece of paper. Who was she? Was she a president's daughter? Had my words angered her that much? But what had she meant when she said she liked me? I thought hard to myself but no answers were forthcoming. I went into long hours of sleeplessness. What pricked my mind more was why she was angered by my words when I thought she had provoked my feelings for her. Her stature that played out in the few minutes reminded me of my father's common proverb, "avoid the proverbial banana peels that litter floors of the rich." I had attempted and the results were almost catastrophic.

Minutes escalated to hours. It was 2:00 am and still had no trace of sleep in my eyes. I tried to write but nothing made sense. I attempted a free verse to wish away what I was feeling:

I surrender the pride-

and love her whole-hearted.

She is a princess;

beautiful like the queen mother,

no chance to prude-

for her love is a tide.

But does she love me?

I didn't revise the poem. I switched off the lights and fell into deep sleep like an overfed baby. I woke up late into the morning, took a cold shower and went direct to the dining table to unwrap my present. 

I was elated. It lifted my spirit for the moment. It was a portable computer, HP2000PC.

"Alhamdullilah!" I marvelled to myself. It was a goodbye to handwritten manuscripts. I was no more going to pay for submission of my online assignments, lest the machine conspired with fate to take away the little shreds of joy in my life. I started with the one stanza piece I had penned. My old Motorola T2288 kept on screeching like a cricket. Someone was calling on a new number, probably Jayden on his parent's phone.

"Hello." A female voice answered.

"Hassan speaking." I said formally. "Can I be of any help?" I inquired in a soft tone.

"It's Camillah." She said. I almost threw the phone away. Fear had me peeping through the window just to make sure all was well. I was lost of words.

"Can we talk?"she said gently, "where can I get you?" She added.

"Camillah how did you..."

"How did I get your number?" She cut me short. "Don't mind that," she said. "Just tell me where I can find you." She insisted. She sounded sleepy. Maybe she was still in bed.

"Give me the direction to your place." She sounded bored. It was more of a command than a request. 

"Where are you?" I asked.

"I'm in bed. Oh sorry I'm in Karen at my dad's residence." She said. "I'll drive myself. No bodyguards. Okay?" She said in a soothing voice.

I gave her direction to our abode in Dandora phase 3, a place treaded by many for the history it held in Nairobi as whole. The seedy and squalor lifestyle of the the urchins attested to their temperaments and erratic associations. The rotting smell from the dumbing site rendered the place almost inhabitable during rainy seasons. Here was a lady from the posche and revered Runda homes. I must admitt I was scared than ashamed of her visit, but my heart betrayed my fears. I yearned to see her again. Against all odds. I was getting ready for another possible humiliating episode. She said she was going to drive herself, but here, I only got close to my dad's old Peugeot when he wanted it washed. My old man was a reincarnated colonial master, always , his temper was flying.

In about an hour, she called. She had arrived at the spot I had directed her. She was clad in a pair of beautiful but expensive navy blue trouser suit jeans, with a white headscarf that covered her head partially. She was alone. She seemed lost in her thoughts that she didn't notice my arrival. 

"Hi Camillah," I greeted

"Oh hi Hassan," she stammered.

"You have a nice ca!" I said

She smiled and took a glance at the car as if she was also noticing it for the first time. 

"O'really! It's nothing Hassan." She said casually

I led her to the house amid a troubled mind. What had pushed so fine a jewel like her to have a must-visit to my place? What was going to offer her without offending her appetite and upsetting her stomach. 

"Nice living room." She said as I ushered her to the house. "I love the simplicity and decency it exudes. You guys have a good life down here man!" She exclaimed.

Indeed our house was simple. It attested to the simple lifestyle that we led. It was well furnished though. I loved the fact that she had loved the painting on the wall I had done when I was a form three student. It was a portrait of a hunter who had rescued an antelope from the claws of a hungry lion. Since I joined the university, all of my friends who visited the house had given it different interpretation. It was subject to everyone's understanding. She had a longing look in her face. She missed something. 

"Can I embrace you?" She said as fell into my arms. " I hardly slept for what happened yesterday." She said in a horse voice, almost crying. 

Subsequently, as she kept quiet I felt her warm tears on my chest. She heaved, growing into uncontrollable sobs. I held her tight and let her cry. It was vital that she got off her chest what was troubling her, and more fulfilling was that I had offered that environment to facilitate her venting. Since I met her in the auditorium, she was a mass of contradictions. She wasn't one you could confess to have understood what she was. She had confessed liking me on our first meeting but profound silence had followed when I liked her back, prompting the trouble that befell me in the hands of the guards.

Her sobs had subsided wen I led her to the seat. I got her a glass of orange juice since that's the only near decent drink I could manage. It was just a glass. I had to pretent I had had a heavy breakfast to avoid sharing the little. .

All along I had waited to hear what exactly had brought her. An explanation or a story towards that wasn't forthcoming. I was getting impatient but had no right words to bring up the subject. 

"Camillah, how did you get my number?" I mastered some courage and asked.

"Your story." She said casuay. 

"My story!" I asked surprised. "What about my story?"

"Hey! Easy man!" She said smiling. "A copy of your story distributed to all participants had your number." She paused momentarily, looked me in the face and continued. "Many will call, of that I'm sure. I just wanted to be the first and only one." She said.

She was a charmer with her words as the carried on with her narration. 

"Hassan," she called my name as she held my hand. "I'm sorry for my behaviour yesterday. I'm sorry for how the guards handled you too." She said.

The look on her face was genuine. She was almost crying, again. 

I was short of words. To me the bodyguard issue was somehow not strange. I had gone through much physical and emotional torture before we left Uganda, that I had almost become numb of some happenings in life. But I was afraid. I was afraid for and of her. I had fallen for her and maybe my move could be a breeding zone for more danger from her people. I didn't want to build hope in her and fail to sustain it. Albeit all these deliberations,my heart failed me. Every beat of it resounded in my mind that this was the right person. 

She was beautiful and sophisticated. We existed in two worlds apart. Like a drop of oil in the ocean, societal dictates had for long drawn rules of engagement for these two classes. 

"I get you Camillah. Don't get worked up over that." I said, head bent. "Living in this part of the country prepares you for any eventuality, sometimes worse than what happened yesterday." She was quiet. She lacked a word. "Camillah, you are a fine lady. Your bodyguards had the right sense to feel you were not safe with me. Okay?"

"No!" She harshly interjected. "You're getting it wrong Hassan." She said.

"I think you've also witnessed how tough it is to blend these two personalities." I said ignoring her sentiment.

She was silent for a moment after which she asked of my parents.

"They are upcountry." I said. "They went to visit my grandparents."

"So in the meantime you're staying alone?" She asked. "No servant?"

"No!" I said.

"Can I help you do yesterday's dishes?" She asked.

"I... I cooked but never ate." I stammered. "There is no dirty dish."

"I thought you just a while ago you had a heavy breakfast mhm!" She said sarcastically.

"I mean I lost my appetite." I said.

She was persistent in her quest that we get to the kitchen together so I obliged.

"It's a nice meal Hassan." She said smiling. "You're a good cook." She said in a British slang. Her education foundation must have been abroad.

"Really!" I said.

"Yeah. Let's warm the stew. It will serve us right." She said.

She had assumed her role in the kitchen. Moreso, in her I felt the attention of a sister I never had. Being the only child I at times felt uncomfortable when people discussed their siblings. Her presence in the kitchen with me in the kitchen reminded me how lonely I'd been. 

"Hey! Is anything the matter?" She asked. 

"Nothing dear Camillah. Nothing." I said calmly.

Food was ready so we set the table. It was satisfying to she a meal and be close to the lady who had at first scared the hell out of me. Although I understood she was trying to fit in my class for my sake, but it was really fulfilling. I loved it.

 I escorted her to the car after she had singly done the dishes. I wished I could keep her for myself. She left me a feeling of longing and loneliness. That night I thought much of the day's events but I got some good piece of sleep, like a baby. When my parents arrived later the following day, I was ready parked to go back to my college cubicle. I longed to meet Camillah again, although she had kept in touch through the phone always. I bed mum and goodbye and left though they had insisted that I sleep and leave early in the morning. That wasn't welcome for me. Camillah had grown fond of calling during bed time. My bedroom wasn't far from my parent's. I didn't want them evesdropping on my calls.

I set my room and embarked on typing a draft of a story I had started working on. Love was a beautiful thing and an inspiration to a bitter soul. For the first time I was writing about the subject; love. I had tasted it just for a while and I was already over the moon with the feeling. The flow of thoughts was amazing. Once in a while I stopped and thought of the moments we were together. Her being with me had reminded me of what I had been missing. She was an amazing lady.

Our affair was on a predictable lane of success. Often we could be seen walking to the library together and to the cafeteria for meals. We became a pair in all we did om campus. People celebrated us. One day, during the cultural week, we were jointly invited as the campus couple of the year. I think my woes in campus and thereafter was triggered by this move to recognize us as a couple. 

After the event, as we walked arm in arm on the pavement towards my hostel, Camillah was snatched from my arms by her guards and roughly escorted to the car without a word. From her previous explanation about such a drill, it meant an order from the father and serious trouble when she got home. I watched the car disappear and felt the pain I had caused her.

Chapter three.

Camillah was Amb. Omar Hassan Noor's daughter. Ambassador Noor was not only powerful and influential in Kenya but also back in his home country of Kuwait. He was a conservative and ruthless Muslim. From Camillah's recount, he was the lone voice in the house. Neither Camillah nor her mother had a position in the house. 

The whole of Friday Camillah didn't show up. She didn't call either. I tried reaching her but her phone was on voice mail. Had she been flown back to Kuwait? She had once been threatened to be taken back home if she didn't behave herself in her socialisation. After failing to reach her, on Saturday evening I decided to go back home in Dandora and spend with my parents till Monday early morning. It was the longest weekend. I couldn't tell whether what I felt for her was love or infatuation. But I could not do without her. I missed her presence and her late night calls. Was she really okay?

My dad drove me to school that Monday morning. I reminded him that I could possibly commute to and from home the entire week since my schedule wasn't much tight. The schedule was normal as always. But I didn't know how to manage without Camillah. If she wasn't going to show up, then I would nurse my loneliness in my parents house. 

I was uneasy throughout the lecture session. Concentration deserted me. My stomach rambled from time to time. I was afraid and uncomfortable but couldn't figure out exactly what scared me. Tension was overwhelming. Anxiety had taken me by storm.

"Hassan come back to class."

This was like a thunderbolt to my ears. I heard it's reverbration severally in my ears. The don had realized my mind might have been miles away. I adjusted myself and sat upright. 

My colleagues had noticed my profound silence. It wasn't a norm for me to sit through the lecture without a word. That day they had not had a chance to laugh at my jokes as usual. When the lecture was over I headed for my cubicle to pick a few clothes that I would carry home.

As I edged close to my house, people stood in clusters. They looked at me with baffled looks. Were they still holding me in owe for emerging the champion in the writing contest? Was there something wrong? I thought hard to myself as reached for my room. Three well built men, with athletic bodies; and, in black suits, maroon shirts and cream ties stood by my door. Their uniform said it all. I was in for it. Again.

"Hassan Ali, right?" One asked casually,

"Yes. It is." I responded. "Can I help you?" I added.

He brandished an ID from his pocket and waved it at me. 

"Detectives from the central post. We are here to search your room." The guy on the far left said.

I was short of words. I lost my balance and staggered for a second or two to adjust myself.

"Don't even try it young man." Said the other guy who had been silent the entire time as he reached for a pistol in his waist that had been concealed by his coat. " One faulty step and I blow off your little brain." He roared.

"Open the door and step in." Said the first officer. "Slowly!" He added.

I obliged without causing a scene. The crowd of onlookers was growing. Whatever had necessitated this was a mystery to them just as it was to me. Everything was turned upside down in search of what I didn't know. They had not briefed me either of what they were looking for. I was frozen. As they tore apart my beddings I noticed a swelling in the pillow case. Was for the first time I was seeing it too. I had spread my bed well on Saturday before I left for home and I didn't remember seeing such a thing. The search stopped. One of the officers wore a pair of sergical gloves and tore the pillow case though it needed not such vandalism since it was very easy to undress it. 

I grew weak. I felt extreme warmth. I thought I could pass out at any moment. The statement that followed shook me to the nerves. 

"We have been trailing you for some time Hassan." The officer said authoritatively.

A pistol, similar to that I had seen the officer with outside my room lay bare on the bed. He removed a transparent polythene bag from his pocket and forced me to pick the gun and put it in. The silent guy reached for his side gun and aimed at me. He was determined to shoot me.

"Pick the gun and place it in the bag!" He roared, enunciating his words in a slow but deliberate and authoritative tone. 

They all reached for their firearms. I was dead in waiting if didn't do as they ordered. Obliged. I was handcuffed, held side by side and led outside the room. The crowd must have been big. I didn't see clearly due to the blinding flashes of the cameras. Everyone was baying to have a photo of me in handcuffs. Whoever had informed journalists that I was going down that moment remained a puzzle to me. I was not a criminal or the owner of the gun that had just been recovered. What was happening? Had in my confusion missed my room and gotten into someone else's room? No! There is where they had waited for me. It is me they wanted. Who wanted me down? I had not been on the wrong side with the authority to warrant such harassment and humiliation. 

My world stopped when I was whisked into the SUV. After a heated exchange I was knocked at the back of my head. I woke struggling for breathe. We were still moving but in complete darkness. I face had been completely blocked that I saw no light nor could I comprehend the direction we were headed to. It must have been a long distance. My head was terribly aching. No one spoke.

"Where are you taking me you fools!" I screamed in pain.

"Just shut up!" Someone shouted from the back with an air of finality.

"Idiots! Where are you taking me? I've done nothing wrong you fools!" I shouted, my arrogance being propelled by extreme pain that got to my nerves.

            ***        ***        ***      ***

When I opened my eyes I was on a cold floor. One side of the wall was a metallic grill. My body was partially numb. I lay prostate on the floor, still handcuffed at the back. My jacket and shirt had been torn off. My shoes and belt had been confiscated. I was at the mercy of the cold breeze that wielded it's whip relentlessly. I was defenceless, in the middle of nowhere. Pain, anger and hunger; all battled in my soul in war that none could win. It must have been in the whee hours. I had not had my lunch at the time I was taken from my room. My stomach rambled. My ribs ached but I couldn't manage to turn. 

I smelt blood. Maybe I a broken rib that knocked me out only to wake up in this hell. My left nose was partially blocked by a blood clot, making it difficult to breathe.

"Mum." I mumbled to myself. 

It was like a dream. I tried to move but still couldn't. I was coming to senses and the deepest reality that the pain and torture was real. What I had done to warrant such remained a mystery to me.  

As my dad drove me to college that fateful morning, he'd briefed me they had to go to Malindi Tuesday early morning. They had landed a job transfer and that week I was to organize and vacate the college room to fully occupy our house in Dandora. They might have been miles away to Malindi as I battled the unknown in the dungeon. Within the few hours of my captivity I had migrated from madness to insanity. Whatever that was happening was only between Satan and my captors. My existence was quickly but surely heading to a dark ending. 

"Lailaha illallahu!" I whispered to myself. "Should I die before I wake up, I'm dying without knowing my fault." I felt my tears on the floor. My eyes warmed and soured up, as though I had spend in a smoky kitchen. 

"Dear God. It's only you who knows what I'm going through." I cried, my almost silent heaves growing to loud soabs. 

"If I die inshallah help my parents know the true cause of my death." I cried.

I recalled the morning I received the news of the passing on of my confidant in a road carnage. Recalled going to the morgue to identify his lifeless body. I recalled the free lines I had spoken to him, though lifeless. He quietly lay on the floor naked, motionless, among strangers.

Too young you've died;

Life's loose ends you never tied,

Forever your death I'll mourn-

Throughout the days, dusk to the new dawn.

Here I was, almost following him. I too, would leave perfectly in my own words. Having been through difficult moments before; but never through such a harrowing experience, I felt my life hanging on a balance. I was on my highway to the grave. Darius was my writing partner and his death had left me to battle alone in the writing arena. 

Had Camillah known my plight? Was she aware that I had been taken away? I thought to myself. I was sure she had been briefed by the onlookers who took uncountable number of photos of me in handcuffs. Had my award winning story predicted my end? I wondered. I tried to think of anything positive but my mind could not get off the immortal world. 

Chapter four.

I was in the middle of an unknown forest. How I had gotten myself to that point I couldn't recall. Sounds of the owl scared, compounded by darkness that was settling in. 

"How nice that you have decided to join us and feel the ambience and grandeur of the deep dark forest abode!" A frightening voice echoed.

 The echo reverbrated, followed by a laughter that now came from all directions. I had to run. At some point I had the ability to fly for a while. On my trail was a multiple-headed animal. It was partially human but gigantic. It's thunderous laughter continued echoing across the forest as it inched closer. As it stretched its massive arm to grab me, I jumped off the cliff into the angry and rashy river that lay ahead. I had just been woken up from my nightmare with a backet of ice-cold water.

I struggled to regain my breathe. There was partial light. Probably it was around 8:00 am. 

"Come with me!"

The guy roughly lifted me to my feet, the handcuffs inflicting more pain on my hands. I was led to a small room. Not well lit and poorly ventilated. In the face of my three captors; now in T-shirts, their mascular bodies exposed, the handcuffs were removed for the first time.

My hands were greatly swollen. I was made to sit by the metal table, then, a fourth person approached, well dressed in a khaki suit and maroon shirt. He reached for his inner pockets and removed a pair of lockable chains. 

"Chain him at the back." He said as if not addressing anyone in specific. "He's still as dangerous as the mystery itself." He laughed. "He's a ticking bomb. Right Hassan?" He asked with contempt.

"Gentlemen, do it with much caution." He continued laughing. "Lest his gods descend on us." He continued contemptuously.

All along I was whimpering in pain. The chains were too tight on my fresh wounds that had been inflicted on me. The guy in suit sat directly opposite me at the table. The mascular men stood side by side at my back. The room was marred by an aura tension and loud silence. Then a lady  in tight blue jeans came in with a file and what appeared like a newspaper cutout. My tormentor didn't say anything. He held the newspaper uprightly for me to see. I was lost of words. I wished to die in the minute, before my friends, my parents and anybody I held dear to my heart like Camillah could see it.

"VERSITY STUDENT TURNS CRIMINAL," was the headline of the the sensational Daily post. A photo of me in handcuffs, well dressed and sandwiched between armed civilian police officers occupied the front page of the newspaper. The extract read in part;

"A versity student was yesterday day nubbed and an MR3" riffle recovered. As identified by the police, Hassan Ali is a notorious criminal that has been on the police radar for some time. Preliminary police reports reveals a chain of armed robbery that Hassan has masterminded both in Nairobi and Mombasa. It is reported that Hassan pays allegiance to the Islamic extremist group, and, might have undergone terror training in the past. Camillah Ali, daughter to Kuweit's ambassador to Kenya, who's Hassan's girlfriend has since admitted through a written statement on the daily activities of Hassan...."

Tears had started forming. I didn't want to read further. I bent my head before the men at my back held me upright again, and forced  me to look at the second newspaper that had been placed before me. It was The Citizen Weekly, one of the country's most read newspaper. The cover story read in part;

"RENOWNED JUNIOUR LITERARY MIND TURNS CRIMINAL."

"After making his debute as a great literary mind last month, Hassan has struck the nation as a mass of contradictions, supremely inconsistent with what everyone expected. Yesterday, to the astonishment of the public, a heavy artillery of arms was confiscated from his room. The thought of Hassan as a criminal has elicited mixed reactions online with a trending

 #THE GANGSTER WRITER.

Close allies, including Camillah attest to the allegations that indeed Hassan is highly enigmatic, whose demeanor is greatly at variance with his inner self. More startling is the fact that the riffle retrieved has been linked to the killing of the prominent business man in the city a fortnight ago. Hassan has since been moved to Mombasa to the ATPU headquarters after a question of regious indoctrination came up...."

Chapter five.

So I was in Mombasa? I thought to myself. So close to my parents yet too far. I needed them by my side more than ever. The daily post had judged me harshly. The editor must have been very inhuman to release such damaging information to the irate public before assessing it's ramifications. I almost found some reprief in The Citizen Weekly, for their recognition of Camillah as my girlfriend, but then, was it true that she had nodes to the fact that I could not be understood? What had gotten into her? Did she really mean what the newspaper reported? But why? Had she all along been taking advantage of me only to destroy my growing reputation? How fast could she have shifted from submission to betrayal? Something was utterly wrong? Why was I being termed as a criminal yet nothing on me epitomized crime? Had everyone, my friends and family, accepted this like members of the fourth estate without question? The gun was found in my room, yes! But it wasn't mine. I knew nothing about it. 

"Young man," the guy in suit said calmly after putting the newspaper aside. "This is your ticket to freedom." He was waving a three-page document by the tip of his fingers.

"You have this chance to redeem yourself, if only you will sign this paper."

He threw it at me and continued swinging in his seat. Signing the document meant accepting all the allegations that had been levelled against me. It meant bidding Camillah a goodbye, and, prosecuting my own case before the public.

"Do you know that Camillah is an ambassador's daughter?" He asked.

I kept quiet. It was not only obvious but stupid too.

"She has a good name attached to her personality." He said calmly. "Look at you young man." He said, pointing at me with disgust. "Who are you? You are nothing and you ought to know that!" He sounded irritated. 

The bitter truth was settling in. Camillah and I were a mistake. But what kept nagging my mind was the relevance of that lecture to the issues I was being accused of.

"Camillah is from a royal and noble family." He's authoritatively resumed his lecture. "Royal blood flows in her veins." He spoke in a low, slow but deliberate tone. "What can we possibly talk about you? What is it about your name that can possibly be talked about? No wonder your efforts are are so much into wielding that gun, ending lives of those you think work hard to get what you need." He spoke irritatingly.

"I am not a robber you fool!" I yelled back. I had thrown caution to the wind. There was no need to play nice, especially when I realized I could possibly never get out alive. I felt a hard slap at the back of my head that sent me hitting my forehead on the table. According to them I had done the unthinkable. No one under interrogation would go to such heights. 

"Lesson one! He said calmly. " Never interrupt my words of wisdom you psychopath! I hope you understand that henceforth the ambassador's daughter will never wish to associate with a criminal like you." He said.

Pain had taken the better part of me. It was surging from my heart to soul. I was broken. The cracks in my heart rendered it inhabitable in my whole being. The fire ignited by my association with Camillah was consuming me thin, shredding my bones to little pieces, maybe irreparable. Unfortunately I was the only child of my parents. Now that the newspaper had painted it to the entire universe, I didn't want to imagine the pain they were feeling. Hell had broken loose on me just a few days since they left for the coastal city. Had fate wanted them away before before surrendering me to this torture? 

"If you sign this document, we will plead with the judge to give you a lighter sentence. Let's say he might reconsider your case." He gently spoke, his fingers interlocked. "If you won't, then it you yourself signing this death warrant. You will be tightening the noose and kicking that stool you are standing on by yourself." He said.

Was Camillah the only reason I had to go through all this? No! Definitely not! Was I being used as a scape goat to save an unknown criminal? How had they planned and identified me as a soft target? Tightening the loose ends could not work for them, they were simply burning the very rope.

I was choking with anger and resentment as he continued with his lecture. A slightest chance as a free man I could have strangled him without blinking. 

"Well, gentleman we've talked enough." He spoke close to my face. "Sign the document, lose Camillah and gain your freedom! Either way, decline and you will still lose her. But sure enough, you will go to prison for a very long time." He said authoritatively. "But anyway, you don't have a choice here. You do as we say. Do you get me Mr. Criminal! Sign the documen, now! He pushed the pen towards me as the other men unchained my hands. 

I lifted my head for the first time since the hard slap. I looked into his face, I saw the face of horror but I was already a dead man. Nothing scared more. I acted oblivious of what was coming next. 

"I am not signing this document!" I said acting tough. "I didn't do it. Push that into your thick head!" I said 

He angrily gritted, loudly banged the table as he stood.

                ***Chapter 6-16 loading***