Whispers of Sharonita

Rashid stood on the edge of the university courtyard, eyes drifting toward the low, grey clouds gathering above. The afternoon air was thick, as if holding its breath. In the distance, literature students debated beneath the jacaranda trees, their voices a melody of intellect and passion. He had once belonged to that world, a place where ideas flourished, but now everything felt distant—like a half-remembered poem.

Sharon emerged from the lecture hall, her slender frame framed by the door's wooden arc. Her simple elegance caught the soft light of the sinking sun, and for a moment, Rashid felt time pause. Her steps were measured, delicate, as though she glided above the ground. It was that grace, the quiet beauty in her silence, that had first captivated him.

He pushed away his troubled thoughts, forcing a smile as he walked to her.

"Let me walk you to the hostel?" he offered, his voice strained but steady.

She nodded, her lips curving into that rare smile, a reward for his persistence.

They walked side by side, the gravel crunching beneath their feet. Rashid talked about poems, about Neruda, about a future where they’d settle down and write their lives into being. Sharon listened, her eyes reflecting the soft hues of the coming twilight.

But behind his words, shadows brewed. Shadows of accusations, whispers, and fear.

Nyumbani University had become a powder keg. Political tensions, corrupt leadership, and growing economic inequities fed into the growing fire of student unrest. Rashid, always an idealist, could not ignore the injustices. Alongside Kamau, the fierce orator, and Amina, whose voice shattered complacency, Rashid became one of the leading figures in the student movement.

His words were weapons, wielded with precision. Articles under pseudonyms appeared in underground pamphlets, and during protests, his chants rallied the wavering. But his passion, like a flame, attracted dangerous attention.

The first sign of trouble came in the form of an anonymous letter slid under his dorm room door. Four words, scrawled in red ink: Stop, or you’ll burn.

He dismissed it, convinced it was intimidation meant to silence him. But soon, the threats escalated.

One evening, after walking Sharon to her hostel, Rashid returned to find his door ajar. The room was wrecked—books torn, papers scattered. On his desk lay a gun, a sinister black shape he’d never seen before. He stepped back, a cold sweat prickling his skin, when suddenly, heavy hands seized his shoulders.

“Don’t move!” a voice barked.

University security officers swarmed in, their faces cold and expressionless. Inspector Munga, a hulking figure with dark, calculating eyes, stood at the center, a smirk curving his lips.

“What do we have here?” Munga said, lifting the gun with a handkerchief. “Looks like someone’s been busy.”

“It’s not mine,” Rashid stammered, his voice cracking. “I swear, I’ve never seen that before.”

But Munga leaned in close, his breath hot and sour. “You’re a smart one, Rashid. But we’ve got you now.”

The next few days were a nightmare. Accusations piled up like corpses. They claimed he was an extremist, a recruiter for a terrorist organization. They said he had hacked into the university’s financial system, diverting funds to mysterious accounts. He protested his innocence, his voice raw with desperation, but the walls of the interrogation room were indifferent.

Kamau and Amina tried to help. They rallied the students, demanding a fair hearing. Sharon visited once, her face pale, eyes rimmed with sleepless nights. She reached for his bruised hand through the bars of the holding cell.

“I know you didn’t do this,” she whispered, her voice breaking. “We’ll fix this.”

He held her gaze, memorizing the lines of her face. “Sharon, whatever happens, don’t let them break you.”

She nodded, but her eyes shimmered with tears.

The charges were flimsy, but the fear they generated was solid. Rashid’s reputation, carefully built over years of study and poetry, was torn down in days. Even after he was released on bail, suspicion clung to him like a second skin. Friends who once admired his courage now crossed the street to avoid him. Professors who praised his essays now eyed him with cold wariness.

One night, Kamau came to his room. “You have to leave, brother,” he said, his voice low. “They’re not stopping until they bury you.”

“I can’t just disappear,” Rashid protested. “I didn’t do any of this.”

“That doesn’t matter. They’ve already decided your fate.”

Amina handed him a small bag. “You can’t fight this from here. You need to stay alive, Rashid.”

He nodded, the weight of resignation settling in his bones.

He met Sharon one last time beneath the jacaranda trees. The moon cast pale shadows on her face, highlighting the anguish etched there.

“Where will you go?” she asked, her voice barely audible.

“Somewhere they can’t find me,” he said. “But I’ll come back. I promise.”

Her fingers brushed his cheek. “I’ll wait for you.”

He kissed her forehead, a lingering farewell, and walked away, the taste of regret bitter on his tongue.

The next year unfolded in fragments. Rashid moved from town to town, hiding in plain sight. He worked menial jobs—washing dishes in roadside cafes, unloading crates in the dead of night. The once-vibrant corridors of academia were replaced by dim alleyways and dusty roads. But through it all, he wrote. Words flowed like blood, poems born from pain, hope, and loss. He filled worn notebooks with lines that screamed of injustice and whispered of love.

News of Nyumbani University reached him in fragments. The image of Sharon cut him deeper than any accusation. Then, months later, he learned she had married. The world he’d dreamed of building with her collapsed into a silent void.

He sat alone in a cramped room, the pale light of dawn filtering through the broken shutters. He opened his notebook, the pages smudged with ink and memory. The poem he wrote that morning bled from his soul.

When Shadows Wed the Light

By the rusting rooftops of Shauri Moyo, I sit,

Tongue-heavy with stories that curdle in the throat.

The sun hangs low, an orange ember of farewell,

Like a half-forgotten promise—

A memory fading into dusk.

They said exile was a season,

A quick-turning page of a brief history,

But it’s a clock that ticks in the marrow,

A night that forgot the taste of dawn.

I watered my name in the dust,

Let my feet stitch footprints in the alleys of despair,

But your love—

Your love was a shroud I wore,

A sacred talisman carved from the bark of yesterdays.

You, my Sharonita,

With laughter shaped like bell-chimes,

Eyes that caged a thousand sunsets.

We carved our futures in lecture halls,

Planted seeds of 'forever' beneath the shadows of books.

I vowed my heart would be a bridge

Over which your joy could cross,

A river running steady,

Even in drought.

But now I hear the whispers—

That you danced in white veils,

Fingers locked with another’s tomorrows,

His name coiling around yours like ivy.

Did he hold you like a fragile secret?

Did his words curl into your ears like smoke,

Whispered promises of constellations and comfort?

I sit here,

Where the walls bleed rust,

And the streets breathe sorrow in syncopated rhythms.

Every sigh of this city is a chorus to my anguish,

Every step I take trembles under the weight

Of an exile’s invisible chains.

Sharonita,

Did love wilt while I wandered?

Did absence burn too fierce, too long,

Until your heart sought refuge in the arms of familiarity?

I do not blame you—

For in this exile, hope itself wears thin shoes,

And patience is a beggar that never feasts.

But I pour my pain into this paper—

Ink like tears, metaphors like wounds.

For even here, in the corrugated maze of Shauri Moyo,

My heart beats your name,

A rebellious echo in a hollow chest.

If memories are ghosts,

Then let them haunt me—

For I am a man who loved too fiercely,

And lost too quietly.

Yet in this silence, Sharonita,

Know this:

The bridge of my love never broke;

It merely shuddered under the weight of time.

I hope your nights are peaceful,

Your mornings are kind.

And though exile stole my feet from your path,

It could never exile my love—

That lives on, unburied,

In the unlit corners of my soul.

Sharonita,

Did I lose you,

Or did I lose myself?”

The first year passed, then the next. Rashid’s poetry collection, “Whispers of Sharonita,” was published by a small press. The verses, raw and haunting, found their way into the hands of readers who felt unseen wounds reflected in his words. His name, once tainted, began to heal through the power of his work.

One rainy afternoon, in a small bookstore, a slender woman with eyes darkened by old sorrows picked up a copy. She traced the title with her finger, her heart clenching as she turned the pages.

Sharon read the lines, tears blurring the ink. The poems whispered to her across time, carrying his love, his pain, his unspoken apologies.

She closed the book, holding it to her chest, as the rain pattered softly against the window. Outside, the jacaranda trees shed their purple blossoms—a quiet, unending bloom.

And somewhere, in another city, Rashid wrote his next poem, the ache in his heart an ever-present muse. His love for Sharon lived on, undiminished by distance or time, a whispered promise that neither exile nor betrayal could erase.

Rashid’s breath misted in the cold air as he stared out at the grimy street of Shauri Moyo. The sun was setting, casting a murky orange glow over the rundown neighborhood. Rows of tin-roofed houses leaned against each other for support, and narrow paths wound between them like veins feeding the heart of the slum. The scent of burning garbage, stale sweat, and fried street food lingered in the air. Life here was gritty and unrelenting.

He had been in Shauri Moyo for nearly six months now, hiding from the accusations that clung to his name. Every day blurred into the next. Nights were worse. He had no bed, no blanket—only a thin, tattered coat to shield him from the biting cold. Sometimes he managed to squeeze into one of the overcrowded teen houses, where groups of lost youth slept shoulder-to-shoulder in makeshift spaces. Sleep was rare, and when it came, it brought feverish dreams of past terrors and lost futures.

During the long, sleepless nights, he often sat outside on a splintered crate, staring at the distant stars through breaks in the clouds. The sky was his only constant, a vast expanse that held his memories and whispered of distant possibilities.

In the harsh reality of Shauri Moyo, Rashid found solace in the one thing that could not be taken from him: his words. He wrote obsessively, his pen carving out fragments of poetry and stories on scraps of paper. He wrote about his lost love, Sharon, about his shattered dreams, about the injustice that had driven him into exile. His notebook became a confidant, a silent witness to his pain and his resilience.

One particularly cold night, after finding nowhere to sleep, Rashid huddled in a doorway. The wind clawed at his exposed skin, and his stomach churned with hunger. But instead of despair, a fierce determination flared within him. He reached into his worn bag and pulled out his notebook, hands trembling as he opened to a blank page.

Under the dim glow of a distant streetlamp, he began to write.

“In every line, I yearn,

In every word, I wait.

For a dawn where you return,

To the world we failed to create.”

His pen slowed, the weight of his exhaustion pressing down on him. But the act of creation, of weaving his suffering into something beautiful, gave him a small sense of control.

“This won’t break me,” he whispered to the wind.

And it didn’t.

Months passed, and the edges of Rashid’s life slowly began to smooth out. He took small jobs—washing dishes in a dingy café, carrying sacks in the market. The work was hard and the pay meager, but it allowed him to survive. He saved what little he could, spending his nights writing under the flickering light of a candle.

It was during one of those long, quiet nights that the idea for a novel was born. The fragments of his life, the pain, the yearning for justice—all of it demanded a larger canvas. The title came to him like a whisper in the dark: “The Last Teardrop.”

“This will be my story,” he murmured, feeling a spark of hope flare to life. “All of it—the pain, the exile, the fight. People need to know.”

The novel grew slowly, each word a step toward reclaiming his life. He wrote about the protests, the betrayal, the accusations that had forced him to flee. He wrote about the cold nights in Shauri Moyo, the faces of those who had shared his suffering, and the dreams that refused to die. And woven through it all was the ghost of Sharon—the love that haunted him, that kept his heart beating even in the darkest moments.

Then, one fateful afternoon, a letter arrived. The envelope was crumpled, as if it had fought to reach him. Rashid’s hands shook as he opened it.

Dear Rashid,

After a review of the evidence and further investigation, the university has cleared you of all charges. You are invited to return and complete your studies. We sincerely apologize for the hardship you have endured.

Sincerely,

Dean of Students, Nyumbani University

The words blurred as tears filled his eyes. The vindication he had longed for had finally come. The world that had cast him out was calling him home.

That evening, Rashid walked through Shauri Moyo one last time. The streets, the faces, the struggles—it had all left a mark on him. But now, a new chapter beckoned. He was going back, not as the broken man who had fled, but as someone forged by adversity. He clutched his notebook tightly, knowing that “The Last Teardrop” would be his testament, his voice.

Returning to Nyumbani University after three years was surreal. The familiar gates, the paths lined with jacaranda trees, the echoes of lively debates—all of it felt like pieces of a forgotten dream. Some faces still looked at him with suspicion, but many others welcomed him back, offering quiet apologies or warm handshakes.

Kamau and Amina were there, their eyes bright with pride and relief. They embraced him fiercely.

“We knew you’d come back, brother,” Kamau said, his voice thick with emotion.

Amina nodded. “Now finish what you started.”

And he did. Rashid threw himself into his studies with a relentless focus. He attended lectures, devoured books, and scribbled notes feverishly. But his nights were reserved for his novel. He spent hours in the library, shaping his experiences into prose, weaving truth and fiction until they were indistinguishable.

Sharon, now a final year student was there, too, but from a distance. She was married now, her life set on a different path. Rashid often saw her in passing—a fleeting figure, her eyes holding unspoken words. He no longer approached her, respecting the choices time had carved between them. But she remained his muse, the silent heart of his story.

Months later, “The Last Teardrop” was complete. It was raw, honest, and unflinching—a narrative that traced his journey from the bright halls of academia to the shadows of exile and back again. The novel was published by a local press, and word spread quickly. His story resonated with many who had faced injustice, who had been misunderstood, who had fought to reclaim their lives.

One rainy afternoon, Rashid sat by his dorm window, watching droplets race down the glass. His copy of “The Last Teardrop” lay open on the desk beside him. His phone buzzed—a message from his publisher. The novel was being considered for a national literary award.

A knock at the door interrupted his thoughts. He opened it to find a courier holding a small, brown package.

“For you,” the courier said, handing it over.

Rashid closed the door, curiosity prickling his spine. He tore open the package and found a single item: a book. His book. Inside the cover was a handwritten note.

“Your words reached me. I read every page, and I felt every tear. Thank you for not letting the world silence you. — Sharon.”

A lump rose in his throat. He traced her name, feeling a bittersweet ache. She was no longer beside him, but in some ways, she had never truly left. She lived in his words, in the poetry that flowed through his veins, in the resilience that kept his heart beating.

He turned to the window, the rain blurring the world beyond. Somewhere, a jacaranda tree bloomed, its purple blossoms falling silently to the ground.

Rashid closed his eyes, whispering to the memory of the girl who had once walked beside him.

“This is for you, Sharon. For us. For everything we were and everything we couldn’t be.”

And as the rain fell, Rashid knew that his story, like his love, would endure. It was no longer a tale of loss, but of survival—a testament to the power of words, the resilience of the human spirit, and the quiet hope that, one day, everything might bloom again.

© Bunguswa ™