Chapter One:
The Silence of Kisii
The morning mist drifted lazily over the ridges of Kisii like an old woman’s shawl, thick and damp. The hills undulated gently, their emerald folds hiding villages whose names were known only to their inhabitants. In the heart of this lush highland lay the quiet village of Nyakoe, where the Ogoti family had lived for generations. Theirs was not a grand homestead, but it stood with a quiet dignity, surrounded by banana groves and avocado trees that had witnessed decades of life and labour.
The silence of the compound was unsettling. Not the peaceful kind of silence that welcomes the dawn, but a heavy, echoing one that fills spaces once animated by laughter and song. Since the sudden death of Nyaboke and Ogeto—respected teachers and parents of two—the compound had aged overnight. The grass grew longer, the once-white walls had taken on a sad, grey hue, and the windows seemed to look out with grief.
The manner of their death still sparked whispers at evening fires and market stalls. It was too strange. Too sudden. Returning from a funeral in Nyamira, their car had swerved, as if pushed by an invisible hand, and plummeted into the shallow but stony Egetonto River. No other car was involved. There were no tire marks. Ogeto was a careful driver, known for his methodical nature.
Mourners came in hundreds. The local chief called for an investigation. Elders poured libations and muttered prayers to ward off the dark cloud they believed had visited the Ogoti family. But with time, as it always does, the noise faded, and only the silence remained.
Mokeira, the firstborn, left for Dubai shortly after the burial. Some said she was running away. Others said she needed to escape the heaviness that now haunted the village. All agreed that she had changed. From the vibrant young woman who once organised church choirs and debate competitions, she became a shadow of herself, smiling only when duty required.
Nyachae, her younger brother, stayed behind, completing his secondary education under the care of their ageing aunt, Mama Rael. He later moved to Nairobi for college. While he carried a casual look, often spotted in jeans and sports jackets, a quiet intensity burned in his eyes—an urge to understand what truly happened that night.
Letters between the siblings were few. Calls, even fewer. Yet, the ache of absence echoed in both their lives. Mokeira would find herself staring at families boarding her plane—watching how mothers adjusted collars and fathers secured belts. Nyachae would sit in the newsroom at night, reading old reports and wondering if journalism could unearth what tradition had buried.
The village, meanwhile, continued with its rhythm. Boys played football near the now-rusting Ogoti gate. Girls fetched water, sometimes peeking through the wire fence, whispering tales of the "cursed home." The mango tree near the kitchen dropped fruits that rotted unpicked. And in the store behind the main house, a dusty box of old letters, certificates, and journals waited to be found...
[TO BE CONTINUED]
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