A year had slipped away since Becky last set foot in her parents' compound. Life in Kericho had swallowed her days — lectures, assignments, and the quiet ache of distance.
She walked briskly through the fading evening light, clutching her books to her chest. She had spent the whole day in the library revising for her end-of-semester exams, scheduled for the following day. This was her second year at the Kenya Medical Training College (KMTC), Kericho campus. One more year would see her graduate. She had once deferred her studies when she fell pregnant; now she was back on track and determined to finish.
Claudia Chebor, her beautiful little girl, was thriving. Becky had hired a maid—a young girl from her village who had dropped out of school for lack of fees. For fifteen hundred shillings a month, paid by Claudia's father, the girl cared for the baby while Becky attended classes.
At home, Becky changed out of her uniform. and took her baby into her arms to breastfeed.
Then her phone vibrated on the study table. She glanced at the screen. It was her sister Mary. She took it and pressed the button.
"Hello sis!" she said
"Hello hi!" Mary greeted.
"Hi! How are you?"
"I am fine."
Her tone was not as cheerful as it always were. And Becky wondered whether she was really fine.
"How is your baby?"
"She is fine." She paused for a moment then, "Are you okay?"
"Hmm. Not really. I have some sad news to share with you?"
"What news?"
"It is about dad."
"Dad!" she exclaimed suddenly alarmed, "what about dad?"
"He is sick again."
"My goodness. Where is he now? Has he been taken to hospital?"
"Yeah. Right now he is at Tenwek hospital. But I understand he may be transferred to Nairobi."
Both of them were silent for a moment. Becky could hear her own heartbeat in her ears. Her father had always been her pillar—steady, unshakable. The thought of him lying weak on his bed sent a knot of fear tightening in her stomach.
"What did the Doctor said?"
"They did some test and I am afraid it is cancer?"
Panic clawed at her. She loved her father deeply. She could not imagine losing him.
"They'll take him to Texas Cancer Centre in Nairobi," Mary added softly. "It's the best in the country. He'll get the best treatment."
***
Sigilai's condition worsened despite treatment. Becky had managed only one hospital visit—immediately after her exams—because of her demanding schedule and her baby's needs.
The family poured their resources into the mounting medical bills. His retirement had stripped away most of his insurance benefits; they had fundraised, sold part of the family land, and still debts remained.
When her college closed for the term, Becky travelled to Nairobi.
In the ward, she found her mother at his bedside, having just changed his clothes.
Becky froze. The man on the bed was barely recognizable—gaunt, bald, with sunken eyes. She shuddered. Her mother met her gaze, her own eyes shadowed with worry.
"The doctors are doing their best," her mother said quietly, "but he's deteriorating."
Becky clung to hope. "He'll be okay, Mum. He has to be." She could not imagine life without him—not after already losing Tesot.
Her father's eyes were closed. "Daddy," she whispered.
"Let him sleep," her mother cautioned. "Pain keeps him up at night. Rest is rare."
***
Two weeks later, Becky stood, numb, as the last heap of soil covered her father's grave—a stark, painful reminder of the finality of death. Six feet under lay the coffin of the man who had shaped her life. Around her, a sea of mourners had gathered—villagers, church elders, teachers, students, friends, and relatives—all had come to pay their last respect a beloved retired teacher. The sheer turnout was a testament to the legacy he had left behind. One after another, speakers rose to recall his unwavering dedication, boundless kindness, and a lifetime of service.
But someone was missing. Kiplimo, her firstborn, was not there. She had texted his father about the funeral, sure he had received the message, but no arrangements were made for the boy to attend. The absence cut deep.
As the choir led the mourners in the final hymn—When peace like a river attendeth my way… —Becky felt grief seize and shake her, sharp and suffocating. It wasn't "well with her soul" at all.
When the hymn faded into silence, the pastor offered a final prayer, and the crowd began to drift away in hushed murmurs. Becky hardly noticed their departure until she realized she was standing alone beside the grave. Her gaze followed her uncle as he approached, a long stick in hand crowned with a thorny bundle, which he gently laid across the mound to guard it from animals. Moments later, he returned with a neighbor, each bearing wooden posts and rough off-cuts. Working quietly, they fenced in the grave—securing, at last, her father's final resting place. He was gone forever.
Turning toward the cluster of tents where the mourners sat, Becky's eyes met her mother's. Seated quietly on a plastic chair, her mother watched her with a gaze heavy with shared sorrow. Becky crossed the short distance and lowered herself beside her, each step making the weight of grief press more firmly on her chest. She tried in vain to fight against the memory of the hospital scene replayed in her mind with cruel clarity—the moment her father's eyes closed, and they thought he had only drifted to sleep. Then the nurse had come, her voice gentle yet unyielding, delivering the truth that shattered them both: he was gone.
Tears welled in Becky's eyes, slipped and trickled down her cheeks unchecked. A choked sob escaped her, drawing her mother's attention.
"Stop crying," her mother whispered gently. "I know how hard this is, but you can't go on like this."
At that moment, the neighbor serving tea came over, handed Becky a cup, and poured in steaming liquid. She quickly swiped at the tears and accepted it, grateful for the small gesture of comfort. As she sipped, she noticed the guests departing quietly, one by one, until only close relatives remained.
She was still seated when a familiar silhouette emerged in the distance. Leaning forward, she narrowed her eyes until his features sharpened into focus. It was Koech—Claudia's father. She hadn't told him about her father's passing, consumed as she was by her own grief. Yet here he was. Late, but here. At least he cared enough to come.
She watched him greet her brothers, shaking their hands with a polite smile. They likely had no idea who he was, and Becky could sense his quiet struggle to introduce himself.
"That's my guest," she told her mother, rising to meet him.
When she reached them, she said, "So you've met? This is Peter Koech. Peter, these are my brothers, Jephta and Cyrus. Thank you for coming."
"Thank you," Koech replied softly, his tone carrying genuine sympathy. "Pleasure to meet you, Jephta, Cyrus. My sincere condolences for your loss."
"Thank you," Cyrus said quietly. "We're coping. It's God's will."
"Come with me," Becky said, taking Koech's hand and leading him toward the house. She made sure he was seated comfortably before slipping into the kitchen to fetch him something to eat. Thankfully, the clan elders had just stepped outside, sparing him their probing questions.
After the mourning period, life slowly settled back into routine. Relatives departed, and Becky's younger siblings returned to school. Becky, however, hesitated to leave her grieving mother alone. Two weeks into the new semester at her nursing school, she finally decided it was time to go back. She called her maid to prepare for the journey to Kericho.
Paying her fees wasn't a challenge—generous contributions from friends, relatives, and well-wishers had eased the family's burden. Koech continued to help with rent and the maid's wages. Becky never asked for more than he could manage; she knew his modest salary as a private school teacher left little room for extras. Perhaps, she thought, if he ever secured a position with the Teachers Service Commission, things would improve.
Koech visited often, sometimes staying the night. Then, something unexpected happened—Becky became pregnant by him again.
She felt foolish for letting it happen, but there was no undoing it now. This time, she didn't keep it from him. When she told Koech, his face lit with genuine joy. Becky, however, felt a gnawing conflict. Another child with Koech meant closing the door on any faint hope of reconciling with Tesot. Surely Tesot would never accept two children not his own.
As her due date drew near, she deferred her studies again. But unlike before, she decided not to go home for the delivery; she feared her mother's and brothers' judgment over another child outside marriage. Her father had once been her shield, but now he was gone. She didn't want to burden anyone.
When the day arrived, Koech was there, taking her to the hospital. She delivered safely—a healthy baby boy. Koech's joy was unmistakable. They named him Baraka.
Once again, he tried to persuade her to marry him, to go home with him and meet his parents. But Becky refused. She still had her reasons: she was legally Tesot's wife.
"Why can't you follow up with him?" Koech asked, frustration edging his voice. "How can you stay bound to him when he's already free? If you really love me, get him to sign the divorce papers."
But Becky couldn't. Or perhaps she wouldn't.
And so, her life remained in delicate balance—pulled between love, loyalty, and a past she could not fully release.
What she didn't know was that the past was already on its way back to her—bringing with it the kind of reckoning she had long feared.