After a bit of hesitation, Anita and Mdachi hopped back into the car, gave him one final glance, and drove into traffic—leaving Edward standing on the sidewalk with his hands clasped before him. A bittersweet smile lingered on his lips as he watched them go.
The sleek black Toyota Prado that had been honking behind them followed suit. The funny thing being, it could have used the free adjacent lane all along, even if it were the entry-lane.
With an exhausted look, Edward gave it a disapproving click and shook his head before unclasping his hands and turning to walk away. He headed left—opposite the direction his friends had taken.
He stopped suddenly, and stared up at a specific window of the towering building across the street—Dhahabu Apartments.
The window gleamed dreamily in the orange hue of the evening sun. It was about 5 p.m., and the atmosphere felt warm, a bit bustling, and subtly exhausted. People cruised along the pedestrian sidewalks—some in groups of friends, some alone, and some, like Edward, battered by the troubles of life.
As he stood there, staring at the bustling street—with vehicles racing along the two highways and people passing him by—the feeling sank into Edward: he didn't exist. He didn't even matter.
He drew in a breath, savouring the deep herbal freshness it carried and the smack of sophistication it harboured. City life. The elite, extravagant city life, slightly grounded by nature through the nearby forest. His life. A life that had been nothing but a lie all along.
He scoffed a chuckle. So much for being a loving family — they were more like deceitful cronies.
Lost in thought, Edward wondered what else he didn't know. He chuckled at the idea. With his hands sinking into his jeans pockets, he turned and walked off, giving the window one final glance before he did. A smile tugged at his lips absentmindedly as his gaze drifted into a daze. He didn't know where he was headed, but he knew he would find solace wherever he ended up.
Inside the apartment, Jesse watched him through the window with a puzzled frown. He raised a brow, his expression thoughtful, as though trying to piece everything together. Edward's behaviour struck him as strange—almost incomprehensible. What was he even doing there?
From where Jesse lay—his belly pressed against the L-sofa—Tini came over and slapped him on the back.
"You didn't need to play if you weren't interested," she said, disappointment edging her tone.
Jesse turned and lay on his side, letting out a sigh.
"It's not like that," he tried to explain.
"Then how?" Tini crossed her arms, raising a brow. "'Cause Tola's got herself hiding under your mom's bed like some street rat during fumigation."
Jesse sat up, but just as he was about to speak, they heard the door open. In stepped Jenevive, Anita, and Mdachi.
Jesse and Tini stared at them.
The trio stared back, appearing melancholic and fatigued.
---
At Nairobi City Hospital, Jarold stood at the second-floor reception area, marking something on a clipboard, when he suddenly noticed a patient being wheeled in.
He stared, intrigued by the sight. As he peered closer, he realised the patient looked familiar. It was Edward's English teacher—Beatrice, if he remembered correctly.
Among those escorting her into the ward was someone who wasn't hospital staff—a woman, young and beautiful, perhaps twenty-five or thirty by estimation.
She wore a vibrant yet youthful outfit, and most of the length of her Barbie-pink braids were styled into wavy, flowing hair that hung gracefully over her shoulders.
"Jay," a junior colleague called out, pulling Jarold from his thoughts. "Here's the update you asked for." He handed Jarold a file.
The colleague was a young, jubilant, and friendly man—always eager to help wherever he could. He tucked his hands into his coat pockets expectantly, watching as Jarold flipped through the document.
"Thanks, Omosh," Jarold said, appreciating the eagerness he caught from the corner of his eye.
"You're welcome."
Jarold flipped back to the first page, reading more intently this time.
"Well, from the assessment…" he began, gently biting the tip of his left thumb. He shot Omosh a glance and caught his grimace. He immediately withdrew his hand and straightened his tone. "Mr. Githingi is ready for discharge." He flipped through the other pages to confirm his statement.
"His incision is clean and dry," he continued. "Vitals are normal. Afebrile, and pain is controlled under oral analgesia. And among other things…" He shut the file. "He has already passed flatus and stool." He handed the file back to Omosh. "Now you only need to—"
"Prepare the discharge summary and prescriptions," Omosh cut in, affirmative and almost proud. "I know, sir. I'll get right to it and finish up with the patient." He placed a hand on Jarold's shoulder. "Now go clock out and get to your family. You've been working yourself to the bone lately. You deserve the rest."
Jarold nodded, appreciating the concern.
With that, Omosh turned and vamped off, joining a female colleague at a corner as they branched into it.
Jarold watched him with a glint of pride in his smile. Omosh had matured so much since he'd started working at the hospital two years ago. Back then, he'd been meek and reserved—often taken advantage of by more experienced colleagues, and even some senior staff. Jarold, indignant at his treatment, had taken him under his wing and nurtured him into who he had become: bold, assertive, and confident enough to let his brilliance and wit shine through.
It was marvellous progress—one to be proud of. Omosh even referred to him as Jay. No one else in the entire hospital ever did—or dared to.
He was like the younger brother Jarold had never had.
He was family.
Looking away from the corner where Omosh had disappeared and back toward the ward where he'd seen Beatrice wheeled in, Jarold's earlier puzzlement and concern resurfaced. He headed for the ward.
"Good evening, Madam Beatrice," Jarold greeted from the doorway, his hands clasped before him.
Beatrice shifted upright slightly and invited him in.
Jarold stepped inside.
The lady with the pink hair stood up from the stool beside the bed. She didn't know who Jarold was.
Jarold extended a hand, which she accepted.
"Hi. I'm Jarold Tuweku," he said. The woman frowned subtly at the mention of his last name, but Jarold continued, oblivious. "A doctor at this hospital—and the father of one of Madam Beatrice's students."
They withdrew their hands.
She could tell he was a doctor from the white coat and his polished appearance, but what unsettled her was how familiar his last name sounded.
Sensing the silence, Beatrice intervened.
"And this is my sister, Temara. She's just arrived from the States."
Temara shot Beatrice a look.
"Oh," Jarold said, surprised. "I didn't know you had a sister." He turned back to Temara. "Nice to meet you, Miss."
Temara smiled at his formality and waved him off with a chuckle.
"No need for that, sir. You can just call me Temara."
Jarold smiled faintly.
"Okay," he muttered.
Turning back to Beatrice, he asked gently,
"Madam Beatrice, if you don't mind me asking—may I know why you're in the hospital? Are you sick, or…?"
"She's hurt," Temara cut in. "She fell off a ladder and landed on her back," she clarified. Something in her tone—though subtle—was edged with indignation, almost anger.
Beatrice let out a huff and shot her a glare before turning sweetly back to Jarold.
Jarold failed to sense the tension between the sisters.
"I'm sorry to hear that," he said, concern etched into his voice. He almost asked if she was okay but thought it rude—of course she wasn't. Instead, he asked, "Has a doctor already attended to you?"
"Yes," Beatrice nodded. "A doctor's already been in and prescribed painkillers. He's arranging my scan right now."
Jarold didn't know what else to offer.
"It's okay," Beatrice assured him. "I'm going to be fine. Just a few fractured bones—nothing major. I really do appreciate your concern, Mr. Tuweku."
Temara tore her gaze from the window she had been staring at so unsettlingly and looked back at Jarold.
Where had she heard that name before?
Jarold sighed softly.
"Alright, then. I just wanted to say hello and check on you. I'll let you rest now. It was nice seeing you again, Madam Beatrice—even if it had to be in a hospital, with you on a stretcher."
Beatrice smiled snugly.
Jarold turned to Temara, who seemed absentminded again.
"Temara," he said, catching her attention. "It was nice meeting you."
"Same, Dr. Tuweku."
After Jarold left, Temara quickly turned to her sister.
"I saw one of them lurking by the window outside."
Beatrice's face immediately lit up with dread. She knew exactly what her sister meant. Sitting more upright, she looked past the doorway, tracing her gaze to the window Temara had indicated.
"When?" she asked, turning back to her.
--------------
Back in House 254 of Ngong's Flora Estate, Miridald sat trembling in an armchair. She was in the guest room—the very place where things had just gone down.
Her feet rattled against the floor uncontrollably with anxiety, and her now bulbous eyes kept darting around the space, scanning for something she couldn't quite find—harrowed and vexed.
Her condition didn't look good. And at that, her nails found their way back into her mouth—something she normally did when she was severely stressed. This time, though, as expected, it did nothing to ease the ache in her heart.
She was wrecked to irreparability.
Renee stepped into the room with a cup of steaming tea in her hands. The aroma alone could calm nerves and lull one into a reverie. It was exactly the remedy Miridald required.
"Sis, please have this," Renee said, presenting the tea.
Miridald stared at it. She didn't take it. It reminded her of the tea Edward and Anita had served them the previous day.
Dreadful.
"I'm not in the mood for tea, Renee," Miridald dismissed, turning away from it. She fidgeted with her hands, her feet still trembling.
Renee set the tea on a nearby chest of drawers.
"Miri," she said, placing her hands on Miridald's shoulders.
Miridald shrugged them off, still looking away. She knew what her sister was about to say, but she couldn't bring herself to accept it. She spun back to face her.
"I need to talk to him, Renee." She was on the verge of tears. "I need to hold him—to affirm to him that I'm his mother. To comfort him. To ease his pain. To explain everything. To just… fix everything. You understand?"
Renee felt her sister's pain stab deep into her own heart.
"I understand."
"I just need to talk to him, Renee," Miridald pressed on. "Please."
Renee knew it would probably be the wrong decision—Edward-wise—but maybe allowing Miridald to talk to him would fix both their hearts.
"Okay," she gave in. "…You can talk to him. Just don't force it if he refuses. Okay?"
Miridald nodded hastily and grabbed her phone from the lampstand nearby.
---
Just as Edward was about to step into the school, he heard his phone ring.
He pulled it out and checked the screen.
His mother.
Typical.
Switching off the phone and shoving it back into his pocket, he walked into the empty hallway. His mom could talk to herself for all he cared.
The place was quiet—too quiet.
It was odd for the prestigious Ngong High to be this silent. There were normally people cruising around the school at this time. Even on weekends, the school always had somebody—or somebodies—in it.
Then he remembered.
It was probably the Athletic and Sports Day, which had been eagerly anticipated since late the previous year: February 11th. But he, as usual, hadn't paid it any heed. He didn't participate in sports. Or athletics.
His phone buzzed again.
He didn't need to check it.
He pulled it out, and just as he was about to switch it off, a sharp pang tore through his head—like daggers of ice laced with hellfire.
Edward collapsed to the floor, clutching his head and shrilling loudly like a person whose brain was being torn apart. The pain was greater than the last time, and amid it, he caught a glimpse of that eerie thing he had seen in his dream earlier.
What was happening?
His phone continued buzzing beneath a locker.
Then suddenly—
The pain stopped.
Edward lifted himself onto his knees, his breathing uneven, his head a turmoil of chaos.
What just happened?
Why do I keep having these headaches?
Did Mom do something to me?
But just as the thought crossed his mind, he noticed a shadow approaching from the adjoining hallway to his right.
Worn out, he looked up at the figure. It was silhouetted against the setting sun seeping through the large window at the end of the corridor it had emerged from.
Edward sighed, exasperated. Squinting, he raised a hand to block the sunlight and get a better look.
Hmm.
It was a guy.
A white guy.
That explained the cologne.
The man stood there silently, dressed in an exquisite blue three-piece suit, towering above him.
Edward's frustration grew.
"May I help you, sir?"
The man leaned down slightly, his hands tucked into his pockets.
"Are you Edward?" he asked, his tone clearly certain, his accent a blend of Russian and German—Edward couldn't quite tell which.
"Yeah," Edward answered, finding the question rather odd. He pushed himself off the ground, rising to his feet—
And then—
Something massive slammed into his chest.
Large. Solid.
A femur.
The force sent him flying across the hall and into the adjoining one, smashing into a row of lockers before thudding to the ground.
His vision blurred. His breathing turned ragged. His head rattled violently.
The man walked toward him calmly, adjusting his coat before squatting beside him.
"Poor thing," he said, patting the barely conscious Edward. "Are you dying? Don't worry—you won't. Not yet."
He pulled a syringe from an inside pocket of his coat. It was filled with a green fluid.
He flicked off the cap and plunged it into Edward's shoulder.
"Turns out you can help me," he muttered, a wicked smirk playing on his lips as Edward's consciousness faded. "And you're about to help us even more…"
Everything went black.