The first time I met Achieng, she was arguing with a teacher about a quote."
Martin Luther King didn't say silence was betrayal. Desmond Tutu did," she snapped, flipping through a creased notebook.The teacher blinked. The rest of us just stared.
That was her.Facts first. Fear later.Sh head this voice, soft, like falling rain.But her words hit like thunder.
When she laughed, she made you forget where you were.
When she frowned, you remembered everything the country owed you.She used to write names on her forearm during protests.Names of missing girls.Names of friends taken in the night.Names of people the media never mentioned."If I ever die in a protest," she once told me, "don't let them call me a mistake. Say my name."I thought she was joking. I wish she had been.There's this photo of her — barefoot, standing on a stone near Nairobi CBD holding a torn flag in one hand and a megaphone in the other.Someone drew a halo on the picture after she died.But she wasn't a saint.She was a storm.And a country like ours, storms don't get memorials.They yet buried.I still hear her voice sometimes.Like water hitting a rooftop on a quiet night.Like justice whispering in a language only the hurting understand.Her voice was rain. And now, I'm drowning in the memory of it.
Next: Chapter 5 – "We Made Coffins Out of Cardboard"
If you've ever lost someone to injustice ,this chapter is for you.
Drop a candle in the comments for Achieng.