THE TALE OF MUSA

The city lights blurred as Juma pushed the car past its limits. The streets of Nairobi stretched ahead, a jagged network of unlit neon signs, empty billboards, and the distant hum of late-night traffic.

In the backseat, Musa grinned, adrenaline still coursing through his veins.

“We actually did it,” JC breathed out, half-laughing, half-incredulous.

Zuri smirked, tossing the velvet pouch onto her lap. “You doubted us?”

Musa chuckled. “I actually did. I know how close these things get. It was almost too easy.”

Juma, gripping the wheel tight, scoffed. “Easy? You call that easy? Man, I need a cigarette.”

Eazy smacked his head. “Eyes on the road idiot. You didn’t even do anything.”

“Ouch, that’s really hurtful,” Juma pouted.

They were out of the CBD area. They were nearly home. Just one last stretch, crossing the bridge to Eastlands, their territory. Safety.

Then

Juma’s foot slammed on the brakes.

The tires screeched in protest, burning rubber against asphalt. The car lurched violently, throwing everyone forward

Juma’s chest smacked against the seatbelt, Eazy caught himself against the dashboard and JC cursed as his shoulder slammed into the door.

Zuri, seated right behind Juma, peered through the windshield.

The glow of approaching trucks illuminated the night, swallowing the bridge in blinding white.

“Shit,” JC muttered. “Go back, Juma!”

From behind, the low growl of engines roared as more vehicles pulled up, boxing them in. Heavy trucks, pick-ups, loaded with men. Armed.

“Ambush,” Zuri whispered, already reaching for her gun.

Eazy, sitting up front, grabbed her arm.

“Don’t,” his voice was calm but firm.

Zuri clenched her jaw. “We’re just gonna sit here?”

“I’ll handle this,” he said stepping out the car.

Zuri exhaled sharply, glancing at Musa.

How could this happen? This was not Anita. There’s no way she could mobilize this many people this quickly. Besides they didn’t look like her security team. Anita was much more sophisticated than this.

Then, from the lead truck, the driver’s side door creaked open.

A man stepped out.

Slow and confident, he walked, his purple suit glinting under the trucks lights.

It was Otis, a cigarette dangling between his lips. He exhaled a cloud of smoke, flicking the bud aside. He strolled forward, adjusting his cuffs, before stopping just a few paces from Eazy. His smirk was easy, practiced.

“What’s this about?” Eazy asked, his voice neutral.

Otis spread his arms like a host welcoming guests. “Extending an invitation to a friend.”

He then tilted his head and locked eyes with Musa.

“Yo! Moses. Get out.”

Musa’s fingers curled into a fist on his knee.

Twice in one day. Why now?

He couldn’t stand him, using his government name like they were still friends. A name from a different life he thought he had long forgotten.

As Musa gazed at Otis’s silhouette, the present and past blurred.

The night faded. The bridge, the cars, the tension—all of it melted away.

And suddenly—he was somewhere else.

///////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////

Kamuthanga, Machakos. Eight Years Ago.

The Early morning sun burned low over the hills, casting long shadows across the winding roads. The air smelled of dry earth, warmed metal, and distant charcoal smoke.

A boy sat perched on a guardrail, his feet swinging lazily above the steep drop below. The rail was old, scratched with initials, and rusted at the edges.

Musa—back then, Moses—held a sketchbook in his lap. His pencil traced the outline of a car, its body sleek, its wheels spinning.

Another car rushed past on the red murram road. He glanced up, catching only a glimpse before it was gone. Still, it was enough. He added the final details to his sketch.

“Aaah, finally done,” he sighed, stretching. His muscles ached from sitting too long.

He lifted the book, angling it toward the sun. The pencil lines darkened under the golden light.

He loved cars.

The way they moved, the way they sounded, the way they lived. He wanted to design them, to build them. One day, he’d leave Machakos, go to Nairobi, and make it happen.

He stood, rubbing the dirt off his pants. Then, out of habit, he turned toward the far horizon.

From here, at the right angle, he could see Nairobi. This was his favourite place in all of Machakos town.

Far away, yet alive, buzzing. The city of possibilities.

At night, the lights stretched like an artist’s masterpiece—a tapestry of color against the dark sky. He had tried to paint it once, but spray cans were hard to find, and even harder to afford. His cousin in Nairobi sometimes brought him supplies, but it was never enough.

A voice called out from a distance.

“Moses!”

Musa turned.

A boy approached, jogging up the slope. He was slightly taller, his grin wide and carefree. Chris.

Chris was more than a friend—he was family. Their mothers had been best friends, pregnant at the same time, giving birth just a week apart.

Chris’ mother had nursed Musa after his own mother passed away.

Chris reached him, grabbing him in a playful headlock.

“Wassiata, Mwanoo?” Chris said in smooth Kamba.

“Nesa,” Musa replied, laughing as he pried Chris’ arm off his neck. “Nakuu, Chris?”

“I’m good, bro,” Chris said, clapping Musa’s shoulder.

They stood together for a moment, gazing out toward the horizon.

Chris nudged him. “Let’s go. Your dad will kill us if we’re late.”

Musa sighed, tucking his sketchbook under his arm. His dad.

That was a different battle altogether.

Still, he turned, following Chris down the slope.

Back toward home.

Back toward the life he didn’t know he’d soon leave behind.

////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////

The sound of the engines returned first.

Then the murmur of voices. The shifting of boots on asphalt.

Musa blinked.

Zuri was checking the magazine. Five bullets left.

Otis smirked. “Yo, Moses. You gonna make me wait all night?”

Musa wished this was a waking nightmare. He wished he was that boy again.

The one who loved to draw cars. The one who believed in a future beyond these streets.

But that was then. This night was going to be longer than he thought.

FURTHER INFO FROM THE CHAPTER

Kamba is the Language spoken in the Akamba tribe which Musa is apart of.

Wassiata Mwanoo - How are you bro?

Nesa - I'm good.

Nakuu, Chris? - What about you Chris?