The Funeral

Eazy and the rest of the kids at the safehouse were distraught.

Amani, Kendi, Ali, Shiko—they all took it hard. It wasn’t the first death in their crew, but it had never been like this. Not murder. Some had died from drug-related incidents, overdoses in alleyways or sickness from bad batches. But this... this was different.

This was betrayal. This was execution.

They made preparations for Juma’s funeral quietly, without the usual street-level noise or bravado. They took him all the way to Mombasa City, where he’d been born. Where his family was. Juma’s family was actually well known and respected, mostly because of Juma’s brother. Most crews, gangs from other territories.

Juma was liked by everyone. It was hard not to.

Zuri stood off to the side, watching the mourners, disgusted by the sight of Zengo—standing in the crowd with his First Blood, pretending to weep, praying solemnly while Shantel stood quiet at his side. Her face was hollow. Zengo’s hands were firm on her breasts. Huge for her age. She looked more like a hostage than a girlfriend.

Zuri’s voice shook. “The gall of that motherfucker. To stand there like he didnt—”
Eazy stopped her, holding her back.
“Stop. Not here. Not now. We’re only here for one reason…and that is to celebrate Juma. We won’t let anyone take this moment away from him.”

Zuri clenched her fists. Her voice cracked. “You know what Juma would’ve said to that?”

“He’d say... we shouldn’t cry for him….,” Musa said glaring at crowd. “…stop being softies and go get wasted in his honour.”

“Yeah, that’s exactly what he’d say,” Zuri broke down, finally letting the tears fall. Eazy pulled her into a hug.
JC stood nearby and put a firm hand on her shoulder. That was enough.

Musa cleared his throat and stepped forward to address the crowd. His voice was firm.

Normally, the funeral preparations should have taken some time but Juma being muslim, he had to be buried in less than 24 hours.

Before the service, Juma's body had been prepared in the tradition of Islam: washed three times with clean water—first warm, then cool. His closest friends and a local imam had helped. He was wrapped in a simple white kafan, three cloths with no seams, no labels. Just purity. No gold, no status, no ego in death. His body was placed on his right side, facing Qibla—toward Mecca.

Now Musa spoke:

“Today, we are gathered to honor a brother. Juma Abdalla. Some of you knew him well. He was the loudest one in the room. The one who could come out of a fight bleeding and still keep laughing. But I knew him... as the one who stood between me and a beating from the cops more than once. I knew him as the one who would give you his last money when he hadn’t eaten. I knew him as the one who, even when he was lost in this life, found a way to protect us.”

He paused, his throat tightening.

“This world…chews up people like us and it don’t spit us out whole. And as you leave here today, I want you to remember one thing, is that Juma was a precious gift to this world and those who took him from this world, will find out that there’s no where to run. We will get justice for him.”

Zengo stood up from among the crowd shaking his hand. “Yeah, we will kill those sons of bitches!”

The crowd chanted Juma’s name.

Juma was buried quickly. A short Janazah prayer was held after the service, standing in rows behind the imam. There was no formal eulogy—just silent prayers, hands lifted toward heaven. Then his body was lowered into the grave, gently, with care, his face turned to the right.

People were crying openly now. Even the stone-faced ones. Even Zengo cried a little. Just enough to convince the crowd. Frances stood quiet, her head low, dressed in a plain dark shirt. Beside her was Otis—wearing his now-iconic purple suit and wide-brimmed hat—stared at the coffin like it would rise again.

As the mourners began to drift away in quiet groups, Musa caught a glimpse of Otis leaving.

“Hey! Weh! Otis! Stop—damn it!”

Otis kept walking, hands stiff by his side.

Musa chased after him, stepping in front to block his path.
“You gonna pretend you can’t hear me, huh? Fucking ….asshole?”
Otis said nothing.

“You were his friend. You were our friend. How could you do this to him?”

Otis stopped and Musa moved in front of him.

“You shouldn’t challenge Zengo Moses. Trust me, it’s not worth it.”

“What happened to you Otis? You used to be fearless, dependable, a big brother.”

Otis only stared at him but didn’t say anything.

Musa swung and punched him.
“Say something!”
Another punch.
“Say something, you blockhead!”

Musa’s hands trembled, tears streaming down his cheeks.

“You killed him. Zengo pulled the trigger, but you—you killed him when you turned your back on us.”

Otis walked by him and as he passed, he muttered, “I know.”

He walked a few paces while Musa fell to the ground, grabbing the sands like they had stolen from him. Otis turned and took out a cigarette from his purple suit.

“Listen Moses,” he blew the smoke out. “I know you…so much to know that you’re thinking of revenge. You can’t. whatever clever idea you can think up won’t work.”

“Yeah, sorry Otis but I’m not gonna lie down while He fucks me, like you,” Musa replied standing up. His hands were still dusty as he rubbed the tears off his face. ”We will kill him!”

Otis blew another smoke and laughed. “Oh man, I must say Moses…you haven’t changed at all. Always with the “We” stuff.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“You should stop relying on others Moses. You wanna know why I left? Because I was tired of everyone dying on me. I needed a change…”

“And Zengo is the answer?” Musa asked.

Otis laughed. “Well, Moses, I have my reasons. You know…. there’s two things I ain’t never seen seen; a turtle with speed and a bitch I need.”

“What?!”

“Just saying bro, anything’s possible.......... and nothing worth doing is easy.”

Then with a wave of his hand, Otis was gone.