Chapter One: Market Day

The Day Bahati's Luck Turned

It was Nuru's turn to go to the market that Wednesday in the sleepy little town she grew up in and called home. It was situated between a lot of nothing and an expanse of never-ending forest, but you didn't need to be told how to find the market. It was always abuzz with activity and people congregated in swarms around the different vendors. It was the haggling and the yelling. The pushing and the packing. The fruit and vegetable scraps strewn across the little muddy paths that separated the closely packed stalls. It was the knock-off football jerseys and "Abibas" sneakers. It was the scent in the air - fruity, sticky, sweaty, and filled to the brim with a blissful exuberance you can only find in small farm towns like this one.

Nuru did her rounds quickly, sticking to her mental list so as not to exceed the 500 bob she had to her name. Picking up a few odd jobs and online gigs while in campus allowed her to splurge every so often when she was home on holiday. She'd come for fresh produce and fresh produce alone. Even the shouts of "Sister, bei ya jioni" weren't a deterrent. She knew all too well how giving in to these evening clearance prices spiralled into several impulse buys very quickly. When she got to Mama Kama, she immediately got to selecting the ripest, juiciest, and least bruised tomatoes after exchanging the obligatory pleasantries. Hunched over the spoils of the season in an attempt to make a swift exit, her attention was broken by the vendor's high-pitched, melodic voice.

"Nuru, ulikuja lini kutoka shule? Sijakuona tangu January," Mama Kama inquired about her recent whereabouts, clearly brimming with some juicy intel.

"Nimekuwa home tangu last week, lakini nilikuwa nimechoka nikaona kwanza nipumzike nikisaidia mum na watoto," she responded, hoping to end the conversation there and quell any village talk about her holiday activities. After a brief silence, Mama Kama continued, with the same glint in her eye as that of a reporter who'd stumbled on the news of a lifetime.

"Kwa hivyo hujaskia?"

"Kuskia nini?" Nuru responded, wondering what it was she possibly hadn't heard yet. Small-town gossip was never her cup of tea, but it travelled faster than you could keep up with it. A break-in here. Lost sheep there. Land disputes everywhere.

"Heh! Hauna latest? Hii nchi imekuwa na maneno sana. Nilithani nyinyi Gen Z ndio mkona breaking news zote." "Sijaskia kitu," Nuru responded, getting more agitated than curious. If the state of the nation was Mama Kama's big secret, it was even less well kept than the usual drivel. "Hizi avocado unauza how much?" She continued, trying to get all her loot and leave. "Hizo ndogo ni fifteen, kubwa ni thirty." Mama Kama responded before continuing, unabated in her delivery of the news. "Unajua ule kijana wa Mama Mike, firstborn wake, Baha?" (Nuru nodded). "Amekuwa shule Nairobi, lakini naskia mama yake anasema hawajui kwenye ako sahi. Hakuna mtu amemuona in one week, na hashiki simu. A whole week, Nuru! Baba yake jana ameshinda huku soko akiwa mlevi; kazi ilikuwa tu kupiga nduru na kulia akisema wamechukua mtoto wake." She finished, clapping her hands together to emphasize the absurdity of the scene.

Nuru looked up at last, her little basket now filled with tomatoes, avocados, and some onions. A quick glance at Mama Kama told her this was nothing but gossip for her. But to Nuru, it was an ugly scene she'd seen too many times recently - online, on TV, in the papers.

In her mind's eye, she could picture the shadowy figures with their faces covered and weapons concealed. The phones out from neighbours, recording behind their drawn curtains in darkened homes. She could hear their commandeering voices, them pushing and shoving Baha into a boot, and speeding off into the night to destinations unknown. She saw his dad, seemingly running mad in the market, drunk on beer, fear, and sheer panic. His mum entertaining gawkers and friends, one after another, in their home, with no time to even process her shock.

Unwittingly, it sent a shiver down her spine. But she knew from years of experience that prodding Mama Kama would not yield any useful insight. This was just another tale to tell her customers as they shopped.

"Ehh? Sikujua. Woi, siku hizi kuna maneno mingi sana, Mama Kama. Watu wanapotea hivi, but wacha tuhope watampata." She replied as she hurriedly handed over the cash and stowed her purchases away next to a couple of oranges she'd already picked up at a different stand. The little red carrier bag had straps that were hanging on by a thread, and she hoped it would make it home. Just like she hoped Baha would. With the rate of disappearances, hers was more than just a throw-away statement; she really prayed he'd be found safe. And soon.

"Aki ni maombi tu inawaokoa nyinyi watoto wetu. Hakuna kitu ingine," she responded. "Utasalimia mama yako sana." Mama Kama finished, and handed Nuru her change, satisfied with her delivery of the breaking news and subtle nod to her ceaseless prayer and supplication.

"Ehh ni ukweli. Nitamsalimia. Thanks." Nuru responded as she turned to start the journey back. She knew she'd have to deliver not only Mama Kama's news to her mum, but also her greetings, for she always, always, confirmed.

Nuru took the long way home that day. Her feet led her down the path before her brain could even compute where this route led. She waved past Njoro with the beaming gap-toothed smile, from whom she got her sweaters. Then Tina, who was flipping maize on her makeshift grill with her bare hands that never burned. She walked past the mini-mart with its bright green walls and barely noticed their newly minted milk ATM. So engrossed was she in thought that she didn't realize she had made her way to Mama Mike's until she felt a somberness hanging in the air that made her breath catch in her throat.

She didn't know her eldest son, Bahati (or Baha, as they all called him), particularly well. He was several years older and had left for the big city a long time ago, having gotten admission to a national school for secondary. His lore was known across the town, though, academically brilliant as he was. He was the benchmark other parents used when their kids were falling short. If Baha could do it, so could you.

When she got to the big black wrought iron gate, she didn't know whether to go in with the townsfolk streaming in and out, or keep going. She didn't even know why she'd gone that way, as she would have to loop back around to get home. Standing there, paralysed, staring into the abyss, she couldn't ignore the pit that was growing bigger and bigger in her stomach. She wasn't just another looky-loo fishing for fodder for the market chats. She wasn't really a concerned friend or family member either. She was a third thing that she had yet to figure out. Perhaps a concerned neighbour. Maybe a citizen journalist, trying to get to the truth.

Or possibly, she was just a young person realising that if this could happen to Baha, the most gifted young man in their sleepy little town hidden between trees, hills, and farms, where nothing of note ever happened, it could happen to anyone. It could happen to her.

And so, she turned on her heels and walked away. Only allowing herself one look back at the gate before hightailing it back to the comfort of her mother's house. But even when she got home, unpacked, put away the groceries, cut up an orange for her little brothers, and went to her room to doomscroll on her phone, the pit wouldn't go away.