For two long nights, sleep would not come. So I thought…long, hard: of my mother, her soon-to-be-damaged pride and her incessant prayers for my divine guidance and my continued protection, clearly useless considering where I’d ended up, where I was no doubt headed. Of glorious graduation photos that would be taken in three weeks’ time; pictures that would not include me.
I didn’t cry—shock is so efficient it, unwittingly, conserves energy.
* * * *
The charge sounded unreal when read aloud to me that Monday afternoon, in the crowded Room 4 of the badly dilapidated Kericho Law Courts.
Matters of consent aside, ours—nay, mine—was an unnatural act. Unsanctioned by the state and, therefore, illegal. I was a criminal, as far as the bespectacled lady resident magistrate was concerned; it said so, somewhere in a document she referenced repeatedly—the Penal Code. A document hitherto unfamiliar to my eyes and ears.
When it was my turn, I pleaded guilty. Not because I believed I deserved punishment—but because I was tired. Because I could feel how expensive resistance would be. I felt it when my mother, eyes swollen, looked at me from somewhere in the third row with the countless cameras flashing.
Aron, inexplicably hooded, pleaded not guilty.
That moment clarified everything. Not betrayal—hierarchy.
Why?
I was always the fool. The cheaper loss.
* * * *
I got handed ten years, out of a very possible fourteen; time that I was to spendcontemplating my actionsinside the notorious Kericho Maximum Prison.
She was merciful, that magistrate—she even said it during sentencing sixteen scary days later when she glared at me and branded me lost, confused. Right in front of my silently weeping mother and my two dozen or so crestfallen campus-mates.
* * * *
Prison is mostly time—time layered on itself until days lose personality. Inside these thick slimy walls, I’ve quietly learned to shrink. To survive.
To observe without opining.
Here, I’m a killer—they all believe that I killed someone,a burly man twice my size. Stabbed his drunk ass multiple times with my dad’s decades-old dagger when he tried to molest me in a dark alley one Saturday night.
They all believe that because that is exactly what I told them, the story I was ordered to stick to by mykitenge-donned mother when she suddenly popped here and was curiously allowed to see me on the day I was brought in.
She told me pointblank that it was to be the new truth—mynew truth—till the day I was freed. There was money, millions sourced from the Dubai-bound Kirui, which had been spread around to ensure I was safe. That she was well taken care of, till the day came that they pulled a Houdini stunt. Sprang me out and disappeared me.
I did not believe her—not until I ended up manning the makeshift prison library hastily put up solely for my benefit a day later: a tutor with twenty-four inmates to sharpen.
Here, they revere me…believe me connected, my family wealthy. I read when I can, eat when I want, and count days in the same manner I did Mister Aron Kirui’s stock at the four Furaha Hardware stores—mechanically.
For in this wretched, godforsaken place, duration matters more than context.
And rumour more than truth.
Find, Protect, and Claim by Shawn Bailey
The sound of breaking glass and furniture being thrown met Michael Winthrop as he answered an SOS text from someone using his ex-lover’s phone number. He’d been searching for six years for his omega. Through the bond he could feel him. Their separation had only temporarily broken the link, but Michael could feel it mending the closer he got to the steps of the apartment building where all hell was breaking loose. He had to find him.
Michael hurried up the stairs. The text played in his head:Daddy, Papa is in trouble, come quick.
He had no idea who had sent it or why, but his instincts called out to him to handle it. The sound was coming from a bottom-floor apartment. The building was old and run down and had probably seen better days. The door of the apartment was open. Three goons, big but not as big as him, was breaking the furniture, and literally tearing the place apart. Another one was holding a smaller guy and tossing him around like he was a ragdoll. Michael recognized the victim.Mine. It was his omega, his bonded mate.
Michael’s brain shifted gear.Protect.He turned from a normal businessman into an alpha. No one touched what was his.
“Who the hell are you?” one of the guys asked.
“Your worst nightmare,” Michael answered. The next thing he knew he was fighting like his life depended on it.
