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wektama chronicles, 369, Eldoret (2026)

25/09/2025

Former French president Nicolas Sarkozy has been sentenced to five years in jail after being found guilty of criminal conspiracy in a case related to millions of euros of illicit funds from the late Libyan leader Col Muammar Gaddafi.

The Paris criminal court acquitted him of all other charges, including passive corruption and illegal campaign financing.

The ruling means he will spend time in jail even if he launches an appeal, which Sarkozy says he intends to do.

22/09/2025

In recent months, Kenyan professionals working in the United States have expressed growing concern over potential job losses due to new policies surrounding the H-1B visa program. The H-1B visa allows U.S. companies to hire foreign workers in specialized fields such as technology, engineering, and healthcare. However, recent changes in immigration regulations, particularly under the Trump administration, have raised fears that these visas may become more restrictive, leading to a decline in opportunities for Kenyans and other foreign workers.

19/09/2025

Part 6: The Final Blow

The safe loomed in front of Chet like a coffin. Heavy steel, dull with years of dust, but solid. Inside was Erick’s whole life—savings, security, trust. And now, with two guns pointed at his back and Lola’s hand pressing him forward, Chet was about to tear it all open.

The tumblers clicked under his fingers. Old instincts rose like ghosts, muscle memory guiding each turn. He’d sworn he’d never crack another safe, but the dial sang to him like an old lover. Left, right, left—slow, deliberate, his ears straining for the faintest catch.

Behind him, the wolves shifted. “Hurry it up,” the smooth one snarled. “We don’t got all night.”

Lola’s perfume drifted over him, thick and suffocating. Her voice purred in his ear. “You’re almost there, Carson. Don’t lose your touch now.”

He wanted to smash her across the face, to scream at her that she’d sold them all out. But he couldn’t. One wrong move, and Erick would be dead before he hit the floor.

Erick.

Chet risked a glance back. The big Swede lay slumped against the wall, blood on his mouth, eyes wide with betrayal. He didn’t speak—didn’t have to. His look cut deeper than any knife.

How could you? it asked. After I took you in. After I trusted you.

Chet turned back to the safe, bile rising in his throat. He wanted to tell Erick the truth—that he was boxed in, that he had no choice. But wasn’t that always the excuse? No choice. No way out. Just one more job, one more turn of the dial, one more betrayal.

The final tumbler clicked. The lock gave.

The room went silent, heavy as a graveyard.

Chet pulled the handle. The door groaned open, revealing stacks of bills bound in paper bands, a few glittering pieces of jewelry, a pistol tucked in the corner. The wolves’ eyes lit up, greedy and wild.

“Jackpot,” one of them muttered.

They surged forward, shoving Chet aside, stuffing bills into their pockets. Erick groaned, tried to rise, but a boot to his chest slammed him back down.

Lola’s eyes gleamed like a cat’s. She stepped closer, plucked a handful of bills, ran them through her fingers. Then she looked at Chet—smiled that cold, poisonous smile.

“You did good, Carson. Real good.”

But Chet saw it then, clear as daylight. She wasn’t going to share. Not with him. Not with Erick. Not with anyone.

The wolves were too busy cramming cash to notice her hand slip into the safe, fingers curling around the pistol.

Chet’s breath caught. He knew what was coming.

The first shot cracked like thunder. The smooth-talker dropped, eyes wide, money spilling from his hands. The second wolf spun, cursing, firing wild. The room erupted in flashes and smoke.

Erick roared, lunging despite his injuries, crashing into the second gunman. They went down in a tangle, fists and bullets flying.

Chet dove for cover, heart pounding. The air reeked of gunpowder and blood.

When the smoke cleared, both wolves were sprawled on the floor—one dead, the other dying, blood pumping out across the boards. Erick slumped against the wall, gasping, clutching his side.

And Lola stood in the middle of it all, pistol steady in her hand, eyes bright with triumph.

She looked at Chet, lips curling. “See? All tied up, neat as a bow. The money’s ours now, Carson. Just you and me.”

Chet rose slowly, rage boiling in his chest. “You’re insane. Erick’s bleeding out, and all you can think about is the money?”

Her eyes flashed. “Don’t play saint. You cracked the safe, didn’t you? You’re in this as deep as I am.”

Erick coughed, blood bubbling on his lips. “Carson… don’t…” His voice was weak, fading.

Chet’s fists clenched. Erick didn’t deserve this. None of it. And Lola—she was poison, pure and simple. She’d bleed him dry just like she bled Erick.

She saw the look in his eyes and raised the pistol. “Don’t be stupid, Carson. I’ll shoot you dead and walk away rich. No one will ever know.”

Time froze.

Chet’s eyes darted to Erick. The big man, pale and shaking, slid the wrench from his tool belt with the last of his strength. With a grunt, he hurled it across the room.

It struck Lola’s wrist. The shot went wild, shattering a bottle on the shelf.

Chet lunged. He hit her hard, the pistol flying from her hand. They crashed into the safe, bills scattering like leaves. She clawed at his face, teeth bared, hissing like a wildcat. He shoved her off, grabbed the gun.

For a heartbeat, the world held still.

Lola on the floor, hair wild, eyes blazing. Erick slumped against the wall, barely breathing. The money strewn everywhere, stained with blood.

Chet’s finger tightened on the trigger.

But he couldn’t do it. Killing her would make him no better than her.

He tossed the gun aside, chest heaving. “Get out,” he spat. “Take your damn money and get out. If I ever see you again, I won’t miss.”

For the first time, Lola’s smile faltered. She stared at him, eyes flickering with rage, then laughter. Low, bitter laughter.

“You’re a fool, Carson. A damn fool. But maybe that’s why you’ll rot in the dust while I live rich.”

She scooped up as much cash as she could, stuffed it into a bag, and fled into the night. The sound of her heels faded, swallowed by the desert.

Silence settled.

Chet dropped to Erick’s side. The big man’s breaths were shallow, his skin clammy. “Hold on,” Chet muttered. “I’ll get help. Don’t you quit on me.”

Erick’s eyes found his, weak but steady. “Carson… promise me… no more… safes…”

Chet’s throat tightened. He nodded. “I promise.”

Erick’s hand slipped from his. His chest stilled.

Chet sat there in the wreckage—the dead wolves, the scattered money, the empty safe.

The Point of No Return had lived up to its name.

The sun would rise soon, spilling light over the desert, and the law would come sniffing. Chet knew he couldn’t stay. But he also knew he’d never outrun this night.

He was a free man, yes—but freedom had cost him everything.

And that was the way the cookie crumbled.

---

18/09/2025

Part 5: The Wolves at the Door

The desert had a way of holding its breath at night. No wind, no sound, just the heavy stillness of sand and stars. At the Point of No Return, the neon sign buzzed weakly, throwing pale light across the forecourt. Chet felt it in his bones—that quiet before a storm.

The Chevy rolled up again, headlights cutting through the dark. The two men stepped out, shadows stretching long and mean across the dirt. Same slick hair, same quick eyes. Wolves circling the pen.

Erick came out wiping his hands on a rag, smiling like always. “Evening, boys. Need another fill-up?”

“Yeah,” one of them said. His voice was smooth, practiced, like a salesman who’d sold his soul years ago. “Tank’s running low. Roads out here eat gas.”

The other one didn’t bother with small talk. He leaned against the car, eyes fixed on the station, scanning every corner like he was mapping it for later.

Chet’s gut twisted. He pumped the gas, watching them closely. He’d seen their kind in the city—small-time hoods who thought they were big. They weren’t here for gas. They were casing the joint.

Inside, Lola stood at the window, cigarette glowing between her fingers. She didn’t wave, didn’t smile—just watched. And Chet knew what she was thinking: These men are the knife. Use them, or be cut by them.

The men lingered after Erick handed them their change. Asked about the nearest town again, about how business was out here. Erick answered cheerfully, honest to a fault, never suspecting the danger.

When they finally drove off, dust trailing behind them, Chet felt no relief. He knew they’d be back. Wolves never sniff once and leave. They return, hungrier.

That night, Lola cornered him in the kitchen. The smell of coffee and her perfume tangled in the air, making his stomach churn.

“You saw the way they looked around,” she said. “They know there’s money here. It’s only a matter of time before they come back for it. And Erick? He’s a lamb. He won’t stand a chance.”

Chet’s voice was hard. “So what’s your plan? Hand it to them on a silver platter?”

Her laugh was low, bitter. “Don’t be stupid. I’m not letting a pair of gutter rats walk off with my future. That safe is mine, Carson. And if you’re smart, it’ll be yours too. Crack it before they come back. Take the money, and we’ll be long gone before they even make a move.”

Chet stared at her, jaw clenched. “And Erick?”

She blew smoke into his face, eyes glittering. “Erick doesn’t matter.”

That was the line. Right there. Erick—the big, trusting fool who had pulled Chet in off the road, given him water, food, work, a bed. Erick, who treated him like a brother when the rest of the world wanted him in chains.

Chet wanted to tell her to go to hell. But before he could, headlights swept across the window.

The Chevy.

They were back.

This time, no small talk. The men stepped out with guns drawn, the desert silence shattering under the metallic click of a hammer cocked.

“Evening,” the smooth-voiced one said, grinning. “We’ll skip the gas tonight. You’ve got something we want.”

Erick froze, rag slipping from his hands. “Now, fellas—”

“Save it,” the other one snapped. “The safe. We know it’s here. Open it.”

Lola was already at the door, cigarette gone, face pale but eyes sharp. She looked at Chet, and in that split-second, he saw it—the calculation. She wasn’t afraid. She was deciding.

The wolves pushed Erick inside, guns at his back. Chet followed, muscles tight, every instinct screaming.

“Alright, big man,” the smooth talker said, shoving Erick toward the storeroom. “Show us the safe.”

Erick stammered, confused, scared. “Safe? I don’t—”

The gun cracked across his jaw. Erick hit the floor, blood spraying from his lip.

Chet moved instinctively. “Leave him alone!”

A gun barrel swung toward him. The other wolf sneered. “Shut up, hero. You’re next. You know how to open it, don’t you?”

Lola’s voice cut through the room like a blade. “He does.”

Chet whipped his head toward her. Her eyes were steady, unblinking, betraying him without a second thought.

The wolves grinned. “Perfect. Then let’s get to work.”

They dragged Chet into the storeroom, shoved him toward the safe. The steel box loomed in the corner, Erick’s lifetime of savings locked behind its door.

Chet’s hands trembled. Not from fear of the wolves—but from the weight of the choice. Crack the safe, and Erick was ruined. Refuse, and they’d put a bullet in all three of them.

Lola leaned close, her whisper hot in his ear. “Do it, Carson. Do it, and we walk away rich. Don’t, and we all die here.”

Erick groaned on the floor, blood pooling under his cheek. His eyes found Chet’s—confused, pleading, betrayed.

The safe’s dial gleamed under the flickering light. Chet reached for it, the old instinct flaring in his fingertips. The familiar thrill of the tumblers clicking into place. The dance he thought he’d sworn off forever.

Behind him, the wolves shifted impatiently, guns ready. Lola’s hand rested lightly on his shoulder—soft, but with the pressure of a noose.

The room was a tinderbox. One wrong move, one wrong word, and it would all go up in flames.

Chet turned the dial slowly, sweat dripping down his back. Each click echoed like a death knell.

He was back in the game. Back in the life he thought he’d escaped.

And he knew—no matter how this ended—nothing would ever be the same again.

17/09/2025

Part 4: A Pressure Cooker of Lies

Life at the Point of No Return changed after Lola bared her fangs.

To Erick, everything still looked the same. He lumbered around in his oil-stained overalls, fixing engines, pumping gas, grinning at travelers who stopped for a fill-up. At night he’d fall asleep in his chair, snoring loud enough to rattle the windows. To him, his world was steady, safe, predictable.

But for Chet, every day was a battle. Lola shadowed him like a vulture. She’d lean against the doorway while he worked, her lips curved in that mocking smile. She’d brush past him deliberately, whisper threats in his ear when Erick wasn’t looking.

And the safe—always the safe.

Chet had caught a glimpse of it one night, half-hidden behind a false panel in the storeroom. A bulky steel brute, older model, but tough. Erick must have saved for years, trusting the lock to keep his little fortune secure.

To Chet, it was a curse.

He’d sworn he’d never touch another safe again, not after Roy’s betrayal. But Lola knew how to dig at wounds. She pressed him constantly, each time sharper than before.

“Think about it, Carson,” she’d hiss when Erick was out back. “That cash just sitting there, waiting. You could walk away rich. I could walk away free. And Erick? He’ll never know until it’s too late.”

Chet would grind his teeth, shaking his head. “Forget it. I’m not your guy.”

Her laugh was cold. “Oh, you’re my guy. Because if you’re not, you’re nothing but a convict on the run. I make one call, you’re back in chains. So don’t play noble, Carson. You’re trapped, and you know it.”

He did know it. And it gnawed at him.

Every night he lay on his cot in the back room, sweat soaking the sheets, the desert wind rattling the shutters. He imagined the bars of Farnworth slamming shut again. He imagined Roy’s smug grin. He imagined Lola’s lips curling into that poisonous smile.

Trapped. Always trapped.

The tension wound tighter, day by day. Erick was oblivious, but even he started to notice Chet’s nerves fraying.

“You alright, buddy?” Erick asked one evening, handing Chet a beer after closing. “You look like you’ve been carrying a mountain on your back.”

Chet forced a smile. “Just tired. Desert wears on a man.”

Erick nodded, not pressing. His trust was a knife in Chet’s chest. The big Swede didn’t deserve this—didn’t deserve a snake like Lola whispering poison in the shadows. But what could Chet do? He was cornered.

Then the travelers came.

A car rolled in one night—beat-up Chevy, two men inside. Hard-looking types with slick hair and eyes that never stopped moving. They filled up, paid cash, asked too many questions. Where was the nearest town? How long had Chet been working here? Was Erick around often, or did he leave the place unattended?

Chet’s instincts screamed. These weren’t drifters. They were trouble.

Lola saw them too. And Chet noticed the way her gaze lingered just a little too long.

That night, she slipped into the back room, her perfume choking the air. She leaned close, voice a whisper of silk and venom.

“You saw them, didn’t you? They’re wolves, Carson. Hungry wolves. If Erick doesn’t give them what they want, they’ll take it.”

Chet narrowed his eyes. “And what do you want out of it?”

She smiled, sharp and glittering. “What I’ve always wanted. That safe opened. The sooner the better. Those men will come back. They’ll sniff around, and Erick will fold like wet paper. I don’t plan on being here when that happens. I want the money. And I want you to give it to me.”

Chet’s stomach turned. She was using the wolves as leverage, tightening the screws. He felt the trap closing on all sides—Lola, the strangers, his own conscience.

The next few days were hell. Chet caught Lola watching the road, waiting for the Chevy to return. He caught Erick humming cheerfully as if nothing were wrong, polishing wrenches, stocking shelves. And he caught himself staring at the safe more often than he wanted, fingers itching, old instincts screaming to life.

The pressure built until even the walls seemed to creak under it.

Then, one evening, the Chevy came back.

The men stepped out, smiling thin, fake smiles. They asked for a fill-up, but their eyes darted everywhere—the station, the house, the storeroom. Erick greeted them warmly, no suspicion at all.

Chet’s gut twisted. He knew their type. Wolves dressed as customers. And wolves always came back hungry.

Later that night, Lola cornered him again. Her eyes blazed. “This is it, Carson. We don’t have time. Crack the safe. Do it before they decide to crack it themselves—and kill us all in the process.”

Chet’s jaw clenched. He wanted to tell her no, to shove her out the door and run. But he couldn’t. Not with Erick asleep in the chair, trusting, defenseless. Not with Lola’s threat hanging over his head.

The gas station had become a pressure cooker. Lies, greed, fear—they were all boiling together. And Chet knew something was going to explode.

He just didn’t know who would strike the match first.

17/09/2025

Part 3: The Woman and the Trap

When Chet came around, the smell hit him first—coffee, gasoline, and something sweet, like cheap perfume that lingered in the air too long. He blinked against the dim light and found himself stretched out on a battered couch in the corner of a shabby but clean living room. His head pounded. His legs still burned from miles of desert.

The Swede was there, a mountain of a man with hands like shovels, fussing over a chipped cup. “Drink,” he said, holding it out. “You look like you crawled through hell.”

Chet took it, the hot liquid scalding his tongue, but it cleared the fog. “Thanks,” he muttered. His voice sounded like gravel in his throat.

The Swede smiled kindly. “Name’s Erick. This here’s my place. Point of No Return. Folks stop for gas, food, sometimes a bed. You need work?”

Chet almost laughed. Work. If Erick knew who he was, what he’d done, he’d have thrown him back into the desert to die. But Erick’s eyes held no suspicion—just simple decency, the kind Chet hadn’t seen in years.

Then the air changed.

He felt her before he saw her—the soft shuffle of heels, the waft of stronger perfume. And then she stepped into the room.

Lola.

She was the kind of woman who could make a man forget his own name. Dark hair piled high, lips painted a dangerous red, and eyes that stripped you bare in a second. She leaned against the doorframe like she owned the world, a cigarette dangling from her fingers.

“Well,” she said, her voice smooth and cool, “looks like you dragged in some stray, Erick.”

Erick chuckled, oblivious. “He’s half-dead. Thought we’d give him a chance to rest. Man could use work—maybe pump gas, sweep up.”

Lola’s gaze never left Chet. She smiled, slow and sly, and blew out a trail of smoke. “Maybe.”

Chet felt his stomach tighten. She wasn’t just looking at him—she was dissecting him. Like a cat eyeing a mouse.

For a week, he worked at the station. Erick treated him like a brother, trusting, generous, even laughed at Chet’s half-hearted jokes. But Lola watched. Always watched. She lingered when he pumped gas, leaned close when she handed him plates in the kitchen, brushed his arm as if by accident. And every time, her smile said the same thing: I know you’re not who you say you are.

One night, Erick was snoring in his chair, and Lola cornered Chet in the back room.

“You’re no drifter,” she said. Her voice was low, sharp as broken glass. “You’ve got the look of a man on the run. I’ve seen the papers, Carson. Safecracker. Escaped convict. Murderer.”

Chet froze. The blood drained from his face. She smiled, enjoying it.

“Relax. If I wanted the cops, they’d already be here. But you’re useful to me.” She leaned closer, her perfume thick, her whisper deadly. “There’s a safe here, Carson. A fat one. Erick doesn’t know I know, but I do. You’re going to open it for me.”

Chet shook his head. “Forget it. I’m done with safes.”

Her hand shot out, grabbing his chin, nails digging into his skin. Her eyes burned into his. “No, you’re not. You’ll open it, or I’ll make one call, and you’ll be back in a cell before sunrise.”

Chet’s throat tightened. He’d traded Farnworth for a new prison—this one wrapped in silk stockings and red lipstick.

From then on, the gas station wasn’t a refuge. It was a trap. Lola tightened the screws day by day. A whisper when Erick wasn’t listening. A look that promised ruin if he resisted. And Erick—poor Erick—saw nothing. To him, Lola was a devoted wife, and Chet was a lucky drifter who’d found kindness on a lonely road.

But Chet knew better.

One night, she upped the ante. They stood outside under the buzzing neon sign, desert wind hot against their faces.

“You think you’ve got a choice, Carson?” she sneered. “You don’t. I’ve waited too long in this dust bowl, serving grease to nobodies, wasting my life with Erick. That safe is my ticket out, and you’re the man to open it.”

Chet clenched his fists. “And what happens after I crack it? You cut me loose? Or you cut me down?”

She smiled, slow and poisonous. “Depends how smart you play it.”

For the first time since he’d escaped, Chet felt the walls close in again. Farnworth’s bars had been steel; Lola’s were softer, deadlier. He lay awake that night on his cot in the back, staring at the ceiling, the weight of her threat pressing down.

The desert was silent outside, stretching forever. But to Chet, it was another prison yard.

He didn’t know it yet, but Lola had only just begun to tighten the leash.

10/09/2025

Poland shoots down Russian drones in its airspace for the first time, accuses Moscow of ‘act of aggression’

09/09/2025

Part 2: Breakout

Prison doesn’t kill you all at once. It starves you by degrees.

Chet Carson learned that in Farnworth. The walls there weren’t just stone—they were tombstones. Grey slabs that pressed down on a man until he wasn’t a man anymore. Just a number, a body in a striped suit, a ghost that ate slop and shoveled gravel.

The guards treated him like dirt. The inmates were worse. Farnworth was a jungle of steel bars where only the hardest survived. And Chet, with his quiet voice and sharp hands, looked like prey.

But he wasn’t.

He kept his head down, learned the routines, stayed alive. Nights he lay awake staring at the ceiling, replaying the heist in his head. He saw the cash, green and endless, slipping through his fingers. He saw Roy’s grin, smug and shining, as he vanished into the dark with the bag. And he felt the cuffs snap on his wrists again and again.

It was poison in his veins.

Two years in, he knew he couldn’t last eighteen more. Farnworth would grind him down to dust before the law ever let him out. And then, one bitter winter morning, fate cracked the door.

It happened in the machine shop. Farnworth put men to work whether they liked it or not, and Chet was good with tools. That’s where he met Buster Lane—a wiry, rat-faced lifer with eyes that never stopped darting. Buster had a knack for sniffing out opportunities, and one day, over the din of clanking steel, he leaned close.

“You don’t look like a lifer to me, Carson. You look like a guy who still dreams about daylight.”

Chet said nothing. You didn’t talk dreams in Farnworth. But Buster kept at him.

“I got a line out of here. A crack in the armor. Needs two pairs of hands. You got the guts?”

Chet thought about it all night. The risk was death or worse—solitary, years of it, maybe never walking free again. But every night in his bunk, he felt those bars pressing tighter, and he knew. Staying was dying slow. Running was a chance.

He shook Buster’s hand the next day. And the pact was sealed.

The plan was madness. A delivery truck rolled in every Wednesday, bringing supplies. Two guards checked it, bored and careless. The rear doors were never locked. If they could get inside, hunker down under the crates, they might ride out past the gates before anyone knew.

It took weeks of watching, rehearsing, timing. Every second had to be perfect.

When the day came, Chet’s heart thudded like a jackhammer. He and Buster slipped out of the shop, ducking shadows, sliding along the blind spots they’d memorized. The truck was there, fat and waiting, its engine humming.

They ran for it.

Chet’s fingers caught the handle, yanked the door. Inside was dark, the smell of onions and grease choking the air. Buster scrambled in behind him, the two of them pressing flat under the crates. Chet heard the slam of the door, the murmur of guards, then the jolt as the truck moved.

For twenty minutes, he didn’t breathe. Sweat dripped down his neck. The wheels hit bumps, the suspension groaned. And then—a sound sweeter than music—the gates clanged open. The truck rolled free.

They were out.

But freedom has a cruel sense of humor.

Two miles down the road, the driver pulled over. He was smarter than they’d thought. “Come on out, rats,” he barked, gun in hand.

Buster lunged first, wild and desperate. A shot cracked, echoing in Chet’s skull. Buster fell back, eyes wide, blood spilling over the crates. Dead before he hit the floor.

Chet didn’t think. He swung a wrench—one savage arc—and the driver dropped, skull crushed. Silence roared in the truck.

Chet staggered out, legs shaking, lungs burning with the smell of powder and blood. The road stretched before him, empty, endless.

He ran.

Hours blurred into miles. His shoes tore, his throat dried, but he kept going. He couldn’t stop—not while the dogs of Farnworth were surely snapping at his heels.

By nightfall, the desert opened around him—miles of sand, wind, and loneliness. No city lights, no shelter. Just the sound of his own ragged breathing.

When he finally stumbled onto the dirt road that led to the gas station, he was half-dead. The neon sign buzzed faintly: POINT OF NO RETURN.

A man in greasy overalls stepped out—a big Swede with kind eyes and a slow voice. “You look beat, mister. Come inside. We’ll fix you up.”

Chet collapsed into the man’s arms, the world going black.

The last thing he heard before he blacked out was a woman’s voice, smooth as silk and sharp as glass.

“Well, well. What have we here?”

09/09/2025

A Nairobi lawyer was on Tuesday evening shot dead in a drive-by attack on Lang'ata Road in Nairobi.

Police reports indicate the victim, identified as Advocate Kyalo Mbobu was gunned down by an assailant on a motorcycle shortly after 7:30 p.m.

The lawyer was reportedly driving home when the attacker pulled alongside his vehicle and opened fire before speeding away.

Source

08/09/2025

Former President Uhuru Kenyatta is reported to be weighing the option of handing over the leadership of Jubilee Party to former Interior Cabinet Secretary Fred Matiang’i, a move that could reshape the political landscape ahead of the 2027 elections.

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