14/09/2025
Chapter Four: Escape from Nyansiongo
The rooster crowed at 4:00 a.m., not once, not twice, but repeatedly—like it had taken a loan and Bisonga was the guarantor. He turned on the cold floor of his uncle’s smoky hut, his bruises aching like unpaid bills. His specs, now bent at a 45-degree angle, lay beside him, cracked but still clinging to life like a loyal sidekick.
Bisonga groaned. “God, if morning means more beatings, just extend night till Jesus comes back.”
But fate wasn’t listening.
Outside, the compound was already alive. One of the boys was sharpening a panga—loudly—while humming gospel songs. Another was carrying firewood, occasionally peeking at the hut as though checking whether Bisonga was planning a jailbreak. Dogs barked, cows mooed, and rain clouds threatened another downpour.
Then Stellah appeared, knocking gently on the door. “Bisonga… are you awake?”
“Do I look dead?” he snapped, then softened his voice. “Sorry. Yes. I’m awake. Or at least what’s left of me.”
She slipped inside, looking both guilty and amused. “I didn’t know grandma would call the entire village,” she whispered.
“Didn’t know?” Bisonga sat up, glaring. “Last night I was running like a thief in banana plantations, dogs chasing me, trousers torn until my underwear waved to the moon—and you say you didn’t know?!”
Stellah giggled, covering her mouth. “At least you outran them for a while. You run fast, Nairobi man.”
“Fast? I wasn’t running. That was my soul leaving my body!”
Before Stellah could reply, the door creaked open. Grandpa stepped in, leaning on his walking stick like a judge about to pass a death sentence. His boys followed, standing behind him like security detail.
“Listen, young man,” Grandpa began, his voice low and stern. “This is not Nairobi. Here, a man does not just arrive at night, with rain, looking for our girl. We don’t know your people. We don’t know your cows. We don’t know your clan.”
Bisonga blinked. “Sir… I didn’t bring cows because… uh… Safaricom doesn’t allow you to M-Pesa cows.”
The boys laughed. Grandpa didn’t. He slammed his stick on the floor. “Silence! Today you go back where you came from. Stellah, take him to the road. We don’t want another incident.”
And just like that, the judgment was passed.
The Escape Mission
By 6 a.m., Bisonga was marching out of the homestead, escorted by Stellah and two boys—like a prisoner being handed over to a bus conductor. His clothes were still muddy, his specs now tied together with a banana fiber Stellah had given him, and his shoes squelched with every step.
As they walked past the tea plantations, rain started again—because in Kisii, rain isn’t weather, it’s a permanent mood.
At one point, a chicken darted across the path, startling Bisonga so badly he screamed, “Another dog!” and jumped into the tea bushes. The boys laughed until one nearly fell. Stellah rolled her eyes, whispering, “City men are too soft.”
Finally, they reached the bus stop: a wooden bench under a crooked mabati shade. The Nairobi-bound matatu was already there, conductor shouting, “Nairobi! Nairobi! Last passenger, twende sasa!”
Bisonga turned to Stellah, breathing heavily. “This is goodbye… I think my ribs will need therapy after this visit.”
Stellah pouted. “You’re not coming back?”
“Coming back?” Bisonga adjusted his cracked specs, his voice full of finality. “Madam, the only thing coming back is trauma every time I see a banana.”
The boys burst out laughing again. One slapped his back so hard his bruises screamed.
Bisonga climbed into the matatu like a war survivor boarding an evacuation truck. He found a seat by the window, leaned back, and sighed. As the engine roared to life, he whispered, “Nairobi, prepare hot shower and electricity—I’m coming home.”
From the window, he saw Stellah waving. Grandma stood in the distance, hands on hips, watching like she had just defended her family’s honor from an alien invasion. Grandpa raised his stick in a half-wave, half-warning gesture.
And just as the matatu sped off, rain poured harder, washing away the mud but not the memory.
Bisonga thought to himself, Next time, I’m sticking to online chatting. Meeting in real life is a death sentence.
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