Sandy Muiru cast a scowl at her plate. Her mother’s choice for dinner consisted of a generous serving of barely cooked kale, boiled beans, and chunks of ugali. If it weren’t for the knots in her stomach, the drab ceiling of her bedroom would have been a much more welcome sight. Her mind wandered back to the corridors of the Kenyatta University campus, recalling the makeshift canteens with brightly colored awnings that would hurt anyone's eyes if they looked at them too long. The bustling spaces were filled with sweet aromas and loud conversations about local football leagues. The food there was always amazing—mainly finely chopped chapatis and beef stew.

Something Edible.

"Stop exaggerating," her mother, Tricia Muiru, chimed in. With her mouth full, she sounded more like a strangled horse.

"I didn't know honesty was considered an exaggeration. Do warn me next time."

Sandy caught her mother's nasty eye roll. "Having a healthy meal would do you good. You don’t look quite like your usual self."

It was barely two days since Sandy had been back home for the long holidays. A three month break.
"What's wrong with how I look?" Sandy tugged roughly at the edges of her grey woolen sweater. Her mother’s words cut right through her veins. She shifted her gaze to her sweatpants, noticing her frail reflection before returning her eyes to her plate.

As Tricia observed Sandy from across the dining table, she contemplated whether it was the right time to speak. But was there ever a right time?

"You need help, Sandy."

"Huh, define ‘help,’" Sandy replied, forcing a laugh that fell flat. She suspected her mother could see through it. "I wouldn’t mind a proper meal." At the of her throat, she felt a lump form. Outside, she caught the screeching sounds of vehicles, weaving past on the neighborhood track.

"You can’t keep masking it—"

Sandy interrupted, her voice wavering. "Try looking at yourself before you start pointing fingers."

Silence. More silence.

Tricia struggled to find the right words. She should have known better than to say it. Ever heard the phrase, "Don't dish out what you can't take?" This was a prime example. At the back of her mind, she noted she’d need to pour herself some cognac later that night.

"Therapy won’t bring Dad back from the dead." Sandy pushed her chair back and dumped her plate into the bin beneath the sink. To be honest, her appetite had long since vanished.

She rushed out of the dining room, clambered up the wooden staircase, and slammed the door shut to her bedroom. Sitting on the edge of her bed, her chest heaving and her fists clenched, she recognized that she had struck a low blow. She hadn’t meant it. Sandy knew how deep the grief ran in her mother’s eyes—a raw, poignant ache. It had been six months since the accident, yet it felt like it had happened yesterday.

The loud whirring of the curtains stirred Sandy from her thoughts. She walked to the open window and briefly gazed at the black, starless sky as a cold wind drifted in. It was around 7:30 in the evening. In the distance, she spotted a group of people walking along the street; their laughter rang in the air, loud and jarring. The disadvantages of living in a not-so-gated community. Perhaps a cul-de-sac in Karen would have been better for her tonight. The truth was that Sandy was jealous. How could anyone out there find happiness?

Just as she was about to close the window, she stopped short. There was a car parked outside their compound. The well-lit compound revealed a black saloon car. She imagined it belonged to Mr. Jared Nandwa, their neighbor. If it was Nandwa's then probably it was new. Nandwa had never once owned a car, he had always preferred to take the steepy hill to his house. Some form of exercise. Or maybe Nandwa had someone over. Ever since her father's death, Mr. Nandwa had taken to making impromptu visits. Every time, Sandy would catch the faint whiff of alcohol on his breath. "I thought I’d trim the grass in your garden. It's too tall; can’t have snakes hiding in here," he had said one morning when she was heading out to buy breakfast. "Isn’t it a bit early for that?" Sandy had replied, and he’d merely shrugged.

By her nightstand, Sandy heard the familiar sound of her phone ringing. She turned away from the window and picked it up. The caller ID revealed a call from Cynthia.

"What's up?"

"Well, hello to you too," Cynthia’s cheerful voice responded. Sandy caught music in the background.

"Where are you?" she asked.

"At Mark's place. The party is lit, dude. Oh no, not Simba again—he's all bratty, pissing everywhere."

Sandy stifled a laugh. "Mark hates your dog."

"Well, I hate his guts, so I guess that makes us even. Come by, just like old times. God, I missed you! Simba, please, not on the doormat! Oh, shit. Sorry, gotta go!" The line went dead before Sandy could respond.

Just like old times. She wondered whether she would find some good food.

Ten minutes later, Sandy slipped on her favorite white Avia sneakers, tiptoeing down the squeaky floorboards of the staircase, careful not to make a sound. It was a challenging task, considering her mother had uncanny hearing abilities. She had experienced a series of failed attempts in the past.

Not tonight, she hoped.

When she caught a glimpse of her mother's frame in the dining room, back leaned against the dining chair, she stopped in her tracks and watched her for a while, then continued to tiptoe to the door, quietly closing it behind her.

Outside, Sandy beelined towards her bicycle. She always parked it just outside their veranda. She disengaged the lock to the kickstand, pulled it forward and back, and then began to pedal Haley down the street. She careened to the left and right side until she got into a steady rhythm. Auburn braids bouncing up and down her shoulders.

The cold breeze of the night felt like a sweet caress on her face and neck. The whispers of the wind were gentle against her ears. She imagined it was the sound of summer on a beautiful Saturday. There was always something about riding Haley that brought her peace. It had a soothing effect, like flying free into the air with little to no care.

Sandy noticed a car following her when she was just a couple of blocks away from her home. The car relentlessly stayed on her trail, even when she turned onto the road that led to the east, where most of the community's upper-class members resided. She could still hear the car's engine roaring behind her, which sounded crude and creaky, much like the sound of a dying horse.

When she caught sight of her shadow dancing on the asphalt, headlights brighter against the pothole-ridden road, Sandy knew that she was only just inches away from the car. An abrupt stop would have the car ramming into her.

She felt uneasy and anxious, so she moved to the left side of the road and started cycling harder. Her back was arched, and her braids were flying wildly in the wind. She could feel her heart beating fast. When she looked back, she noticed that the car behind her had picked up speed. On taking a closer look, she saw something that sent shivers down her spine.

It was the same saloon car that she had seen parked just outside their compound.

Well, not Jared's visitor.

Sandy turned off the road and drove towards the narrow footpath that led to St. Austin Catholic Church. She took this shortcut to keep out of the road and lose the car. She went around the back of the building and followed a steep pavement that led to Bustani Estate, a small neighborhood with sturdy houses made of cerise sandstone. At night, the walls would gleam a brilliant scarlet, which gave off an exciting feeling that Sandy had not experienced in her old neighborhood.

A few minutes later, Sandy arrived at Mark's house. She could hear the loud and booming music from outside. She leaned Haley against the white picket fence and stood still for a little while, perhaps to catch her breath. She was sweating and realized she should have left her sweater behind.

As Sandy entered the house through the backdoor leading to the kitchen, she couldn't shake off the question on her mind - why was the car following her?

The kitchen was crowded with around five to seven people she barely knew. They seemed to be around her age, maybe even older at twenty-four. The smell of alcohol and cheap cologne filled the air as she squeezed her way to the kitchen island. She opened the sliding cabinet and took out a glass, then poured herself some water from the tap.

"There you are! I thought you had changed your mind."

Sandy looked up when she heard Cynthia's voice. Cynthia looked stunning with her perfectly primed face, large brown eyes, and a lovely cold-shoulder cotton print dress. Sandy couldn't help but feel a little self-conscious just by glancing at her. She scratched the crown of her head and offered a weak smile.

"Hell no! I wouldn't miss out on this."

"Have you been riding that old thing?"

"Haley is not old," argued Sandy, taking a sip of water. Her throat still felt dry and scratchy from all the cycling she had just done. She needed something stronger. From the corner of her eye, she saw a bottle of alcohol abandoned on the granite countertop. "How can you even tell?" she asked.

Cynthia looked at her with a critical eye, playfully raising her eyebrows. "Your cheeks appear to be frozen, almost like the teacher we had in primary school - David Kenga."

Sandy playfully jabbed Cynthia's shoulder. "How dare you! He was nice."

"His face wasn't."

Sandy laughed once more, leaning her elbows on the kitchen island. She got lost in thought for a moment, her mind wandering amidst the laughter and whispers of strangers in the room. The music was playing loud but it was bearable. When she turned back to Cynthia, she noticed that Cynthia was staring at her, her face etched with concern.

Cynthia asked, "What's wrong?"

Sandy swallowed hard, her voice tight, "Some car was following me."

"What?" Cynthia exclaimed in shock. "Are you certain about this?"

"Yeah."

"Why would anyone follow you?"

"I don't know. The crazy part is that I saw the car earlier. Parked just outside our compound."

When Mark approached them, Sandy stopped talking and started fidgeting uncomfortably in her shoes. Cynthia turned to Mark and asked, "What do you think of Sandy's cheeks?"

Sandy flushed. She stepped on Cynthia's foot. "Ignore her. She's crazy."

Cynthia was laughing so hard that she had to hold her stomach with one hand. Mark wore a broad smile and was looking directly at Sandy with his piercing dark eyes. Sandy's heart started racing, and she felt uneasy, shifting nervously from one foot to the other. Mark seemed to sense her discomfort because he decided to walk away and join a small group in the corner of the room. Sandy caught his glance before he turned his attention to his friends.

Cynthia asked, "Do you think it has something to do with your dad?"

Sandy's chest tightened as soon as her father was mentioned. She gripped the glass of water too tightly, causing her fingers to throb. "I don't know," she said.