Chapter 13 – The Courier's Shadow
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Smith stood near the old monument in Uhuru Park, hands in his pockets, the midday sun casting long shadows across the grass. People moved around him—families picnicking, vendors calling out, couples strolling under the trees.
The normal rhythm of Nairobi continued, oblivious to his racing heart. He checked his phone again. 12:15 p.m. No new message. The uncertainty clawed at him, sharper than the caller's threats.
Had he misunderstood? Was this silence the "consequence" the caller promised? Or was it a test—to see if he would wait, if he was truly committed?
He scanned the crowd, looking for anyone who seemed out of place. A young man in a blue hoodie lingered near a bench, but he walked on. A woman with a bag glanced his way, but she kept moving. Nothing.
12:20 p.m. Smith's doubt deepened. The tiredness from the all-nighter made everything feel heavier, his judgement clouded. The caller's words echoed: I needed you tired. It keeps judgement sharp. Was this part of it? Forcing him to wait, to second-guess, to break a little more?
He pulled out his phone, fingers hovering over the unknown number.
Should he message? Demand answers? Or was that exactly what the caller wanted—another sign of weakness?
A voice broke his thoughts.
"Smith Wesson?"
He turned. A young woman in a simple sundress and sunglasses stood a few metres away, holding a small backpack. She looked ordinary—early twenties, casual, nothing screaming danger.
"Who are you?" Smith asked, keeping his distance.
The young woman shrugged. "Doesn't matter. I'm just the messenger. He said you'd have something for me."
Smith's grip tightened on the envelope in his bag. He had printed hardcopies of the pictures about the documents this morning, the ones he had carefully selected. He pulled it out, checked if the seal was in place, then handed it over.
"Here," he said. "The records. As requested."
The courier took the envelope, patted it slightly, then nodded.
"Good. He'll be in touch."
She turned to leave.
"Wait," Smith said. "Tell him I want answers. Who he is. Why he's doing this."
The courier paused, then turned back with a small smile. "He said you'd ask that. The answer is simple: the Wessons decide who eats and who starves. You're part of that. Until you choose to stop."
The young woman melted into the crowd without another word.
Smith remained by the monument, the words ringing in his ears. The caller wasn't done. This was just the first step.
His phone vibrated.
Unknown: Well played, Smith, well played.
Smith's blood ran cold. Had the caller noticed that the records were well picked? Was he nearby, then? He must be; the courier had just left.
He sank onto the bench, the park spinning slightly from fatigue. The handover was done. The caller had the records. But the message about the all-nighter, the waiting at the park—it all felt like part of a larger plan. To keep him off-balance, disoriented, doubting.
A familiar voice pulled him from his thoughts.
"Smith?"
He looked up. Jenny stood there, a small bag over her shoulder, her expression surprised. "What are you doing here? Skipping class?"
Smith blinked, forcing a smile. "Just… needed some air. What about you?"
She sat beside him, tilting her head. "Same. Family stuff again. Sometimes you just need to get out, right? Clear your head before everything comes crashing down." Her words hit oddly close. Smith nodded. "Yeah. Crashing down. You okay?"
Jenny shrugged, her smile genuine. "I will be. It's like you said… long nights make everything feel heavier. But you keep going. No choice, really." She continued, "You should rest, Smith. You look worse than this morning. My father used to say tired minds are prone to mistakes and misjudgements."
Smith studied her for a moment. The way she phrased it—it sounded almost like the caller's words. But that was paranoia talking. Jenny was just a friend, dealing with her own troubles.
"Anyway," she said, standing up. "I should go. See you in class tomorrow?"
"Yeah," Smith said. "See you."
As Jenny started to leave, blending into the park crowd, his phone vibrated again.
Unknown: Check your bag.
Smith frowned, reaching into his bag. His fingers brushed something new—a small envelope he hadn't put there. He pulled it out, heart pounding.
Inside were pictures: his father, Theodore, shaking hands with rich figures in a dimly lit room. The problem was, these figures were arrested three years back for corruption.
Notes on the back: Your family, shaking hands with the corrupt yet they preach about dangers of corruption.
Smith's breath caught. Someone had planted it. During the handover?
While he was distracted?
Or earlier—at the manor, in his room, when he had been reviewing records?
Could it have happened in class? When Jenny sat beside him? When Marcus clapped him on the shoulder and he looked away for a second?
The possibilities spiraled.
Cold and sharp, impossible to pin down.
Who had touched the bag?
How close had they been?
Had he walked past them in the park without noticing?
Or was it someone he had trusted?
The questions refused to settle. They only multiplied like amoeba.
He closed the envelope, hands slightly trembling.
Another day without answers. Only doubt.