“Samina, stretch your legs far apart and look underneath them. Now aim for the roof and throw your tooth from between your legs.”

​

It was the summer of 1998, and I was in the village. A molar had just come off, and I proudly showed it to Jacky, my older cousin. She instructed me to bend over and hurl the tooth from between my legs, aiming for the thatched roof. This I did.

​

“Now you have sent a message to the ancestors, and they will answer,” she said. “They will come pick your tooth, and a new one will grow in perfect form, better than the last.”

​

I was nine and believed everything my cousin told me. I promised myself I would keep tabs on the tooth but eventually forgot about it.

​

Twenty years later, I was seated in my house having a conversation with my girlfriend, Elena. We had met during the Gen Z finance bill protests of June 2024. I saw a young woman being knocked over by the water cannons sent to disperse the crowds. Pink chemical water lifted her cleanly off the ground. She landed hard on the pavement.

​

I captured the image. I assumed she would wake up like the others and keep running. But she writhed on the ground for too long. There was no one else around. Everyone had scattered.

​

So I approached her.

​

“Miss, you have to wake up,” I said, lifting her slightly. “Quick”.

She winced.

 

“Hurry, before the officers with the batons arrive.”

​

After the water cannons came the ruthless officers, beating anyone still in sight.

​

“My stomach,” she said. “It hurts. I can barely move.”

​

Noticing the urgency, I flagged down a motorbike.

​

“Carry her to wherever she wants to go,” I instructed the man, then turned to her. “My name is Samina. I work at The Uhuru Gazette. Take my number.”

​

She reached for her phone, but the screen was cracked, blinking blue. I remembered I had my business card and placed it in her hand. I watched them leave, then ran back toward the chants of the fearless youth.

​

“Not yet Uhuru!”

​

That slogan became the next day’s headline. The editor chose the image of the young woman midair, a pink mist surrounding her. Other protesters were scrambling, clothes soaked, fear written plainly on their faces.

​

I thought it would be the last time I’d see her. She called me that same afternoon, laughing.

​

“That water burns. My fingers are still tingling. Thank you. I don’t have serious injuries, just a few bruises from hitting the gravel.”

A pause.

“Do you want to go for dinner tomorrow night? Or any day you like.”

​

We met for cocktails. She told me she had finished campus three years earlier and was still job hunting.

​

“I studied Computer Science. Then Cyber Security. Do you know how many CVs I’ve sent? How many interviews?” She laughed without humour. “That’s why I went to the protests. I want a better Kenya. Not just for me, but for my children too.”

​

The rest, as they say, is history.

​

One year later, I was the one approaching her with a problem.

​

“For three weeks, Elena, I’ve been hearing someone call my name. At first it was low, like a whisper. Now it’s loud, disruptive. Samina. Samina. My coworkers think I’m losing it.”

​

I would hear my name and ask if anyone had called me. It happened too often.

​

“Maybe it’s your ancestors,” they joked. “Maybe they have a message.”

​

Elena had just moved in. She had finally found work at an IT firm. We were seated at the dining table.

​

“Sam,” she said carefully, “do you remember the story of Samuel in the Bible?”

​

I nodded.

​

“He kept hearing someone call his name. And the final time, his caretaker told him to answer. Maybe it was the Lord trying to reach him.”

​

I laughed. “You think God is calling me?”

​

“No, listen,” she said quickly. “I’m not saying that. I’m saying maybe next time, answer. Hear what the voice has to say.”

​

It didn’t take long. I was home alone on a Monday morning. Elena was at work. I’d spent the weekend covering the Safari Rally, and my boss had given me the day off.

​

Samina!

​

I jolted upright in bed. Usually I covered my ears with my blanket or my hands, but this time I remembered what Elena had said.

​

Sami-na…

​

“Yes,” I said, sitting up, staring into the space around me as if I might see the caller. “I’m Samina. Who am I talking to?”

​

Silence.

​

Then the reply came, and it shook me to my core.

​

My name is Zahra. Will you help me?

​

Heat flooded my body. Sweat broke out across my skin. My journalism instincts kicked in. I steadied myself and sat back on the bed.

​

“Yes,” I said. “Zahra. I can help you. What is the problem?” As if adjusting an antenna, I tilted my head.

​

We are being held captive. We are locked in a container. At a warehouse.

​

“How old are you? How many of you are there?”

​

I’m nineteen. We are mixed, boys and girls. I don’t know the number, but we are many. Shhh. They’re coming. I have to go.

​

“Wait. Don’t leave yet,” I called.

​

The silence stayed. I sat on my bed, waiting for Zahra to reach out again. She didn’t. I searched missing persons reports on my laptop. In the past six months alone, there were over five hundred cases. But there was no Zahra. Elena arrived from work at half past five, and I told her immediately.

​

“Now that’s crazy,” she said, dropping the groceries on the counter. “I thought you were carrying a prophecy, not… this.”

​

We laughed, but my anxiety sat close to the surface.

​

“Okay,” she said, steadying herself. “Let’s go through the missing persons database. Did she give you a second name?”

​

“No. Just Zahra. Nineteen.”

​

Elena frowned. “If there are boys and girls, that sounds like trafficking. Next time she calls, ask if she knows where they’re being held.”

​

It didn’t take long. Three days later, I was seated in the cafeteria, halfway through my lunch, when I heard it.

​

Samina.

​

I looked around. Then it clicked.

​

“Zahra?”

​

Yes.

​

I slipped my phone to my ear. A few colleagues sat nearby.

​

“Do you know where you are?” I asked. “And how did you find me?”

​

I saw the road through a hole in the lorry door when they moved us. It’s near my home.

​

Silence. I gripped the phone, let out a short laugh.

​

“Zahra…”

​

I found you through an article. We’re given food wrapped in newspapers. One had your name.

​

“Where exactly are you?”

​

Enterprise Road. Industrial Area. There’s a company that makes spices. My mum used to work here. I have to go. He’s coming.

​

“No,” I said too loudly. A few heads turned. “Talk later. I’ll call you after work.”

​

I lowered the phone and exhaled.

​

Industrial Area was vast. A quick search showed over fifty spice companies. Enterprise Road was crowded with spice warehouses, too many to narrow down. The description was thin, almost useless, and yet it carried the weight of a desperate voice.

​

That night, I was in the shower when I heard it again.

​

Samina?

​

This time I didn’t hesitate.

​

“Yes, Zahra.” I turned off the water, soap sliding down my arms.

​

I was taken during the protests. Police rounded us up in the CBD. We weren’t taken to a station. First a camp. Then here.

​

“You mean the finance bill protests?” I asked. “This year?”

​

Yes. They take some of us every day. Those taken never return. When we arrived, the container was full. Now there are about twenty of us.

​

“I need more,” I said. “Do you know the company name?”

​

Yes. Savanna Foods.

​

“And your second name?”

​

Juma.

​

Silence.

​

Samina, please hurry. Today might be my last day.

​

*****

​

“Sam, absolutely not,” Elena said when I told her. “Don’t even think about it. You want to chase a voice in your head?”

​

“It’s worth checking,” I said. “What if this is real? What if they need help?”

​

She paced the room, biting her lower lip.

​

“You want to accuse a corporation based on nothing?” she said. “I searched for Zahra Juma. There’s no report. No missing person. Nothing.”

​

She stopped in front of me.

​

“The time of prophets is over, Samina.” She rarely used my full name. “You’re not psychic. You’re not receiving visions. I think you need to see a doctor.”

​

I stood and stepped onto the balcony.

​

“Sam, wait. I’m sorry. That came out wrong.”

​

“I’ll sleep in the guest room.”

​

Part of me knew she wasn’t wrong. What if this was trauma? The bodies, the blood, the screaming crowds. We’d been offered counseling after the protests. I’d been shattered after 2024. I promised myself I’d stay behind a desk in 2025.

​

“Maybe I’m hallucinating,” I said aloud.

​

No, you aren’t. I’m real.

​

A chill ran down my spine.

​

“Zahra?”

​

Yes.

​

“I’m trying to help,” I said. “Can I go to the authorities? Your family?”

​

No authorities. They’re involved. I heard them. Police. Politicians. We’re not being trafficked. We’re being killed. They want no trace left. They mock us.

​

Silence.

​

“Zahra?” I said. “Talk to me.”

​

They say we want to overthrow the government. That we must be an example. That we’ll never see our families again. Samina?

​

“Yes?”

​

I am an orphan. No one is coming for me.

​

The next day, I packed my bags. I hesitated, then chose the smaller camera instead of the larger one. I looked down at my fingers. They were shaking. My heart hammered against my chest. I closed my eyes and prayed.

​

“Please, God. You’ve protected me all this while. Walk with me today.”

​

“There’s no way to talk you out of this, right?”

​

Elena stood in the doorway. I glanced at her, then continued packing.

​

“No,” I said. “I’d rather be wrong than ignore this.”

​

She crossed the room and hugged me, catching me off guard.

​

“Here,” she said, fastening a silver pendant around my neck. It felt heavier than it looked, cool against my skin. Elena smiled, but her eyes lingered on it longer than usual, as if she was waiting for me to notice something.

​

“I planned to give this to you on your birthday, but…” Her voice trailed off. “I love you, Sam.”

​

“I love you too,” I replied. I couldn’t meet her eyes.

​

“Take my car,” she said. “It’s faster.”

​

She saw me off.

​

Late July was unforgivingly cold. I cupped my hands and breathed into them. It was just past 4 p.m. when I parked near Savanna Foods. In the side mirror, the blue gate loomed. Big. Intimidating. The yard was deserted. No guards. No workers.

 

Industrial Area rarely slept. Even at night, factories hummed. But between shifts, around five o’clock, things slowed. I knew this well. Straight after high school, I had worked as a clerk at a nearby paper mill.

​

Somehow, despite the tension coiled in my body, I fell asleep.

​

Samina. Wake up.

​

I startled awake.

​

Samina!

​

I scanned the area. The clock read 5:30 p.m.

​

The guards are changing shifts. The gate is empty. Go.

​

I grabbed my camera and scrambled out of the car. The guard station was deserted, just as she said. I slipped inside.

​

Straight ahead. Zahra guided. Then left. Warehouse Z. We’re in a red container.

​

I moved slowly. Inside the main building, a receptionist sat on the phone. I crouched lower and ran across the grass. Warehouse Z was tall and grey. Machinery hummed inside. The air smelled of pilau masala. I tried the door. It wasn’t locked. I slipped in.

​

Dim yellow bulbs flickered overhead. To my right sat a desk stacked with documents. Straight ahead stood a red container, rusted, its paint peeling.

​

Open the side drawer. Zahra said. There’s a key. Yellow holder. Labelled ‘Inventory’.

​

My chest tightened. Everything was happening too fast. My nose burned. I sniffed, then froze as voices passed outside. I pressed myself against the desk. The voices moved on. The key was exactly where she said it would be.

​

“Unbelievable,” I whispered.

​

I rushed to the container. A cough came from inside. That was enough. I inserted the key and turned it. Click. The smell hit first. Damp. Chlorine. Rot. Dust made me sneeze. Wide scared eyes stared back at me. There were about fifty of them. Young. Cramped together. Newspaper clippings littered the floor. Many were bruised, swollen and bleeding.

​

“Zahra,” I called.

​

No answer.

​

“My name is Sam,” I said. “I’m a journalist with The Uhuru Gazette. I’m here to help.”

​

I raised my camera. The tension softened, just slightly.

​

“Is Zahra here?”

​

They looked at one another. No one spoke.

​

“I’m going to get you out,” I said.

​

“Miss,” one of the men whispered, pointing behind me.

​

I turned. Pain exploded across my forehead.

​

*****

​

Cold water splashed my face. I gasped awake. I was seated in a small room under harsh white light. Moths circled the bulb, casting warped shadows. My head throbbed. My wrists were bound behind the chair.

​

“Wake up, sleeping beauty.”

​

A figure stepped into view, blocking the light. The Minister of Defence.

​

“What brings you to this part of town?” he asked. “Why are you sticking your nose into things that don’t concern you?”

​

The stench of liquor clung to his breath. I gagged. He picked up a tag from the table.

​

“Samina Thamani. Senior Investigative Correspondent. The Uhuru Gazette.”

​

He slammed it down. Papers scattered.

​

“We found your car,” he said calmly. “You’re not leaving here alive. We’ve dealt with journalists like you before. Just like we’ll deal with those noisy children.”

​

He stepped closer. I felt cold air against my chest. My shirt was undone. My bra exposed. His eyes lingered. He smiled. He traced a finger along my cleavage, then toyed with the pendant Elena had given me.

​

“Don’t worry,” he said. “After I’m done, my boys will take care of you.”

​

I flinched and he laughed.

​

“But first,” he said, “who gave you the lead?”

​

Silence. A slap cracked across my face. My head rang. Tears rolled down my cheeks.

​

“No one,” I said. “I followed the trucks from the barracks.”

​

He paced the room, then stopped behind me.

​

“Samina,” he said softly. “You won the 2024 Taifa Media Prize. Your reporting on the protests cost us investors. They called us unstable.”

​

He leaned closer.

​

“You are very expensive, my dear.”

​

He tilted my head back, forcing me to face him.

​

“We put a bounty on your head,” he said. “Five million dollars for killing you. Do you know what that means?”

​

Death had never truly frightened me. I had always thought of it as part of life. An equilibrium. Where life exists, death follows. But I had always prayed that when death came, it would be swift. Looking at the rage contorting the minister’s face, I knew it wouldn’t be.

​

He locked his arm around my neck, pressing hard against my throat. Heat surged from my feet up through my body, flooding my face. My vision blurred. My eyes bulged. Breath came in ragged gasps. The more I struggled, the tighter his grip became. Tears spilled as darkness crept in.

​

Then a knock.

​

“Minister, stop! Come out. Now!”

​

“What?” he barked, releasing me.

​

I collapsed to the floor, clawing for air. Through my haze, I saw his shoes move toward the door. A man stood outside, phone in hand.

​

“Sir,” he said urgently, “someone is recording us. Live. From inside this room. It’s on CNN.”

​

The door shut, but their voices carried.

​

“What?” the minister yelled. “That bitch. Has my face been captured?”

​

“Yes, sir. The feed’s been running for over an hour.”

​

“Fuck.”

​

I heard frantic pacing.

​

“We leave,” he said. “Now. Leave everything.”

​

Footsteps thundered away. Engines roared to life. Then silence. Pain radiated through every inch of my body. My arms were numb. I rested my cheek against the cold floor and slipped into darkness.

​

*****

​

When I woke up, I was in a hospital bed. Elena’s face was the first thing I saw.

​

“You scared me,” she said, pulling me into her arms. I breathed in her familiar floral scent and felt myself return to my body.

​

“I’m sorry,” she said softly, her fingers brushing the pendant at my neck. “I had to. I bugged the car too. I’m sorry I doubted you.”

​

Later, at home, she handed me a newspaper. A lump still throbbed on my forehead. I had been discharged with painkillers and orders to rest.

​

“Look,” she said. “You saved over eight hundred people. All missing since the demonstrations last month. There were other containers in that warehouse.”

​

“Your feed saved me,” I said. “Without it, I’d be in the morgue. Or erased.”

​

Then the question rose, heavy in my chest.

​

“Zahra,” I asked. “Was she among them?”

​

Elena didn’t answer. She picked up her tablet.

​

“I found her missing persons post,” she said quietly. “Her cousin shared it using her nickname. That’s why we couldn’t trace her.”

I studied the photo. The date caught my eye.

​

“This is from last year,” I said.

​

Elena pulled out another newspaper. It was the article with the water cannon photograph.

​

“Look here,” she said, pointing to the far right. A girl was running; toothpaste smeared beneath her eyes.

​

“Zahra,” I whispered.

​

Elena nodded.

​

“One month after the post,” she said, “her cousin updated it. Zahra was found dead at the city mortuary. Her body showed clear signs of torture. The official report says hit and run.”

​

We stared at each other as the truth settled between us. On the television, the Minister of Defence stood before a podium.

​

“I don’t know who is trying to tarnish my name,” he said. “That man in the footage isn’t me. I was out of the country. Here’s my passport. I was on holiday in Paris.”

​

That night, after friends left, I lay staring at the ceiling. The kitchen shutter banged open as the wind rushed through. Something tugged at me.

​

“Zahra?” I whispered.

​

Then, softly:

​

Yes, Samina.

​

I remember the tooth.

I remember the roof.

​

You called.

​

And now I can answer.