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Sandy Muiru looked down at her plate with a scowl. Was it just her or should food prepared at home be better than those sold in tiny campus canteens? She had barely cooked kale, boiled beans, and a fistful-sized ugali on her plate.

Her mother, Tricia Muiru, regarded Sandy with a curled lip. "Stop exaggerating. This is healthy. Something you need to consider with the way you now look."

"What's with the way I look?" Sandy tugged roughly at the edges of her grey woolen sweater. The wick of her mouth twisted into a plausible sneer.

Well, she had to give it to her mom. It was only just two days since she was back at the house, and here she was. Picking flaws. Like she cared.

As Tricia watched Sandy from across the dining table, she thought whether it was the right time to bring up the subject.

But was there ever a right time?

"You are not looking quite like yourself," She began in a whisper, hoping to sound understanding, that whatever happened six months ago was no one's fault, and most especially not her daughter's fault.

But she could tell. It did entirely the opposite. "You look wanly and very thin. It's almost as though you haven't been eating back at the university. You need help."

"Now I need help. Would you look at that?"

"Your aunt, Harriet. She said you could attend her therapy sessions. It would do you good."

Sandy flinched. "Do me good? How's that even possible? Tell me?"

"If you just tried a lit_"

Sandy interrupted. Her throat ached. "Try looking at yourself in the mirror before you start pointing at me." Sandy could feel tears at the back of her eyes.

Silence. More silence.

Tricia fumbled with words in her mouth. Her tongue was heavy. Brown eyes were laden by the light. She didn't respond. She stared at her plate.

Sandy pushed her chair behind and emptied her plate into the bin beneath the sink. "Therapy won't bring Dad back from the dead."

With that, she rushed out of the dining room, raced up the staircase, and banged the door shut to her bedroom.

She sat at the edge of her bed, chest heaving, arms fisted.

So what if she had lost a couple of pounds? Who wouldn't, given the situation? If anything, this was her dealing with the situation. It wasn't her fault that food just didn't taste the same way ever since the accident.

The loud whirring of the curtains stirred Sandy from the bed. She walked to the open window. She shivered as the cold wind crept to her frame. She stared briefly at the black starless sky. It was around 7:30 in the evening. In the distance, she caught a group of people walking along the street. Their laughter rang in the air. She was about to close the window when she stopped short.

She saw something. A car. Parked just outside their compound. The compound was well-lit into the night. She could tell the color and the make of the car. A black saloon car. The neighbour's visitor. The last time Sandy checked, Mr. Jared Nandwa had grown accustomed to many night visits ever since his separation from his wife. In the morning, when he'd swing by to say hello to her mother, Sandy would catch a whiff of alcohol.

By the nightstand, Sandy heard the familiar sound of her phone. She turned away from the window and picked it up. A close look revealed the call was from Cynthia, her best friend.

"Hey. What's up?"

"Well, hello to you too," came Cynthia's cheery voice. Sandy could hear noises in the background.

"Where are you at?"

"At Mark's place. The party is lit, dude. No, no, not there. Eric is acting all bratty, pissing everywhere."

Sandy caught back a laugh, "Mark hates your dog."

"Well, I hate his guts. So I guess that makes us equal. Come by. Just like old times. God, I missed you. Eric, please, not on the doormat. Oh, shit. Sorry, gotta go." The line went dead before Sandy could say anything.

Just like old times.

Ten minutes later, Sandy had her favorite white Avia Sneakers on, tiptoeing down the squeaky floorboards of the staircase, careful not to make a sound. This was a painful act considering how her mother had alien hearing abilities. Let's just say she had had a series of failed attempts in the past.

Not tonight, though. She hoped.

When she caught 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 she was staring at her, her face etched with concern. "What's wrong?" Sandy asked.

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. However, Mark seemed to sense her discomfort and decided to walk away to join a small group in the corner of the room. Sandy caught his glance before he turned his attention to his friends.

Cynthia asked suddenly, "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.


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