The United Nations Office of the High Commissioner for Human Rights claimed it had received preliminary information from an anonymous witness that the Kenya Defence Forces were, for several weeks, on the offensive towards civilian locals in El Adde before the massacre.

Bill Odhiambo is a survivor of the 2016 military massacre in El Adde, which wiped out over a hundred Kenyan soldiers and left him crippled. Ostracised from the public by the Miles’ regime and forced to lead a quiet life in Busia Town, Bill suffers from post-traumatic stress disorder, constantly blaming himself for what took place in Somalia. He desires to reveal the faces and truth behind the bloodbath and find justice for himself and his fellow fallen soldiers. The UN’s claim that a survivor is under constraints by the Kenyan government breathes new life into the saga.

“But why don’t all these Kenyans, if they are so miserable, go back home?” she asked.“Pride. You have been here only a few months, and you hate it, but if I asked you to go back, would you?”“Of course not,” she said curtly. “Europe may not be all that, but it is better than being stuck in Mukuru kwa Reuben. At least now, I can send my mother enough money to get her off the daily, punishing market grind.”It was hard to explain how she could hate London so much, yet have no desire to return home. It was like refusing to walk out on an abusive relationship.

It was a job at the reception, in a company that sold land. Nothing to do with what she had spent too much of Mr Muthama’s money studying. She hated the job on the first day, and every day after that. Within a couple of months, she started to seriously consider leaving the country. To America. So she started saving money for a passport, for a visa application, to improve her bank account.She had been ill-equipped for the interview, and it had taken the immigration officer at the American Embassy less than a minute to decide she was a flight risk.A friend had advised her to get another passport under a different name, which she did with no qualms once she realised she would not be the first, nor the last. Biometric technology had not made a global mark, 9/11 had not happened, thus the world was not as suspicious.

In September, I wouldn’t be going to City Hall as the new legislative councillor from Nairobi West, but to the “Twin Towers” of Kimathi Street as the new arts editor of the Weekly Review magazine. On Sunday, I would pay Danny Boy and his crew to undo everything we had done over the past couple of months—take posters off the street walls, get the banners off the roads, and so on. In short, I would be doing “the Lord’s work” in the eyes of my rivals, some of whom had already been doing it for themselves (Satan also helps those who help themselves, as I have come to learn in this lifetime).But first, I had one last commitment to keep.

Esther had been told, now and then, that she had a beautiful smile, but it was not often that she found a reason to smile. As she looked at her passport, she knew that not only had Lady Luck smiled upon her, she had, for good measure, also thrown in a happy giggle. In her little palms, she held her passage to the United Kingdom – wealth and good life were beckoning. She thought about how it would be like to not live in poverty, which had stalked her life like a shadow. It was the same poverty that had stalked generations before her.