This is the second instalment of Dennis Odhiambo's novel, The Perpetual Sunrise, which is based on the massacre of Kenyan troops in the Somali town of El Adde in 2016. His main character, Bill Odhiambo, survives the massacre but is left crippled and suffering from post-traumatic stress disorder.

That very afternoon, Hossana eagerly rushed to the post office to collect the letters that had already been delivered. Bill was over the moon as he knew his long-overdue letter was waiting for him in the mailbox. He had been pondering over this moment for weeks and had been eagerly waiting for the news that would help him weave a perfect future for himself. While he had initially thought of involving the church, he soon realised that Hossana was the most important person in his life and deserved the most significant share of what he owned. With no other dependents besides Hossana, Bill was determined to make the most of the opportunity that lay ahead. Leah, once his beloved, was now an American, and he knew that she no longer cared about him.

Heart racing, Bill waited anxiously for Hossana’s return. It was at that moment that he remembered the newspaper story. He wheeled his chair to the bedroom and picked the paper from the pile onto which he had dropped it. He unfolded it, and there it was—the publication that had taken him aback. His youthful image along with those of three other prominent soldiers who perished in El Adde imploringly stared at him. Above them was the headline: Forgotten mess? The UN accuses Kenya of covering up military injustices in El Adde, not compensating victim families.

Still wondering why his picture was attached to the story, he flipped through to the page that bore the whole story and read silently. 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 on January 15, 2016. The human rights body spelled out that it was carrying out investigations on allegations of the security forces committing crimes against humanity in foreign soil.

Further, it claimed that many victim families of the massacre had not been compensated to date and that the government was withholding important information about the fate and whereabouts of the three pictured prominent soldiers, previously pronounced dead. It believed that there was a survivor, among the three, whose voice had been suppressed and whose military prowess had not been recognised and honoured by the government.

Bill’s soul quavered at these. Who was this witness who was privy to such closely-guarded information? He had truly been alienated from the public and forced to lead a lonely life in the boondocks, yet he thought few knew about it. Not that he did not cherish life in the silent dusty countryside; to be given no freedom to make his choices was what abhorred him. To him, this story had come at the right time.

He folded back the newspaper and tossed it onto the stack. As he sat there still for a moment, memories of his past life flooded his mind, and he could not help but think of the only woman he had ever loved—Faridah. He had met her years ago along Tom Mboya Street in Nairobi, and she had captured his heart from the moment he laid his eyes on her. It was Sunday morning, and they had been given a rare day off the gruelling work of nation-building.

As he ran down the street, he saw her, and his heart skipped a beat. His mind went blank, and he stood rooted to the ground, struggling to crane his neck across the street, just to catch a glimpse of her breath-taking sight. His heart pounded in his chest as he watched her cross the road. The speeding motorists almost knocked him down. Hers was a winsome sight worth risking for.

For sure, Faridah was a vision of beauty. She was a lithe and lively young woman who knew how to turn heads. He could not keep his eyes away from her dazzling petite bodycon dress that exposed her plump and spell-binding curves.

“She must be the mother of my children... I must prove what I can do,” he thought.

With a sudden burst of courage, he changed direction and headed after her.
"Hello, beautiful one,” he greeted.
“Alright. No problem at all. Do I know you?”
"I guess not. I’m Bill Odhiambo.”
“Oh, sorry, I'm Faridah Hamadi... I'm a teacher of English and literature.”

She extended her hand for a shake, and their palms met. For the first time in two decades, he felt spasms of love race down his spinal cord.
"I'm a serviceman on the Heroes Team... We work hand in hand with the Kenya Defence Forces to eradicate threats directed at our motherland," he said.
"Come on! You're being whimsical," she giggled.

It was a beautiful moment when he finally proposed to her, and she said yes without hesitation. In December 1996, they exchanged vows at the All Saints Cathedral in Nairobi, surrounded by their loved ones. After their wedding, the two settled into a mansion in one of the city's suburbs. Bill made sure that the queen of his heart was not only fed with a silver spoon but also bathed in milk and honey.

Faridah, too, did her best in her capacity to prove her worth. She decided to pull the plug on her teaching contract and concentrate solely on her marriage. This, at first, caught Bill by surprise, but soon he was forced to take it as a complement to their nuptial bliss. His mother, however, was tongue-tied upon learning that her daughter-in-law had resigned from her teaching job. Still, she gave them her open heart to perch on.

"Papa, I got only this. It's from Dr Miles," Hossana said.

Bill knew that the letter had brought him despondent news. For how long was he going to wait for his promised compensation and other retirement benefits when none were near fulfilment? He felt deceived.

"Is it the only one?"
"Yes... and papa, what's PSTD?”

"It's good you've already read it... go get some water. We'll talk about it tonight."

"Papa... I adore you. Please… never leave me.”

This got Bill perplexed.
"Son, I can't wish for death... your father is the jungle master. These palms wrestled down the white men. How could I surrender to death?"

He unzipped his shirt, revealing his medal.
"In the Heroes Team, our motto was: 'A true soldier dies in war and not in captivity'... No situation is permanent, my boy.”

"Indeed," Hossana responded.

"Pure natural water... mtungi mbao, minne sabini,” the water vendor announced.

Hossana stormed out with two jerrycans.
"My salary?" the vendor asked.
Hossana handed him fifty shillings.
"I don't have change. I'll bring the money tomorrow."

He walked away triumphantly, convinced he might not return. He wished he could get an opportunity to spend a night in that enchanting villa. He knew just enough about the man’s lineage.

Bill watched from the window. His heart bled. He had brooked some rumours since his childhood, that his real father was from the man’s lineage. He remembered those days when his parents would have late-night quarrels. His surrogate father would beat up his mother and demand for children. Whenever the conversation was heated, he would yell at her, asking her to take her bastard and leave his property.

When Bill grew up, he began asking his mother about his paternal roots. Every time, she would break into a deep sob. So he stopped asking and instead listened to gossips, gathering that someone from Jefferson’s extended family was his real father. He had often longed to ask him, but he did not quite know how.

That night, he was no longer the same talkative man. He barely touched the mountain of ugali that stood in front of him. He only ate the bananas. He saw no meaning in life. He worried about his ultimate fate with his only daughter, Leah, who had chosen to hide her face from him.

Dejected, he propelled his wheelchair to his bedroom. Hossana was long gone, and he was left soaked in loneliness.

While he wrestled to put on his pyjamas, it struck him again: the disease. The letter from Dr Miles called it Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder (PSTD). Dr Miles had said that he urgently wished to see him, but on what grounds? The country was full of backstabbers who lurked from door to door, disguising themselves as Good Samaritans. Moreover, with the recently published newspaper story, he had every reason to be wary.

He resolved to take great caution so as not to throw Hossana's future to the wind.

In his bed, he turned and tossed. He later pulled out the dusty King James Bible and began reading: “Come unto me, all ye that labour and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest.” For some minutes, he wondered whether it meant that he was to run to his foe, Father John, or whether he was to travel the way of every man.

At about 2 a.m., he fell sound asleep.

Amidst the chaos and revelry at Mafanikio Bar, Jefferson's senses were suddenly jolted awake. A sea of partygoers, in a mad rush to leave, surrounded him, but he was still feeling the effects of the gin he had imbibed all night. As he sat there, trying to get his bearings, his attention was drawn to a young, half-dressed woman who was snoring loudly beside him. He could not help but feel that she was out of place here and that her youthful appearance was a stark contrast to the seedy environment of Mama Pima's den.

Just as he was about to resign himself to the situation, he heard a commotion at the door. Flanked by five kanjo askaris, the bartender walked in. Her face was a mask of confusion and fear. The threat of losing all her hard-earned profits was enough to make her panic. But the bartender was no rookie. While the kanjo askaris dug deeper into her pockets, she remained calm and collected, knowing that she had the skills to keep her business afloat.

“Where's your licence?” the officer demanded.
“I was recently handed another permit,” she said firmly.
“Well, I see, but that doesn't mean you're running away with this. No one here is clean. Now tell me, what time is it?”

She apologised profusely, explaining that she had meant to close earlier but had been forced to offer accommodation.
“Mama! Whatever you say doesn't overrule the fact that you've gone against the law,” he replied.
“But sir, this is my only means of livelihood.”
“No one is above the law...”

“I have this, three thousand.”
“Only! Top it up with my lunch... Fifty bob!”
“Here, sir!”

They made their way down the street, the weight of their troubles momentarily lifted. She stood at the door, watching them until their long Leviathan backs faded. Inside, she seethed with anger at their cruel bosses.

Determined to shake off her thoughts, she made her way to where the two lay. The girl was already up, but the man was lost in thoughts. They both shared a sense of emptiness and despair. But at that moment, with the sun breaking through the clouds, they found a glimmer of hope.

Jefferson, sensing it was time to return home, shot up. He tried making a step, but his legs could not move. He collapsed into one of the loose seats.
“Mama Pima! Mama Pima!”
“Yes! What's it, Jefferson?”
“Get me a quarter... ya kutoa lock.”

She stood still. His bill was growing, now totaling Ksh9,500.
“I'll pay you... before the end of the week,” he implored.
“My son is going to pay.”
“Jefferson, I know all your sons can't! That's a naked lie.”
“My son... the hero of Kenya... he shall pay!”
“Are you talking about Bill Odhiambo?”

“With this deceptive economy, what use is the radio? I... will not waste my beer time listening to corrupt reporters.”

“Well,” she said, “I heard the news about his arrest.”
“What are you saying? My son is dead!”
“He has been accused of treason.”

“Bill is definitely still alive,” Jefferson replied. “All those rumours are distractions. His disappearance is part of a bigger conspiracy.”

“We have to keep the quest for truth alive,” he continued. “A nation's strength lies in its military... but here, it's different. They're after my son because he knows something.”

“What could he possibly know?”
“He knows the answer to a riddle... Bill is the only one who can drive Kenya forward.”

He sipped his drink, bitter thoughts succeeding each other. Finally, he resolved to go back home. He scribbled something and handed it to her.
“Is that it? Ten thousand?”
“Yes. When?”
“We shall pay... after he's released.”

Outside, the weather was wet and foggy. His body was growing numb. He wandered in the street, feeling like a lost soul. His aim was to reach home on time.

At a distance, he saw the rooftop of Bill’s residence. The compound was troubled. Naomi was in tears while Hosanna helplessly watched. Unbeknownst to them, their saviour was back.

It was 2 p.m. The new guest of state sat still, his eyes glaring at the blood-stained walls. At the reporting desk, the man on duty appeared lost in thought. The headline read: Kenya’s democracy ranked fifth worldwide.

“Damn, that is mockery,” he thought. “Justice and democracy in this country are still an illusion.”

All this while, Bill silently watched him. He had to do it.

“Sir... get me some water, please.”
“Not here, Mr Drunkard!”
“I did no offence, sir... I’m faultless.”

The man laughed.
“Would you shut up!”
“Whatever you're planning will never come to pass... I want to help you review your choices.”

“Boss promised me land when I retire,” the officer replied. “Why should I trust you?”

“I’m buying my freedom from you,” Bill said. “Take this.”
“What? A watch!”

“Unshackle me and I’ll show you the rest.”

The officer hesitated, then unlocked the door and manacles. Bill opened the watch. Inside were tiny prisms of a precious stone.

“Diamond!” the man exclaimed.
“Take me to a collector called Simon. Take only half.”

“Alright. Let’s go.”

The deal was struck. Bill had won, but not all his wars.

Hossana and Jefferson left the police station distressed. They had been told that Bill had escaped with an officer. They searched the town but found nothing. Eventually, they reached the deserted Murumba market, where demolition had begun.

“That was where my house used to stand,” Jefferson said, pointing at the wreckage.

“Look at that baobab tree!” he cried, tears streaming down his cheeks. “When I look at it, I see my mother... my siblings... It’s here where my miseries escalated.”

“What happened?” Hossana asked.

“He killed them all... My father was intoxicated. There were gasoline jerrycans in the house. He blew up the hut... They were reduced to ashes.”

“I escaped narrowly. I was preparing for my exams.”

“How did it end up so?”
“It was Sunday. We had fetched gasoline from an overturned truck. By noon, we had filled jerrycans. We thought we were rich. That night, Pa came home drunk... Maybe he lit the cigar in the hut.”

“The firefighters?”
“They never showed up... not even a sign of them to date.”

“They were all reduced to ashes in front of my eyes,” he continued. “No government officer showed up.”

“I’m so sorry, Jefferson.”
“Me? Lucky to be alive? It would have been better if I died with them that day than live to witness this.”

“I’m sorry. Let’s continue searching.”
“Well. I know Bill is fine. He's smart.”

They marched away again like tumbling blasts of wind, each carrying a past too heavy to escape.

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