THE ANSWERED CALL

 THE ANSWERED CALL

The phone kept vibrating, the buzzing sound scraping against Sarah’s raw nerves. The practitioner stepped closer, his face darkening with impatience. "I told you to turn that off. Now." He said. Sarah’s hand shot out. Instead of hitting the end-call button, her thumb slid across the green icon. She pressed the phone tightly to her ear, her knuckles white. "David?" Sarah whispered frantically. "Sarah? Sarah, please don't hang up. I’m so sorry. I know I’ve been distant. I’ve been terrified, but I talked to Tabitha. She made me see things clearly. We need to talk. I’m coming over to Wendani right now." David was on the other end, his voice breathless and cracked with emotion. "David, you're too late. I’m... I’m not at the bedsitter." Sarah said softly, a sob escaping her throat. On the other side of the line, David heard the sharp, metallic clink of a tray moving. He stopped walking. "What do you mean you're not home? Sarah, where are you? What is that noise?" David sounded very worried. "Hang up that phone! Are you crazy? You want to bring the police to my doorstep?" The practitioner tried snatching Sarah's arm, his voice a harsh whisper. David heard the strange man's voice through the speaker. Panicked, he began to shout. "Sarah! Who is that? Are you at a clinic? Don't do anything, please! Tell me where you are!" Sarah was now crying openly, shrinking away from the practitioner "I couldn't face my parents, David. You weren't picking up... I didn't know what else to do." The Practitioner aggressively grabbed the phone from her hand "This session is over." He said. He disconnected the call, throwing the phone onto the chair. He glared at Sarah, his demeanor completely stripped of any professional pretense. "Get your things and get out. You are a liability. I don’t risk my business for dramatic University students" The line went dead with a sharp click. David stood frozen on the pavement, the phone still pressed to his ear, his heart hammering against his ribs. The cold panic in Sarah’s voice and the harsh, threatening tone of the man in the background echoed in his mind.“I didn't know what else to do.” He knew exactly what she was doing. He had heard the rumors on campus about the shady backstreet rooms hidden inside the residential blocks of Kahawa Wendani. He stood still in a moment of shock and confusion. He knew that he needed to act very fast to save the baby or atleast save sarah from the risky procedure. He felt a heavy hate on himself for abandoning her. "Stupid, David. So stupid. You left her alone." He kept muttering to himself and immediately decided he would look for her. He sprang up and ran towards matatu stage, praying that he would make it before the damage was done. 

@Stephen Mungai

HEART OF A MAN

 HEART OF A MAN

Augustine was an ancient philosopher and the bishop of Hippo Regius which is said to be the modern-day city of Annaba in Algeria. While reflecting on his youthful shenanigans, he was dumbfounded about how inclined to evil he and his friends had been. In his confessions, he writes as follows, “Near our vineyard stood a pear tree laden with fruit that was plentiful but unsightly and unpalatable. We young men set out in the dead of night—having spent the time until then playing ruinous games in the streets—to shake down and carry off this fruit; we did so without a shred of shame or decency. We hauled away huge loads, not to eat them, but to throw them to the pigs. And if we did eat a little of it, it was only because doing so allowed us to commit a forbidden act. Behold my heart, O my God—behold the heart upon which You had mercy in the depths of its wickedness. Behold, let my heart now tell You what it sought there: that I was evil for no reason, and the only cause of my malice was malice itself. It was loathsome, yet I loved it; I loved my own ruin, I loved my transgression. It was not the object that caused my fall—no, I loved the fall itself; when, in the depravity of my soul, I plunged from Your firm foundation into ruin, I did not crave some shameful object, but the shame itself. I lacked justice—indeed, I loathed it—and I was stifled by malice. For I stole what I already possessed in abundance—and of far better quality, too. Nor did I wish to enjoy what the theft procured for me, but rather the act of stealing itself and the sin.” Augustine’s confession seems to be of a man standing on the border of good and evil, ashamed of the senseless evil of his past but also focusing on a transformation into a virtuous life. What does his confession remind you of? Did you have a mischievous childhood also or are you still inclined to occasional thrilling ungodly escapades? My boyhood was equally mischievous. As boys for instance, to buy one mango, we would give the seller a bigger bill so as to force him to look for change and, in the meantime, drop as many as ten mangoes into a paper bag eventually buying 10 mangoes for the price of one. Snatching bread from smaller kids sent to purchase bread from local shops also thrilled us as boys. Did we need those things? No. But the inclination to evil was fun and thrilling. And so are the inclinations powered by selfishness and ‘who cares?’ attitude of modern-day times. Just how does someone judge the Sh. 65M in cash discovered in the house of Nairobi County Chief of Urban Planning, Patrick Akivanga? Did he direly need all the money and allegedly get it through dubious means? Maybe not. What of those who keep secret partners behind their real partner’s back? What of the small debts that someone refuses to pay, not for lack but just not feeling like? What of the conspiracies for wrongful gain? Jeremiah 17:9 describes the human heart as deceitful above all things and desperately wicked, but the good thing is that we always know what is right because God’s laws are written in our hearts reducing our duties to just obey it. May God help us to stay on the path of obedience.

@Stephen Mungai

THE HIDDEN ROOM

 THE HIDDEN ROOM

Days crawled too slowly for Sarah. She was so stressed and David's absence made the situation so unbearable. Sarah got to a point where she could not take it anymore. She began to seek information on how to get rid of it and with time, she got a contact and made all arrangements. It was not very expensive. It was only Sh.15,000 between her and her freedom. The planned day came. The air inside the room was heavy with the sharp smell of cheap disinfectant masking damp walls. Sarah sat on the edge of a vinyl-covered examination table, her fingers digging into the fabric of her handbag. The practitioner was a man in his late forties wearing a faded, unbuttoned lab coat over casual clothes. He didn’t look up from his desk as he scribbled on a plain notepad. "You said on the phone you are two months along?" He asked. "Two, maybe three. I… I’m not entirely sure. The method I was using failed." Sarah said, Her voice trembling. "Methods fail all the time. That is why this place exists. But let us be clear before we begin. Once we start, there is no turning back. Do you have the money?" Sarah Nodded, reaching into her bag "Yes. The fifteen thousand shillings. It’s all here." She placed the envelope of folded cash on the desk. He picked it up immediately, counting the bills with practiced efficiency before sliding it into his drawer. He stood up and walked toward a metal tray covered by a worn towel. The metallic clink of instruments made Sarah’s stomach twist. "Good. Lie down on the table. Strip from the waist down." "Is… is it safe? Will it hurt?" Sarah asked. She was very afraid more so after noticing the rusted edges of the tray. The practitioner turned to face her. "Young lady, you came to me. If you want safety guarantees and a soft bed, go to a referral hospital. Of course she knew that such a request in a government facility would make them call the police on her. "I just want it over with. David isn't speaking to me. I can't do this alone." Sarah said with tears welling up her eyes. The man seemed annoyed. "David is not here. Please lie down. If you tense up or scream, it makes my job harder, and you will bleed more. Do we understand each other?" Sarah slowly lay back, staring up at the water-stained ceiling tiles. Just as the practitioner picked up a syringe, her phone vibrated violently inside her handbag on the chair. As she reached out to it, the screen lit up with the caller ID: David. The Practitioner frowned pointing at the bag, "Turn that off. No distractions." Sarah stared at the flashing screen not knowing whether to pick it or not. "But why David, why?" She thought. Maybe he was too late. A simple procedure was the only licence to her freedom. "Leave me alone, David" She returned the phone back to her bag. She was almost a free human being.

@Stephen Mungai

REVIEWED FOREIGN AID PROTOCOL

 REVIEWED FOREIGN AID PROTOCOL

The small, sun-drenched nation of Karachua now stood at a crossroads. A new solar grid that would be capable of powering four of its twelve provinces was the latest foreign aid package. But the ribbon hadn’t even dried before the attached demands arrived: open the protected coastal waters to deep-sea trawlers and devalue the local currency to favor imports. President Kuraiha was pressed with the stark contrast of his country’s realities echoing around him. So far, he could not underestimate the impact that foreign aid had had on moving his country forward. Talk of eradication of the last remnants of polio, roads that connected rural farmers to urban markets, hospitals stocked with medicine and schools with enough textbooks for learners. Yet, with every receipt of such capital, a piece of Karachua’s sovereignty felt quietly bartered away and worse, Karachua seemed to be losing grip in control of some important pieces of its being. The President’s economic advisors were locked in a tense standoff. The Minister of Finance argued the necessity of the funds, pointing to the industrial boost that the funds would create and employment opportunities that would be created for the youth. Without the aid, the fragile economy would buckle, and inflation would quickly outpace wage growth. Conversely, the Minister of Agriculture warned of the impending devastation to local communities. Opening the coast to industrial fleets would starve the local fishermen who had sustained coastal villages for generations. "They give a tilapia on one hand and take a Nile perch with the other," the Minister had cautioned during a late-night cabinet meeting. " We risk becoming tenants in our own land if we accept these conditions" To Kuraiha, the reservations of the agriculture minister made a lot of sense. The terms of the foreign aid protocol had been reported by the local media houses and was causing public protests especially from the would-be affected coastal communities. The president remained with no options than to find a third option, a balance between rejecting and accepting. He could not simply reject the aid and condemn his people to preventable hardships, nor could he blindly accept terms that compromised the country's future. He initiated a series of closed-door negotiations, leveraging Karachua's strategic geographic position and its rich reserves of critical minerals. He proposed joint ventures with regional development banks and smaller international donors to ensure competitive bidding, refusing to be bound to a single geopolitical power. Kuraiha pushed back on the currency devaluation arguing that a stable local currency was essential for domestic businesses to thrive and transition Karachua from an aid-dependent state to a resilient, self-sufficient economy. He compromised by offering tax incentives for foreign tech investments, provided the corporations hired and trained a majority-local workforce. Ultimately, Karachua accepted the infrastructure aid, but on their own terms. The solar grid was built, but the fishing water remained fiercely protected. The nation had walked a tightrope, balancing the life-saving need for external resources with the fierce, non-negotiable demand for self-determination. The publication of the new aid protocol quelled the unrest seeming to be a better path for the nation. Henceforth, any development deal would only be taken with an ultimate gain assured for Karachua.

@Stephen Mungai

THE BOARDROOM WITHIN

 THE BOARDROOM WITHIN

Janice had a small catch up meeting with her friends at Java TRM on a Saturday afternoon. With her friends Eva, Emma and Lucia, such a catch up had become a norm for several years now. This was a college friendship that had stood the test of time. Eva and Lucia already had families. Emma always said that relationships were not her thing and would rather enjoy the blessings of singlehood. Janice was still dating Tom since college. And as the friends sat down to do their orders, the engine room of Janice's mind was at it again. It never seemed to sleep. Inside her psyche, a simple decision like choosing on what to order on such a date required a full boardroom meeting of clashing impulses. "We deserve the Chocolate Fudge cake and chocolate blush milkshake. We love anything chocolate. You know?" Her sweet tooth whispered, salivating and waiting for the wonderful bite and sip "It has been a brutal week. Softness is a human right." Janice's muscles retorted, enjoying the comfort the Java House offers "A brutal week? Not really." Janice thought. She knew that she had been sitting behind her desk the whole week trying to balance off her workplace accounts. Minimal movements. That week, she had only skipped the gym twice. That was not as bad as a whole week without gym like sometimes happens. "Sugar is a toxin, not a reward. Order the dawa drink and a bowl of fruit salad." Her blood vessels said. "Dawa tastes like grass clippings," Sweet tooth whined. "Exactly," her heart said. "But it builds character through mild suffering." Janice didn't know who to follow. There were now two competing parties within her. One said, "If we eat the chocolate, our cholesterol spikes, then at some point, the heart will get tired, we gasp for air, then faint right on the tile floor, probably be no more." The other group said, "Dying? Who lives forever? In some fifty years, everyone in this house will be dust. The Chocolate flavor context is statistically irrelevant." The Social Dilemma for Janice was real. She blinked, staring at the menu booklet. "If we are dust, then nothing matters, so eat the Chocolate Fudge cake!" Sweet tooth cheered. The internal voices screamed over each other, a deafening chorus of restraint and indulgence, terror and apathy.

"Chocolate Fudge cake and chocolate blush milkshake " Janice said aloud to the lady taking orders. The inner boardroom went dead silent.

"Cake?" Blood vessels muttered in disgust. "That is the compromise of a coward."

"We only live once" Sweet tooth offered weakly. "And we should enjoy the short life"

Sweet tooth won and Janice enjoyed the delicious cake and milkshake. And when their meeting was over, she walked out into the sun, entirely at war, and entirely at peace.

@Stephen Mungai

DAVID'S BLUEPRINT

 DAVID'S BLUEPRINT

Saturday morning arrived with a quiet, sharp clarity that Kahawa Sukari only experiences before the public transit buses start roaring down the service lane. The music system was silent, replaced by the low, rhythmic scratching of a ballpoint pen. Sunlight cut through the window from the balcony illuminating a living room that looked dramatically different from the night before. Tabitha had forced order onto the chaos; the clothes were folded, the mugs were washed, and the scent of freshly brewed ginger tea filled the air. The initial paralysis of the shock seemed to have worn off. David had taken an A4 notebook from the coffee table next to the Sofa. Tabitha’s words from Friday night still echoed in his mind: 'We must accept things as they are.' His sister watched from the kitchen counter as he drew precise columns across the first page. Tabitha smiled to herself. This was the old David trying to construct a scaffolding around his shattered world. He divided the page into three columns: Logistics, Finances, and Sarah. "You can’t spreadsheet your way out of a pregnancy, bro," Tabitha said softly, leaning against the doorframe with two mugs of tea.

"That's not the case, Siz," David replied, his voice raspy but steady. "I'm trying to survive it and if I don't write down clear plans, then the panic will definitely come back."

Under Logistics, he listed clinics that he had learnt over the internet, comparative costs of prenatal and delivery packages as well as probable baby delivery date. Under Finances, he listed his savings account balance which was initially for his planned trips but now would be used for Maternity and Infant Care. But when his pen hovered over the third column—Sarah—the point remained suspended in the air. How do you quantify an injured heart and how do you map a timeline for reassurance? Tabitha looked at the page, then at David. "The plans, numbers and timelines are the easy part, Bro" Tabitha said, setting him tea down right next to the notebook. "Look at the third column, David. You need to call her. No more 'all will be well' scripts. Tell her you were terrified. Tell her you're still terrified, but that you are there."

David swallowed hard. He picked up his phone, his fingers hovering over her contact name. The routine of the past two weeks had been a coward's loop: call, deliver a hollow platitude, hang up, panic. But now, he had to call her confident of a plan and way forward.He pressed the dial and it began to ring.

@Stephen Mungai

THE GREATER HARVEST

 THE GREATER HARVEST

The room was heavy with the scent of expensive perfume and sweet persuasion. Beautiful faces leaned in close, their voices a synchronized chorus of temptation. Each one offered a different version of a golden future of romance, utterly irresistible. "I am already bound to another," you pleaded, lifting your hand. The ring on your finger caught the light, a silent witness to a permanent vow. Yet, they only smiled, brushing the gold aside. "A ring is just a token," one whispered. "You would make the perfect partner." The air felt thick, like a trap closing in, but with a sudden surge of resolve, you broke free from the crowd and stepped out into the open air of the street. Before you could catch your breath, a vehicle pulled up to the curb. Inside sat your past—your former love, smiling alongside their family and a few faces from your own family. They seem to be coming from a commitment event of your former person. Surprisingly, no malice in their eyes, only a warm, collective peace. They called out a hearty greeting, acknowledging your presence with genuine joy, before driving off into the sunset. The past had moved on, beautifully reconciled, leaving you standing in the present. Suddenly, the scenery shifted. You were standing in a grand mansion, alive with the sounds of laughter, music, and celebration. Tables heavy under the weight of exotic foods and flowing drinks. Your best friend was the host, and the rooms were packed with everyone you had ever loved, friends from every season of your life and the deep roots of your family tree. As you drifted through the crowded halls, you shook hands, embraced, and shared lighthearted jokes. Every corner revealed another familiar face eager to greet you. It felt magnificent to be valued, to feel the warmth of mutual affection. And why shouldn't you? These were the souls you had poured your life into. You had championed their dreams, supported their burdens, and made lasting contributions to their happiness. They loved you for it. They appreciated you. But as you looked closer, you realized something vital: they were full. They were satisfied. They loved your presence, but they no longer needed your rescue. You walked toward the exit as a quiet emptiness beginning to settle in your chest despite the noise of the party. Just before the threshold, two men stepped into view. They motioned you into a quiet, shadowed anteroom away from the music. These two you don't seem to remember, but they spoke of the past with deep gratitude. They reminded you of an organization you had once supported, a seed you had planted long ago. No memory but then came the ask. "We need you," one said softly. "The children with disabilities in our care need a teacher. Just a few hours a week. A regular presence." The weight of the request hung in the quiet room. You didn't give an immediate answer, promising instead to send a word in the coming days. That night in your bedroom as you lay staring at the ceiling, the pieces of the journey clicked into place with terrifying clarity. The temptation of romance, the closed chapters of content loved ones. Your old mission fields were fully harvested. But the world was still crying out in some forgotten corners of humanity. There were souls waiting for a teacher, a helper, a lifeline. All you need is to look around because the Lord is calling you to make a positive contribution to humanity. Can you hear His voice calling? Matthew 9:37-38 still stands true, 'The harvest is plentiful, but the workers are few. Ask the Lord of the harvest, therefore, to send out workers into his harvest field.' Are you there?

@Stephen Mungai