The sun sank toward the western horizon. Pabonya wandered through his garden, idly pruning a stray shoot from an orange tree. Then his eyes veered towards the valley and saw a group of women crossing over from Tirita and ascending the hilly path. He knew where they came from, knew about the gathering, and about Esther's newborn.
"Do you think she'll get away with it?" he heard one woman asking.
"This is serious," another replied. "Watch this space — her marriage is at stake."
He froze. His attention sharpened like a blade; he needed to catch every scrap of their talk before they noticed him and changed the subject. He slipped behind a stand of tall Napier grass and held his breath.
They were talking about Becky. Chebet and Chepkorir had done it. A hot satisfaction rose in him. The spark had caught faster than he dared hope; the rumor was alive and running wild.
Had Rebecca heard? If so, it should change her perception of Becky.
He could not resist. Since tongues were wagging, he had to act — tighten his hold on Rebecca. If he could seed doubt in her mind, he stood better chances of swaying the clan. And Becky would be gone.
Night was falling fast, but that wouldn't stop him. Driven by purpose, he crossed the river and made his way to Tirita. The path was familiar, even in darkness; he could have walked it blindfolded. Soon, the faint glow of burning firewood drew him to Rebecca's hut.
"Iyo!" he announced his arrival.
Startled, Rebecca took a moment before responding. This was no hour for visitors.
"Pomuru," he called again.
"Yo!" Her voice steadied, as she recognized him. "Come in, I'm here."
He stepped in.
"You scared me," she admitted, as his figure resolved in the flickering firelight.
"Ah, did I? My apologies."
"It's okay. Sit down."
"I won't stay long."
"You're always in such a hurry!" she teased gently. "I'm cooking enough food for both of us."
"Thank you, but not tonight. I have come again. We need to talk."
Rebecca settled herself near the hearth, ready to listen.
"Forgive me for bringing this up again," Pabonya began, lowering his voice, "but these whispers about Becky… have you heard them?"
"Yes," Rebecca sighed. "I have."
"What do you make of them?"
"They're disturbing, but I doubt there's anything to give it credence," she said firmly. "It's all hearsay, Pabonya. No proof. Until then, I hold the rumours in contempt."
Pabonya stiffened. The answer frustrated him. Just when he thought he had her, he felt her slipping away. But he wouldn't give up now.
"They're true," he insisted.
"And you know this for certain?" she challenged.
"I do."
"How?"
"Intelligence! Nothing escapes my eyes in this village," he declared.
"I don't understand."
"My eyes in the village. I asked trusted people to keep watch, and what they've seen confirms it all."
Rebecca's eyes narrowed. "How much do you trust these spies?"
"Don't doubt my findings, Pomuru. These are trusted people."
"Becky is a good girl," Rebecca insisted. "She loves my son, and he loves her with equal measure. Marriage is sacred and rumours like these can destroy lives. We should be cautious, Pabonya."
His frustration deepened. Why did women always shieldef one another? But he pressed on.
"Then let us call a meeting of the elders. Let them hear and decide."
Rebecca hesitated. A meeting would fan the rumour into a wildfire. Yet maybe—just maybe—the elders would see through the malice.
"Very well," she agreed softly. "Call them."
Pabonya barely contained his triumph. "Prepare to host them tomorrow," he instructed.
"Okay."
"I must go," he said, standing. "Good night."
"Good night," she replied, watching him leave, unease curling in her chest.
Alone again, Rebecca debated what to do. The urgency in Pabonya's manner troubled her deeply. She decided Becky must be warned.
She slipped into her bedroom, put on a trench-coat against the cool night air, grabbed a torch, and stepped outside. Five minutes later, she reached Becky's compound.
The houses were shut, but a sliver of light leaked from Becky's door. Music played softly inside. Rebecca knocked gently, calling Becky's name.
The radio volume dropped, and Becky soon opened the door.
"Mum!" Becky exclaimed, surprised to see her mother-in-law so late.
"May I come in?" Rebecca asked.
"Of course," Becky stepped aside.
Rebecca walked past her and sat on the nearest couch as Becky shut the door.
"Sorry to bother you at this hour," she said when Becky joined her on the sofa.
"It's okay," Becky reassured her, but worry crept into her voice. "What is it? You're scaring me."
"Pabonya," Rebecca said heavily.
Becky's shoulders eased. "What now?"
"What is it between the two of you?"
"Nothing, really," Becky answered, but went on to describe Pabonya's visits and harsh words.
Rebecca listened closely.
"Be careful with him, child," she warned. "He hates you. Don't argue with him—it's dangerous."
"But why?" Becky whispered. "I don't know what he wants."
"He wants to ruin you," Rebecca said sadly. "I feel it."
Becky's heart warmed despite the warning. She saw how deeply Rebecca cared.
Rebecca considered bringing up the rumor, but let the thought die. To ask would sound like a quiet accusation—and she refused to give Pabonya's poison any weight in this room.
After leaving Rebecca's house, Pabonya pondered his next move. Rebecca had demanded proof; the elders would need it too. He needed witnesses.
His mind turned to the women who had helped spread the rumour. Chepkorir came to mind—a woman living on the edge, desperate for money.
Heart racing, he changed course, climbing the hill to her compound. It was a dark night; no light burned in her house. But Pabonya didn't care. His plan mattered more.
He knocked softly. Silence. He knocked again and thought he heard someone shifting inside.
"Who is it?" Chepkorir's voice finally came, uncertain.
"It's me."
"Who?"
"Pabonya."
He could picture her startled face. "Open, please. It's urgent."
She hesitated, then unbolted the door. She only opened it a few inches.
"Sorry to come at this hour," he said quickly. "This thing about Becky—it's driving me mad. Have you heard anything new?"
"No," she said cautiously.
"Listen," he lowered his voice in an urgent whisper. "Tomorrow there will be a meeting at Rebecca's house. We need witnesses—at least three—to convince the elders."
She studied his shadowed face.
He pulled two thousand-shilling notes from his coat pocket. "This is an advance. Find people willing to testify."
That morning, Chepkorir had assumed he was merely investigating a hunch. Staring at the money in his hand, the ugly truth clicked: he didn't want facts, he wanted paid assassins.
"I want fifty thousand," she said, hoping to scare him off.
Pabonya hesitated, the sum sticking in his throat. But victory was too close to lose over money. "You'll have it," he agreed hastily.
"Arrange it by tomorrow afternoon. I'll tell them what to say. Good night."
He left, heart pounding—not with fear, but triumph. The next phase had begun.