It was a Friday — the kind of day when the sun seemed determined to burn everything beneath it. The heat hung heavily over Korogwe, a district in the Tanga region.
The land stretched flat and wide, scattered here and there with sparse forests and lonely trees. But within the town itself, shade was a rare luxury. From the main highway that connected Moshi and Arusha to Dar es Salaam, the air shimmered with rising waves of heat.
Korogwe was a town of modest progress — second only to Tanga City, the regional capital.
Along that same highway, a young man walked slowly, his steps heavy and tired. The sun beat down on his back, merciless and hot, yet he pushed forward, dragging his weary legs along the dusty road. He carried a small, tattered bag slung over his shoulder — the kind people once used long before modern backpacks became common. Its worn ropes served as straps, and inside, it held a few changes of clothes.
Everything about him — his clothes, his gait, even the slump of his shoulders — told the same story: a man worn out by life, yet not defeated.
After walking for what seemed like miles, he reached a place known as Mwembeni, the entrance to Korogwe town.
"I don't have a cent to my name," he murmured to himself, "but I must reach Dar es Salaam somehow. I'll eat, I'll be full — just watch me. First, let's start with that food stall over there."
He straightened his posture, brushed the dust from his shirt, and walked into a small roadside restaurant with the confidence of a man who owned the place — though in his pocket, he didn't even have a hundred shillings.
Inside, he looked around until he spotted an elderly man seated alone, eating in silence.
"Shikamoo, Mzee," he greeted respectfully.
"Marhaba, young man," the old man replied without looking up. His tone was polite but cautious. He'd seen that look before — hungry youth who came not to eat, but to beg.
A waitress approached. "Welcome, brother. What can I bring you?"
The young man smiled. "Bring me the same food that Mzee here is eating."
He said it loud enough for the old man to hear — on purpose. If the man thought he was here to beg, he was going to be disappointed.
The waitress blinked. "That meal costs ten thousand shillings, will you be able to—"
"Waitress," the old man interrupted, amused. "Didn't you hear him order? Bring what he asked for. Don't question your customer."
He leaned back, curious to see how far this would go. The boy's clothes were torn and faded — eating a ten-thousand-shilling meal was, frankly, laughable.
Within minutes, the food arrived — steaming, fragrant, a proper plateful. The young man washed his hands and began to eat with confidence, as though he hadn't gone a day hungry in his life. Bite by bite, he finished it all, wiped his hands neatly, and leaned back in satisfaction.
He ordered a small bottle of Uhai water — just one thousand shillings — took a sip, then looked around. The waitress was busy serving another table.
"Mzee," he called softly.
The old man looked up.
The young man winked — one eye closed for two seconds — and then, without saying another word, rose from his chair, grabbed his bottle of water, and headed toward the door.
Just as he was stepping out, the waitress called after him.
"Excuse me, brother! You haven't paid yet!"
"I already gave the money to Mzee here," he said casually, smiling. "Keep the change, pretty one."
Confused but curious, the waitress walked over to the old man.
"Sir, he said he left the money with you."
The old man frowned, reached for his wallet, and — to her surprise — pulled out a twenty-thousand-shilling note.
"Oh yes," he said slowly, as if remembering. "He did leave it with me. The rest is for you, beautiful."
The waitress blinked. The math checked out: the meal had cost eleven thousand, and she had just received nine thousand as a tip. She wasn't about to argue with luck.
Two hours later, the old man was still sitting there, sipping his soda when a strange unease crept over him.
Wait a second… did that boy actually pay me?
He turned to the waitress. "Young lady, remind me — that boy, did he really leave money with me?"
"Yes, of course. You gave it to me yourself, remember? From your wallet."
"My wallet?"
"Yes, Mzee. You pulled it out and handed me a twenty-thousand note."
Slowly, trembling, he opened his wallet again. His hands stiffened. The count was off — exactly twenty thousand short.
"What time did that boy leave?"
"About two hours ago."
The old man sat back, his face pale. "Damn it… so he made me pay."
He let out a low whistle and shook his head, half amused, half terrified.
"That boy wasn't normal. He must be using uchawi — witchcraft. No ordinary person could do that to me. And yet… I wear my charms every day. I've been fortified! How did he get through that?"
He laughed bitterly under his breath, gathered his things, and walked away.
But even as he left the restaurant, the same question echoed in his mind — one that would follow him for days afterward:
Who was that boy?
*****
Dar es Salaam, 1995 — 6:00 PM
Among the city's most prestigious neighborhoods—Masaki and Oysterbay—stood grand villas and guarded gates that whispered of old money and quiet power. It was no different from Central Park West in China or Beverly Hills in Los Angeles—every great city had its enclave of the privileged, walled off from the ordinary world.
Behind one of those gleaming gates, a young woman was being pushed out by a uniformed guard. Her name was Irene. Tears streaked down her face as the heavy gate shut behind her, sealing off the mansion where she had just been thrown out. Inside lived Samir, the wealthy heir to Cargo Transit and Swift Logistics Company, a powerful transport firm headquartered in Mikocheni. Samir's father was chairman of the board; Samir himself, barely in his thirties, was the company's CEO—young, ambitious, and arrogant in the way that only men born into privilege can be.
Irene had met him months ago, not in a boardroom, but in a cheap hotel room under the red glow of desperation and money. She had been a sex worker then, just another face in the city's forgotten corners. That night, Samir had refused to use protection. It was supposed to be one reckless night, easily forgotten. But Irene hadn't forgotten. Because now, she was carrying his child.
When she first discovered the pregnancy, panic had consumed her. The doctor she visited gave her a chilling choice:
"If you end this pregnancy," he said, "you may never have another. Ninety percent chance you'll lose the ability forever."
That night, Irene lay awake, staring at the ceiling of her single room in Sinza, torn between fear and resolve. By morning, she made a decision. She would find Samir—not to beg, but to tell him. To give him the truth he probably didn't want to hear.
Finding him wasn't hard. Men like Samir never hid; they flaunted. His new mansion in Masaki was the talk of the town—he had moved in only days earlier with his new bride, Shania, after a glamorous wedding that had made the local papers.
When Irene arrived at the gate, she was surprised the guard let her in. Samir was home, lounging in the living room beside his elegant wife. For a moment, Irene stood frozen, awed by the luxury surrounding her. Then she spoke softly:
"I'm sorry to interrupt your evening," she said.
"It's fine," Shania replied graciously. "Please, come in."
Irene hesitated. Her eyes found Samir's.
"I'd like a word with you. Alone."
"Here, or outside?" Samir asked, his tone cautious.
"Outside, please."
They stepped into the garden, where the setting sun painted the air gold. Shania lingered by the doorway, curious but restrained.
"I believe you remember me," Irene began.
"Your face… yes," Samir said slowly. "It looks familiar."
"I didn't come here to cause trouble," she continued, voice trembling. "I came because I don't know what to do. That night—when you refused to use protection—I became pregnant."
Samir's eyes widened.
"What?" His voice was a sharp explosion. "Are you insane?"
The outburst reached the living room. Shania appeared at the door, alarmed.
"Samir, what's going on?"
"Nothing, Shania. Please, go inside."
She hesitated, then turned away, leaving them alone again.
Samir called for his guard.
"Juma! How could you let strangers into my house?"
"Boss, I—"
"Just get her out of here. Quietly. My wife must not hear any more of this."
Moments later, Irene found herself shoved past the gate. The door slammed behind her. She stood there, trembling, humiliated. Then she heard footsteps. Samir had followed her out, holding a bundle of cash.
"Listen to me," he hissed. "Don't you ever set foot near my house again. I don't care what story you've made up—take this money and disappear."
He threw the money at her feet.
Tears filled Irene's eyes. She looked down at the scattered bills, then back up at him. Her voice was calm now—steady, almost noble.
"I didn't come for your money, Samir. I came because I needed to tell you the truth. You don't have to believe me. I'll raise this child alone, and I promise—he'll never know who his father is. But know this: he is yours. And I'll use this money, not as payment for my silence, but to care for your son when he's born. Goodbye."
She turned and walked away, the evening wind catching her dress. Samir watched her until she disappeared beyond the gates, his heart pounding with a fear he couldn't name.
Inside, Shania was waiting by the window, her eyes sharp, unreadable.
And for the first time in years, Samir felt the chill of a mistake that could not be bought away.