Joy Okwori

No one interviewed me, Njeri. No one. They didn’t inquire how it felt to be the sister left behind, the one who carries the memories in the painful holes in her heart. I was the only witness to the madness. The madness of spilled blood, seeping slowly down into the roots of the huge, green shady mùgumo tree. The madness of death. Yet no one asked. Days and nights later, our home was a buzz of activity. Relatives and friends poured in, to pay their condolences.

One day, he received a friend request from a user who went by the name Black Widow. Black Widow’s cover photo was a black flag with Arabic writings and her profile picture was of a black rose flower which appeared to be oozing blood. Salim was intrigued and he immediately accepted the friend request. My name is Omina and I am a court reporter. The job of a court reporter is to narrate every account of official court proceedings.

The other thing that made me sad, I mean very very sad, was the day the big Amir, the Sheikh, was killed. He was tricked by the other small Amir who left us. The small Amir said they were coming for a sale but instead they surrounded the big Amir with guns and opened fire on him. The day the sheikh was killed, there was so much confusion in all the camps from Waroba to Chad.