The priceless beauty eulogized with mediocrity. Dingy swaying her dinky, fleshy, sexy halves of the posterior parts of the body, just to dispose her seduction. The sun is progressively spelling the sombre sated Samburu hills of Maralal. Everyone is up and about, carrying on with their daily activities. The herders are whistling and singing the sweetest song to their lead cows. 
 She walks through the gallery of the famous dead gods of the black soiled land. This was a special day for her_she’s laying down an adversary the last man standing , a remainderman. She is also feeling privileged to be standing on the only sanctified ground which housed the remains of great peoples. Including her own Dad, The Great Ngutukanit Echakan. The political monster.
She is admiring his portrait, freshly placed exactly in the middle of the other intellectuals pinned on the walls of the ancient graveyard. 

“He was a warrior. He was a great man. Yes he was a great man. A man for the people. But Lewarani had to die. He had to. Because he was the most vital man.” she murmured to herself. 
After viewing the body, the bride of death passed through to the other side where the congregation was mourning at. Dressed to the nines, a black gown matching vividly with the flat glamourous shoes and the dark goggles she putted on. That’s how they showed respect to the dead. Showing how much they’ll be lonely. Showing how much death is dark and deathly. She searched through the congregation, scrutinizing emotional sensitivity of each and every mourner’s face, before she settled on the mother’s of the all mourners, the widow,  Mama Nasieku, a strong woman known for her campaigns against circumcision of women.Female Genital Mutilations. My heroine who champions against early marriages and unwanted pregnancies. The only most educated woman the land. She was a doctor professionally. I started being fond of her the moment she brought pads to our village, and more when Namunyak, my only girlfriend got three of them. She could’ve been gotten a direct vote into the county government if she wanted to indulge into political activities. 
“He was killed.” “No he died of.” “He was shot.” “No mheshimiwa has been sick for a while now.” “He succumbed due to food poisoning.” “He was killed by his political allies.” she is more attentive to the whispers more than the homage. The pale tells of Samburu.

“No you people don’t understand, I was…”

She wanted to tell them the truth, but she held it back in her thoughts. 
He was a man for the people but with a lot of enemies on his neck. He socialised a lot, went to bars and grills, attended parties unlike other older men. He graced the table of men, whenever he was around you could hear “pewa pewa kule, pewa raundi nyingine kwa bill yangu ” he boozed up everyone. That’s why they were fond of him. He groped with different women.
He waked up early in the morning got into his  dark magnificent Prado and raced off towards Suguta Mar Mar a centre sitting 37 Km south of Maralal in the heart of the barren plains watered only occasionally by run-off rains.

 A man of means drove at a higher speed throwing pebbles off the the dry weather road. In front of him there was a saloon car driven at a lovely speed, and at the back a sedan motorcycle is approaching at an hell speed. 
“Why did he left without an escort?” ” Was this done on a purpose?” ” Did he knew that his life was in danger?” “Every politician becomes aware of that the moment they get into politics_her own dad knew. Yes but Lewarani alias Lewaras had to die. He was the only stumbling block standing between me and my fortune.”


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