Blood After Sunrise

By Major Elazia

John is a family man with a big heart and a target on his back. Caught up in the violence of the Shantytown riots, his home is torched, and his wife and baby son are missing. As rival tribes battle over election results, politics, and religion, John’s desperate search through the ravaged slums gets sidetracked by victims in need of help. But as no good deed goes unpunished, he’s accused of murder and is hunted by both warring factions as well as the brutal police. Fires rage, blood spills, and atrocities mount. Hell has come to the valley of Shantytown, and even John cannot deliver it from evil.

• Language: English
• Publisher: TWB Press
• Release date: Apr 4, 2014
• ISBN: 9781936991747

Major Elazia

Major Elazia was born in Vihiga County, Western Kenya and graduated from Kenyatta University with a B.A. in Sociology. He has been featured in acted plays like Aminata, Government Inspector, and the movie Mizoga, a Born Free production. He has written plays for many schools in Kenya: Son of Woman, Waterfalls of Tragedy, and Jailing of the Scientist, among others. He’s published several poems on Poemhunter, as well. Currently Major is pursuig a M.A. in Sociology at Pwani University in Kenya. He now lives in Kilifi and works as a freelance writer and research consultant.

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Blood After Sunrise

By

Major Elazia

Copyright by Major Elazia 2014

Published by TWB Press at Smashwords

All rights reserved. No part of this story (e-book) may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without written permission of the author, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or book reviews.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidences are either a product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to any actual person, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

Edited by Terry Wright

Cover art by Terry Wright

ISBN: 978-1-936991-74-7

Acknowledgements

I would like to appreciate the contributions of my mother, Gladys Elazia, my sisters Caroline Emile Elazia and Lily Kisia Elazia, and my friends Fred Ochieng’ and Kevin Hope Njuki. They contributed immensely in the development of the novel. And I’d also like to thank my editor, Terry Wright, for helping me shape the resolution.

By

Major Elazia

CHAPTER I

A WORLD WHICH IS MADE of competing forces makes an interesting life. The Chinese had the year of the snake, the dragon, the pig, and other animals they named a year after, but to John and his countrymen it was the year of the elections that mattered most. This animal named the election was a strange and dangerous beast.

After the conclusion of the general elections, it was evident that ‘their man’ from Shantytown had won, but there were three days of agony while waiting for the official election results to be released.

Some people were bound to be happy, others destined to the pool of sadness, depending on who was declared the winner. Which of ‘their man’ had really won this election would remain a mystery beyond the test of time.

But now other events were also happening. It was a time to awake to worlds unfolding. A nation was being divided into two separate worlds within the decaying fabric of its own known universe.

Which universe? Was there a universe in all this hell?

No answer struck John’s mind. What kind of universe is this? Hell. Something akin to hell? No one has been to hell and back. There is always a first time.

Searing heat shook him back from his trance. Down on his knees, he was in shock.

The nation had waited. He could feel the tension as the minutes turned into hours, hours into days. He could bet his soul a century had passed in a span of three days.

In that moment of confusion, it so happened that there was nothing like the chaotic noise of the Matatu touts and crews shouting and yelling obscenities, honking their horns at everybody and ever alert to dodge the cops. The screaming Mitumba vendors had vanished. The vegetable sellers too had gone for safety.

John could only stare at his home on fire. In the smoky haze he imagined his wife smile at him with their baby boy strapped on her back. He smiled as he waved back, showing her the V-fingers for victory.

The image faded, and the reality came back to him. He took out a picture of his wife and stared at it. Running feet going in all directions thundered around him. He lifted his head up, beseeching a god who never answered his prayers to put out the fires that were creating fine ash of the carton and wood houses in the slums. Still, he held his wife’s photo of her smiling at him. Her last whereabouts was a puzzle he could not solve; he did not know where she was. He held the photo tightly to his chest and shouted in pain, Help me, God!

He closed his eyes. Images he had faithfully tried to block from his mind had turned up to haunt him. He was lost in the jungle of destruction, never having seen a nation of people commit suicide, a nation killing itself and degenerating into tribal fiefdoms controlled by politicians and bandits, thugs and notorious vigilante groups.

The peace was gone with the smoke, and the ashes were the remains of a thriving society. Mayhem was the word that rang in his mind.

He took a puff of his cigarette and watched the smoke snake its way up into the air, taking in the view in front of him with belated breath. The valley was quickly becoming the prison tomb of the dead. Hell and earth had turned into water and oil. His eyes were filled with tears, and the artist impression of spiral lines alerted him symbolically of the crazy confusion in the slum, and he did not know what to do under this situation.

Everything had changed so abruptly.

He stood up only to be knocked down by a woman well endowed with a gigantic size, and he sprawled onto the ground. One of his hands landed in the open slum sewage trench. The photo fell, and he picked it up as another woman gifted with muscles and excess weight accidentally knocked him over in her hurried bid to make good her escape. He rose up, only to find her long gone.

Where are my wife and son?

He glanced around the burning heap that once was his home, desperately hoping to find his wife and son nearby, but the gut feeling in his stomach indicated he was wasting time. He cursed himself. He should have known better and come home early. Maybe the story would have been different. They had probably died in the flames. He had arrived too late, only to find a gang running away from his house, but they had not seen him, and he had not seen his wife either.

He had been warned, but he had not listened, and the gift of his insolence was now bitterness within him, the feeling of having betrayed his wife when she had insisted they go to her sister’s home in the city before the elections began. Now she was probably dead, dying in the horror of the flames. Dead, and there was nothing left but the anger of having lost his dear wife and son.

Rehema. He called his wife’s name, and the same tense realization of her demise greeted him in the cacophony of the exploding burning wood from the ruins of his shack house.

A thought came to him. His wife sometimes went out with the boy in the evenings. She could be alive, out on her evening noise-making with other women, but she would have returned by now to kneel with him and watch their home burn. He looked around, hoping to see her but found nothing.

And what about his son? Was his son dead? He imagined seeing him helpless in the flames, screaming for his mother but unheard over the crackling of the inferno. John closed his eyes tightly then he opened them, hoping that he would wake up and find it was only a dream. The flames and the image were not gone, and the nightmare remained. Tears flowed freely down his cheeks. They were the tears of a desperate husband, a wounded father, a lost man.

Across the valley that was Shantytown, more houses were burning, and the pungent smell of sewage swirled alongside the smoke. The intensity of the tension and the fighting made him not realize how awful the smell was, which he was accustomed to anyway. It was an aroma for stubborn flies, not humans.

The billows of smoke made it difficult to see, and breathing became labored. He inhaled deeply and coughed, the smoke terrifying him. This was an example of how hell would be like.

Along the dirty streets of Shantytown, he walked, not really concerned where he was going, because his target was now the destinations of the winds. He looked around him and saw the famous Shanty Hilton where the men of Shantytown went to take cheap keg beer and have a bite of Nyama Choma, mutura and matumbo karanga. This was where they exchanged ideas, fought over loose women, and gambled. This was where they went to watch their favorite English teams play.

But tonight the Shanty Hilton was in flames, orange fire licking the night sky.

It had been torched by the violent youth in the early hours of the evening. The one storied wooden building collapsed, sending a wild ball of fire into the sky that lit the bushes nearby. In that condensed brief moment of intense light, he saw the gang of murderers in the bushes near the Hilton Inn. They were still feasting on looted alcohol, but he did not care.

A thunderbolt could have struck him dead through his spine when he spotted Bwana Daudi tied to an old rusted iron pole. He was bleeding profusely from an open wound where his right earlobe had been slashed away. John noticed another big gash on his friend’s chest with dried clotted blood. His face was swollen with the left eyelid partially blocking his view. He had received a thorough beating.

John took careful steps towards Daudi, and their eyes met. John whispered, Sorry. I wish I could help you.

Daudi struggled and barely could he talk. My hope lies in the tree. He grimaced in pain.

John had to rely more on lip reading to get his message, though he didn’t understand its meaning. He buried his face in his hands. My wife and son are dead. He felt the pain of a lost mankind in the debris of a forgotten humanity.

Daudi coughed. I saw a gang...drag a woman down the street.

John looked up. Rehema?

Bwana Daudi. A young hooligan’s shout interrupted. You can tell your Mountain tribesmen to return all the stolen votes in the country, but let us see if they will save you.

Your belly is full of votes, someone shouted.

Slice it open. We can recover the stolen votes!

John shuddered. The punishment being doled out on his friend was extreme, outrageous. How could an innocent trader carry stolen votes in his big tummy? The devil was visiting the earth. Why had the egos of tribal supremacy taken root in the electioneering process that had just ended?

Who will perform the ritual of vote recovery? asked Tiger, a mean-looking fellow of John’s tribe.

Collo, a very short guy who was a well known pick-pocket spoke up. Tiger, you are our chief now. Decide who will do it.

Wait, John shouted and turned to Daudi strung up on the pole. Was it Rehema?

Daudi’s head slumped. He was breathing hard.

Was my son... did you see my son?

Tiger stepped up. Enough, John. Who has the sharpest dagger a man can ever use in retrieving votes? he shouted.

Enemy Sweeper said, I do, and produced an evil-looking blade.

Okay, Sweeper, you remove the stolen votes from that big spy!

With pleasure, Tiger, a smiling Enemy Sweeper said, happy at the prospect of vanquishing another enemy from the Mountain tribes. They have to be taught a lesson not to step on other tribes’ rights.

He walked slowly to the big man tied to the pole, circled him and spat on his face, took a swig of beer from a dirty bottle, and spat it again on the poor man.

Mercy, Bwana Daudi begged.

Enemy Sweeper smiled as if the fear in his victim’s eyes delighted him.

Leave him be, John managed, unsure of the consequences. He has harmed no one.

Sweeper cut out Daudi’s navel and screamed in delight.

The band of thugs started laughing.

Daudi bled profusely from the wound and stared off in the distance.

John followed the direction of Daudi’s stare, to a shop door where John was horrified to see a teenage girl, watching with eyes dripping terror.

It appeared as though Daudi’s eyes were pleading with her to hide, as only an anguished father like him could relay without words.

John remembered his baby son, and the pain of having lost him, and his wife, who may or may not be dead, maybe kidnapped by a gang then raped and murdered. Not knowing was a kind of torture worse than Daudi’s fate.

Daudi struggled greatly not to show his pain to his terror-stricken child. John did not betray her presence to the gang. He backed away then rushed to the door and pushed the girl into the shop, behind the doorframe, and whispered to the girl, Do not go out there. I will come back to take you to a safe place. Please stay here or you will be killed.

You will kill me?

No.

But you let them kill my father.

There is nothing I can do.

"You are lying. You people from the tribe of the Runners and Hen-Eaters hate us. You hate all the people from the mountain because you think our new leader will deny your tribes to access the benefits of Uhuru, independence."

Stop that kind of hate talk and do what I say. I’ll find a way to take you to your mom.

She is dead.

Dead? It did not make sense. She was a woman who was open to all people and had a warm heart. Why did she get killed? She was not of the Mountain tribes like Daudi, but from the southern Salty Water Tribes. Then it occurred to him. By virtue of marriage to Daudi, she had been killed.

Please do not go out, okay? John asked nicely. And be patient until I return.

She nodded in fear, not trusting him but again not having a better option.

John walked out of the shop. He looked at Daudi who was bleeding. Their eyes met. Daudi smiled faintly as John noticed him saying thank you and he turned his eyes to the direction of a lone tree near the railway.

John spotted the tree.

My hope lies in the tree.

Daudi nodded, then he looked at the door behind which John had hidden his daughter, and tears were in his eyes. He dropped his head and died in great pain.

John walked away after his friend had died. He looked at the youth who were busy killing their neighbors. Some he knew in person, petty criminals mostly, but others were the most wanted men in the nation. The girl hidden in the shop wasn’t safe from their marauding.

John crept back into the shop, grabbed the girl, and laid her on the floor, away from the sight of the hooligans outside. Stay down.

The girl had no one to turn to. She had witnessed her own father and mother being killed for reasons she did not comprehend. Will she die? What if she would be injured somehow? Her face was wrenched with sorrow. John took off his old jacket and covered her with it. He never looked back again as he ran out of the shop.

The gang had disappeared in search of another victim. A police vehicle rolled by slowly. John stood still, and a big-bodied policeman alighted from the Land-Cruiser and walked to him.

John tensed.

The cop was the famous police marksman who was always trigger happy to execute his suspects rather than waste time engaging the law courts to prosecute offenders, in particular the hardcore criminals. What are you doing here?

I’m lost, John replied.

A grown up elephant never forgets its way home.

The elephant will rely on the vegetation to map her way and memorize the different routes she follows. When the vegetation is gone, destroyed, then it suffers a fate of following the wind in search of a new destiny. I’m trying to locate my family. My wife and son were probably murdered.

If I may put it to you this way, the wolf does not care about the lost elephant, for he is enshrined with a duty to ensure the order of the jungle returns to normal. That is my duty. Too many are in pursuit of lost ones, and too many are taking advantage of the commotion to create more chaos. If I were you I would be fast on my feet, and for your own safety, do not invite the canine teeth of the wolf.

John kept quite.

I have orders to shoot filthy skunks like you. So scamper off! He barked at John like a dog, and the other cops in the Land-Cruiser roared with laughter.

One shouted, "Mkubwa, I’m cocking the arrow of the devil. Can I proceed?"

Go, the cop ordered John.

John knew better than to argue. He disappeared into the dark alley. Seconds later, the Land-Cruiser sped into the debris of Shantytown.

The night was becoming chilly.

Most of Shantytown was in ashes. He got to an old building that had survived the mayhem, and he heard a soft moan, but spotted no one near. It sounded as though a woman was trying to stifle her sobbing inside the building.

He entered through a broken doorway. The interior was dark and smelt of death and phantoms. A bat screeched and flew out. He tried focusing into the blackness. Nothing. The sobbing had stopped. The hazy image of a woman lunged at him with a weapon. Instinctively he dived for the floor, and a metal bar rattled against the wooden doorframe, missing him by a whisker.

Then there was an uneasy silence.

The woman raced towards an open door leading to a darker room. John did not pursue her. He crept to a spot opposite the door where the woman had disappeared into, and he curled himself into a ball, trying to make himself a small target. Was it worth engaging the woman in conversation? Who was she, and why was she crying?

I am a friend, John shouted. I come in search of refuge.

Silence.

Hallo, don’t be afraid. I mean no harm. Maybe I can help you.

Silence.

Are you there?

Silence.

John kept quiet, then he saw some movement, or so he thought. He rubbed his eyes and tried peering into the darker recesses of the house. Nothing.

Then after a moment he heard her. Go away.

Why?

I don’t want your help.

Why?

A long moment elapsed before she replied. I hate you.

A vehicle passed by outside.

You don’t know me.

I know you people want to kill us because of our tribe.

I haven’t killed anyone.

I hate you! Filthy Lake tribal scoundrel! I voted for your candidate. This is not what I bargained for.

What makes you think I am of the Lake tribe?

I don’t care which tribe you are from. I will get killed by any of you. I hate everyone now! So get out of here.

The wildebeests never chase strangers in their midst. When they face danger they run away together. Some of us, like you are running away from everyone. We need to stay together.

Sweet words got the rabbit from her burrow, and the fox had his kill.

John sighed deeply. Fine, let me go if you don’t want me to help. Remember the crocodile knows no friend, and it can attack he who has fed it for a lifetime. Madam, that is what everyone is doing. It’s a legacy everyone is building, but it’s a legacy I chose to forego.

He rose and started for the exit.

What is your name?

I’m a stranger you hate, so why know my name?

You are wise and have a big heart.

And foolish for trying to make a difference. My name is John. What is yours?

Maria.

Hallo, Maria.

John, forget this encounter. You must never tell anyone you saw me.

I’ll find other refuge, because that will make you feel safe, but I mean no harm to anyone, madam.

That is hard to believe, John.

"Madam, you do not have to believe me. Blind belief is the source of all troubles. Question