2016.
Rainwater trickled down corrugated rooftops, filling narrow gutters cutting through Nairobi’s east-side blocks. Officer Nyaga kept his collar up, shoulders hunched as he walked past shuttered kiosks. “We can’t keep telling people it’s thieves,” he muttered, half to himself, half to the sergeant beside him. The man grunted, adjusting his rifle strap, but didn’t argue. A child’s funeral procession moved in the opposite direction, slow and solemn, and neither officer met the mothers’ eyes.
Inside the precinct, lights flickered with the electricity’s usual indecision. Files lay stacked on a desk, photographs of children found drained, skin waxy, eyes open. Nyaga pushed the pile away, jaw tight. “They’re saying it’s supernatural,” he said, breaking the silence. “Not just one drunk killer with a knife. Something else.”
The sergeant exhaled hard. “Don’t start that. You’re a policeman. Stick to things you can handcuff.”
Through the barred window, thunder rolled over the city. Nyaga stared at the glass, watching rain streak down, the air pressing against him like damp cloth. A rumor had followed him all week: a pale man luring boys with promises of football training, smiling with lips still red.
By early morning, the blackout came without warning. Whole districts went dark, leaving the groan of generators and distant barking dogs. Farmers on the outskirts of Machakos woke to find their goats crumpled, husks emptied, tongues blackened. By lantern light, they spoke of a figure moving faster than wind, a shadow bending against the storm.
When Nyaga arrived, the air stank of iron. Men held machetes, women clutched rosaries, and no one wanted the police there. “He comes when the lights go,” an old woman said, her voice cracking. “He feeds on silence.” Nyaga crouched near the carcass of a cow, running his fingers across two punctures in the throat, neat and deliberate. He looked up at his men. “That’s no blade,” he said.
Back in Nairobi, he brought his suspicion to Father Kamau. Inside the church, candles sputtered, wax spilling over brass holders. “If this is true,” Nyaga began, “your place is the ground that can hold him.”
Father Kamau’s eyes widened. “You’re chasing ghosts, officer.”
“No,” Nyaga said sharply. “I’m chasing a man.” He lowered his voice. “And if he’s more than that, we’ll need your help.”
With reluctance, the priest agreed. They set a trap, spreading word the church would host a night gathering for grieving families. Mothers carried pictures, fathers carried sticks. They prayed in low voices while Nyaga waited in the nave’s shadows.
When Wanjala entered, the air shifted. He wore a thin jacket, rain dripping from his sleeves, smiling as if he belonged. Children pressed close to their mothers, eyes locked on him. Nyaga stepped forward, cuffs ready.
“You’ve come far,” Nyaga said evenly.
“Far?” The young man’s voice was soft, lilting. “I am home.”
Before Nyaga reached him, the priest froze mid-prayer. His lips moved to a rhythm not his own, words spilling like oil. One by one, the congregation repeated after him, voices blending into an unholy chant. Nyaga’s stomach lurched as the trap collapsed; the hunter had claimed the priest.
“Stop this!” Nyaga shouted, firing into the rafters. Wood splintered, birds burst upward, but the crowd swayed, eyes unfocused. Wanjala laughed, teeth glinting. “Chains cannot hold hunger,” he said. With a glance, he commanded the priest to lead the congregation into the square, voices droning. Nyaga chased, but the night dissolved into chaos—families scattering, chants echoing into the city.
Days later, desperate and sleepless, Nyaga found Grace Adhiambo in her cramped flat. She sat beside a photo of her son, Brian, hands trembling as she set tea before him.
“You said you’d protect him,” she whispered.
“I failed,” Nyaga admitted, eyes on the floor. “But you can help me set this right.”
Her lips tightened. “What do you want from me?”
“To bait him. He knows your grief. He’ll come.”
Grace stared at him, then nodded in resignation.
They set the stage in the marketplace at dusk. Grace walked alone, carrying her son’s sweater in her arms. Nyaga and his men hid among stalls, rifles trained on the alleys. When Wanjala emerged, he didn’t go for Grace. Instead, he turned toward her relatives, who had come secretly to watch. In a flash, he ripped through them, laughter echoing against the metal shutters.
Grace screamed, falling to her knees. Nyaga fired, bullets sparking off stone as the figure slipped away. Smoke rose from burning stalls, families wailed, and Nyaga felt the sting of failure sharpen into rage.
Later, in the stillness of his quarters, he heard the voice. Not outside, not inside, but in the marrow of his bones: I drink what you love. His fists clenched until blood dripped between his knuckles.
Days later, villagers in Bungoma had taken matters into their own hands. Word spread of Wanjala seen at dusk, and mobs gathered with ropes and clubs. Nyaga, worn and gaunt, traveled there alone, his men refusing to follow.
Children spotted the fugitive first, pointing from a hillside. Wanjala darted through maize fields, sprinting into a neighbor’s hut. When the mob dragged him out, ropes dug into his neck, the crowd’s fury electric. Dust rose, people shouted, and Nyaga pushed forward.
“Let me end this,” he called, breath ragged. “You don’t know what he is.”
The villagers tightened their grip. Wanjala’s eyes met Nyaga’s, and a crooked smile spread across his face. “You’re already mine,” he hissed, voice raw.
With a swift motion, Nyaga tightened the rope himself, feeling the resistance in the killer’s throat. The mob roared, pulling together until the body stilled. Silence fell.
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