Chapter Seven: The Voice in the Tape
556 Words
Zera held the cassette like it might crumble in her hands.
The plastic was old—scuffed and dusty—but the label was clear. One word, written in careful black ink:
“ZERA.”
She stared at it, heart thudding.
Mama Dalia hadn’t said anything else. After handing over the tape, she’d gone back to her silent vigil, rocking slowly as the waves roared. Zera had tried to ask more questions, but the old woman simply shook her head.
“Truth has teeth,” she whispered once. “It doesn’t bite gently.”
---
They returned to the guesthouse in silence.
Kwame borrowed an old cassette player from the caretaker. Zera sat at the edge of the bed, staring at the tape like it might explode. Her fingers trembled as she pushed it in.
The tape clicked.
A soft hum filled the room. Then a voice—breathless, calm, hauntingly familiar.
Her mother.
“If you're hearing this, it means they haven’t killed the truth.”
Zera’s eyes filled with tears.
“I don’t have much time. They’re watching everything—even now. But you, my daughter… you are the last thread. I left clues. The mirror. The symbols. The names. You’ll need them all.”
The voice trembled now. Like the fear was starting to catch up.
“There’s a file. Hidden inside an old broadcasting station in Mombasa. The one I used to work in before they shut it down. Room 103. Under the floorboards.”
Zera glanced at Kwame. His jaw was tight. Focused.
“They silenced me because I found something. Something buried deep in the government—a trafficking network. Young girls. Hidden under the cover of charity. Schools. Churches. Even media.”
The tape hissed for a moment. Then the voice returned—softer now. More human.
“I’m sorry I left you. I never stopped loving you. I did what I had to, to keep you alive.”
A pause.
“Zera… don’t trust anyone wearing a white star.”
Click.
Silence.
---
Zera couldn’t breathe.
The air felt heavier than before. Like the truth had punched a hole through the walls.
Kwame stood. “The old broadcasting station. That’s near Makadara Road. I’ve passed it before. Abandoned. No one goes in.”
“Then we go tonight,” Zera said.
Kwame hesitated. “This could be a trap.”
“She trusted me with this. I can’t ignore it.”
He nodded slowly. “Then we go.”
---
Outside, the night was unforgiving. The broadcasting station stood like a giant skeleton—windows shattered, walls cracked, rust climbing every surface. But Zera felt strangely calm.
They broke in through a side door.
Room 103 was upstairs, half-buried in shadows.
Inside, dust coated every surface. Broken chairs. A dead computer. A rusted mic stand. But in the corner—beneath an old rug—Zera found it.
The floorboard creaked as she pulled it up.
Inside… a metal file box.
She opened it with trembling hands.
Inside were documents. Photos. Names. Receipts. Dates. Logos she didn’t recognize. And one letter, sealed in red.
She was about to open it—when she heard a noise.
A footstep.
Then another.
And a voice from the hall:
“Step away from the file, Miss Achieng. We’ve been waiting.”
- Writer
