ACHI.

CHAPTER 1: ACHI Achi was not just a girl. She was a presence. She was beautiful in a way that made people look twice, not because she tried hard, but because she didn't need to. She had dark, clear skin that glowed even when she was tired, small neat cornrows she always kept fresh, with little brown beads at the ends that made a soft sound when she walked. She had a small gap between her front teeth that showed when she laughed — and she laughed often, loudly, with her whole body. She was not tall, but she carried herself like she was taller than everyone. Shoulders back, chin up, walking like she owned the ground she stepped on. But her real beauty was not her face. It was her confidence. Achi walked into a room and the room noticed. Not because she was noisy, but because she was sure of herself. She spoke with class. She never rushed her words. She looked you in the eyes when she talked to you. She had this old-soul grace, like a woman who already knew who she was, even at 19. She was charismatic. People just wanted to be near her. Juniors wanted her advice. Boys wanted her attention, but she gave them only a polite smile and continued walking. Girls wanted to be her friend because if Achi was your friend, you felt safe, you felt seen. She had a way of making you feel like you were the most important person in that moment. She would listen to your stupid story about your village or your failed CAT like it was the most interesting thing in the world, nodding, laughing, saying "eh! Claire, really?" She was kind, but not soft. She was classy, but not proud. She was the kind of girl who would share her last 100 shillings for mandazi, but also tell you straight if you were being lazy with your assignments. She ironed her clothes even when we had no power — she would use a hot sufuria. She oiled her skin every night. She said, "Claire, even if we are broke, we must look neat. Poverty is not an excuse for being dirty." That was Achi a complete opposite of who I was. Quiet and shy. I was the girl who sat at the front of the lecture hall and left immediately after class so I wouldn't have to do small talk. On first-year orientation day, the hall was packed and loud. Everyone was forming groups — the Nairobi girls together, the football boys together. I was sitting alone in the third row, holding my new notebook too tightly like a shield, pretending to read the orientation booklet for the third time. Then someone dropped her bag next to me. Loudly. A little bit disrespectful,if you ask me. "You are reading that paper like it has exam answers hidden inside," a voice said. I looked up. It was her. Yellow top, neat beads, gap-toothed smile. And that was the first time I met Achi. "You look like you need a friend who talks too much so you don't have to talk. I'm Achi. Achieng' but just Achi. What's your name, my quiet girl?" "Claire," I whispered. She sat down too close, like we had known each other for years. She smiled, that confident, warm smile that made you feel chosen. "Claire. I like it. Soft name. Like someone who should be protected. Claire, from today you are my person. You don't get to say no. I have decided. I will be the noise, you be the calm. Deal?" I thought she was joking. She was not. That whole orientation, she talked. She told me about her mother who sells fish in Kisumu, her strict father, how she almost chose a different university, how she wants to be a high school CRE teacher because she loves explaining things. And for the first time that day, I didn't feel invisible. Because Achi had seen me. By evening, we walked to the hostels together. We didn't even ask each other. We just walked in the same direction, like it was already decided. From that day, it was always "Achi and Claire." If you saw Achi, Claire was behind her with books. If you saw Claire, Achi was pulling her to go for tea. She was the sun, and I was happy to be the person who followed the sun.