The boy who knew too much

Chapter 4: Digging Deeper

The sun was high in the sky, beating down on the dusty streets of the estate, but Isak barely noticed. His mind was tangled with questions: Who wrote the letter? Which of these men in the photo is the real criminal? And why hide it here?

“Bro, you’re acting all serious. What is this… a detective novel or what?” Juma teased, balancing a half-eaten mandazi on his palm.

“Shh! Someone might hear us,” Isak hissed, eyes darting around.

“Someone like who? Mrs. Kamau?” Juma snorted. “She can’t even whisper properly without alerting the whole street!”

Ignoring Juma, Isak pulled out the letter and photograph again. “We need to figure out who these men are,” he said quietly. “Look at this guy,” he pointed at one of the men in the photo. “Doesn’t he look… familiar?”

Juma leaned in. “Hmm… the one with the hat? Looks like Mr. Otieno, the math teacher! But no way… he’s been teaching at our school for years!”

Isak frowned. That couldn’t be a coincidence. He didn’t want to jump to conclusions, but something about the resemblance was too strong to ignore.

They decided to split their “investigation.” Juma would casually ask neighbors about the night of the fire, using his funny, distracting questions, while Isak would focus on quiet observations.

First stop: Mr. Kamau, the elderly man who ran the corner shop. Everyone in the estate seemed to respect him, even fear him a little.

“Good afternoon, Mr. Kamau,” Isak greeted politely.

“Ah… Isak! How are you, boy?” Mr. Kamau replied, smiling kindly but with a shadow of something behind his eyes.

“I… uh… I was curious about the fire at Kimani’s shop years ago,” Isak said cautiously.

Mr. Kamau’s smile faltered, and he coughed awkwardly. “Curious, eh? Some things are best left alone. Tragic events… very tragic…”

Isak nodded slowly, pretending to move on, but his mind raced. Adults hated talking about it because they were hiding something.

Meanwhile, Juma was in the middle of interrogating Mrs. Kamau about her cats, somehow steering the conversation toward “that fire thing.” By the end of the day, he returned with a mischievous grin.

“Bro, people are weird. Some talk, some give the ‘look’ like I’m gonna explode if I ask more. But I swear… I heard someone say, ‘It wasn’t who we thought.’ Something like that!”

Isak’s heart thumped. Exactly. Someone lied. And someone innocent paid the price.

That night, lying in bed, Isak stared at the ceiling. He felt the weight of responsibility settle on his shoulders. The clues were here, hidden in whispers, photographs, and half-remembered stories.

And one thing was certain: if he didn’t find the truth, no one else would.