A week had crawled by since the self-proclaimed prophet’s visit, yet Shamakhokho hadn’t returned to normal. It wasn’t just what he said, but what he awakened.
The village felt bruised, like something sacred had been shaken loose. At the water points, people spoke in half-sentences, afraid to finish their thoughts.
No one had seen him since. But his words lingered, clinging to walls and conversations like smoke that refused to clear.
What puzzled everyone was his timing. The prophet had appeared out of nowhere, barefoot, just as Wambilianga was beginning to gain popularity. And then, as quickly as he came, he vanished.
No one knew his name. No one knew where he slept. Even Owochi, the only villager who knew everyone from the chief’s wife to the market drunkard avoided questions about him.
“Maybe he was a sign,” some whispered as they hushed children away from the topic.
Others were more skeptical: “Maybe he was planted by Otiato.” Mr. Lubisia, the respected retired teacher, remained silent on the matter but doubled down on organizing the elders.
A new initiative called the Draft Zone was being discussed—a place where village elders could gather, sip buzaa, and remind people that wisdom still mattered in politics.
Lubisia had pulled strings and begun attracting the attention of county officials. Whispers said he was preparing for a different kind of campaign altogether.
Meanwhile, Wambilianga was on the move. His campaign had evolved from a joke to a genuine grassroots movement. Each day, he trudged the dusty panyaroutes of Shamakhokho with a group of youths.
They called themselves Team Wambi, armed with hand-drawn posters. Their voices didn’t need a microphone—they could split the air.
But reality was catching up. “Wambilianga, this campaign needs fuel. People want soda, bread, and fare,” one of his team members grumbled, kicking at a stone.
“I don’t have money, but I have vision,” he said, jaw clenched.
Vision didn’t fill stomachs. Slowly, cracks started to form. Team members who once shouted his name in the center of the market began skipping meetings. Some showed up at Otiato’s events in fresh t-shirts and plastic smiles.
They stood beneath blue tents with plates of pilau and bottles of soda, laughing like they’d always belonged there. Khamala, one of Wambilianga’s loudest former supporters, was overheard telling a friend, “My stomach doesn’t understand loyalty. Otiato feeds us.”
Otiato’s rallies had turned into full-blown festivals. There were DJs, dancers, shiny vitenge for every mama in sight, and even comedian OJ from Nairobi, who cracked jokes about Wambilianga preaching “but never giving offerings.”
The laughter was loud, and the message hit hard. Still, Wambilianga pressed on. He couldn’t raise the Ksh 20,000 needed to run under the Shamakhokho United Party (SUP), so he declared himself an independent candidate. Some mocked him, but others admired his boldness.
“If I win, I’ll show you that courage beats cash!” he shouted one dusty afternoon from atop a plastic crate. A few elderly women clapped, and children giggled. The youth, once his backbone, now hesitated—half there, half gone.
Then something strange happened.
During one of his door-to-door visits, Wambilianga found a small brown envelope under his campaign leaflet. No one saw who delivered it. Inside was Ksh 15,000 and a note written in shaky handwriting: Pull out before next Friday. Or else….
He glanced over his shoulder. The wind rustled the banana leaves behind the hut. Was it a bribe? A warning? A trap?
He told no one—not even Shimonjero, his most trusted friend. That night, he burned the note in the fireplace at Mama Atoti’s hotel, watching the flames eat away at the message.
He wrapped the money in an old newspaper and hid it under a loose floorboard, right beneath the basin where he washed sufurias.
But something had shifted. He began to notice strange things. A man in a red cap loitered too long outside Mama Atoti’s.
A boda boda rider he didn’t recognize kept circling his events, engine humming low like a warning. Even Shimonjero grew restless.
“Do you remember the other day when those men warned you?” Shimonjero whispered one evening as they walked along the railway line. “Wambi, pull out, man. This is not a game.”
But Wambilianga stayed quiet, eyes fixed ahead.
On Thursday evening, just before sunset, something happened that froze Shamakhokho in its tracks. The self-proclaimed prophet returned. He emerged from the narrow alley behind the market like a shadow stepping into the sun.
Talkative mama mbogas fell silent. Even the speakers blasting Otiato’s rally music dulled into the background. He climbed onto the same crate Wambilianga had used days before, lifted his hand, and began to speak.
“The one who wears a crown dipped in blood shall not reign for long. And the one mocked as mad shall rise as the morning sun.”
He turned and vanished into the crowd before anyone could ask who he meant.
Phones came out. Videos were taken. Social media lit up. Some said it was staged. Others said it was fate. But no one laughed this time. Wambilianga stood still, his mouth dry.
Shimonjero leaned in. “Do you think he’s talking about you?”
“Or about someone else,” Wambilianga muttered, eyes scanning the crowd.
Just then, a gunshot cracked through the air.
Screams tore through the market. People dove behind stalls, faces full of terror. Someone had fired near the square—one shot into the sky—but that was enough.
No one was hurt, but the message was clear: someone wanted fear to take root.
Wambilianga went home that night with his heart pounding like a church drum. Every footstep outside felt like a warning.
And then came a soft, deliberate knock.
When he opened the door, no one stood there but a blood-tipped knife, pinning a note to the doorframe. It read : The Prophet was right. Some crowns bleed.
To be continued.....