Mr. Otiato didn’t even bother turning his head when he heard the noise outside. A few claps, some laughter, and that familiar voice shouting big “empty” promises.
He stirred his tea slowly, eyes still fixed on the Shamakhokho Weekly Chronicles newspaper. “Just another joker,” he muttered. “By sunset, they won’t even remember his name.”
The morning came, but things didn’t feel the same.
The whispers had grown louder, and even Otende wa Butcher paused his knife mid-cut to say, “Have you heard what that Wambilianga guy is saying?”
Luwere stormed into Otiato’s tent, wiping sweat from his forehead, his shirt clinging to his chest.
“Bwana, we have a problem.”
Otiato looked up lazily from his Shamakhokho Weekly newspaper. “A problem? You mean that boy yelling slogans in the market?”
Luwere shook his head, panting slightly. “It’s not just noise anymore. The boda-boda riders are listening and giving him free rides around. The market women are laughing, but not dismissing him. The youth are chanting his name like a national anthem.”
Otiato leaned forward slowly, his eyes narrowing. “You’re telling me that a fool is a threat?”
Luwere hesitated, then nodded. “He’s making people believe they are going to be given free boreholes.”
The tent fell silent, except for a baby crying somewhere across the square.
Otiato exhaled loudly and rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “Fine. Send my men. Have a little… talk with him.”
They caught Wambilianga outside Mama Atoti’s hotel, just after he’d finished promising subsidized soap to the women frying mandazi in the corner.
The late afternoon sun leaned in like a nosy neighbor, spilling golden light all over the dusty street, while the radio crackled like it was gossiping with the breeze.
Four men in dark jackets approached. They had wide shoulders, no smiles, and teeth that never dared to show.
Shimonjero stood nearby, pretending to buy roasted maize, but his eyes were locked on the scene unfolding.
One of the men stepped forward.
“Wambilianga,” he said calmly. “We respect your energy, but this is not your fight. Step down as an MCA aspirant.”
Wambilianga crossed his arms and stretched his neck like a boy trying to look taller than his big brother. “And if I don’t?” The man smiled, but his eyes stayed cold like his mouth was lying, but his eyes told the truth. “Don’t be stubborn. This can go two ways.”
In a split second, Shimonjero saw it. Fear. A crack in Wambilianga’s armor. But it vanished as quickly as it came.
Shimonjero leaned in and whispered in Wambilianga’s ear like a man revealing a big secret. “You don’t have to prove anything, Wambilianga. We can walk away.”
Wambilianga’s mouth curved into a short smile that was both reckless and electric. “You think threats will scare me? I’m just getting started. Shamakhokho needs a new leader, and I’m the one.”
That night, they met in a back room at Mama Atoti’s. The smell of boiling beans wafted through the door. A single kerosene lamp cast long shadows across the table.
Wambilianga sat bent over the table, fingers drumming the wood like a man playing chess with the gods.
“We need a new plan,” he muttered. “If Otiato is worried, it means we’re doing something right. Now, we make them believe we’re winning.”
Shimonjero raised an eyebrow. “How?”
“First, we start a survey. It’ll say 100% of Shamakhokho youth support me.”
Shimonjero couldn’t help it as he laughed. “Even the ones who still think you work at Mama Atoti’s kitchen?”
Wambilianga shrugged. “Numbers don’t have to be real. They just have to sound good.”
Shimonjero sighed. “And after the fake numbers?”
“Noise,” Wambilianga said. “We’ll hire drummers. Loud ones. And dancers. Every time I move, it should feel like a revolution is happening.”
Shimonjero looked at him. The gleam in his eyes was wild. But beneath it, he thought he saw something else something quieter. Was it a doubt? Was it fear? Or maybe he was just too deep to back out.
“Wambilianga,” he said slowly, “do you actually believe you can win?”
He paused. Just for a breath.
Then he smiled, tired but stubborn. “I don’t need to believe it yet. They do.”
The next day, a new face arrived in Shamakhokho.
A man in a flowing white robe, barefoot, his beard thick as cassava root. He stood in the middle of the market, palms lifted to the heavens.
“I have seen a vision!” he cried. “The gods have chosen a leader for Shamakhokho!”
The market froze. Even the rooster on Mama Atoti’s roof stopped mid-crow.
Then, with a dramatic pause, the prophet pointed straight at Wambilianga.
“This,” he shouted, “is the chosen one!”
For half a second, the world held its breath.
Then the crowd erupted with cheers, claps and ululations. Someone hit a drum. Children danced. Someone tossed maize into the air like roasted groudnuts.
Shamakhokho had just found it's unlikely “mkombozi”
And Shimonjero,standing off to the side with roasted maize in hand, wasn’t sure if he was watching the rise of a legend .
Or the beginning of the biggest con this village had ever seen.
