Chapter 9 – The Reply
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In a dim apartment on the edge of the student district, the caller sat at a cluttered desk. Books were stacked in uneven towers, covers worn from years of handling. A laptop sat on the desk, its screen casting pale light across the walls. The room smelled of old paper and coffee.
The phone on the desk vibrated.
Smith's message: "What do you want me to do?"
The caller exhaled slowly.
For a moment, triumph surged—the plan was working. The Wessons had controlled the city for years, shaping decisions from behind closed doors and board meetings. Contracts that favoured them and their allies.
Consultations that kept the communities quiet.
Opportunities that vanished into the hands of the powerful.
Smith was part of the family, yes—but he wasn't like them. The caller had watched him in class, interacted with him, seen the frustration in him, the way he felt happy when he first signed the document, thinking it was freedom only for it to come crashing down.
He was trapped in the system; if he didn't have thoughts about independence, he would already be like the other Wessons, architecting others' lives.
The caller typed the reply carefully: "Good. You're ready to see the truth.
Bring me a copy of your family's old financial records—the ones from ten years back. Unaltered.
Meet my courier at Uhuru Park, near the old monument, tomorrow at noon.
Come alone. Should anyone accompany you, it will be considered a breach in trust, and I will release all your family transactions to the masses.
Do this, and I'll show you proof of your family's secrets—the bribes, the rigged decisions, and the lives they've destroyed.
You wanted freedom. This is the first step."
The message was direct and concise.
The caller hesitated before sending it. A faint pang of doubt surfaced—not about the mission, but about Smith. He wasn't Theodore or Jack. He was a young man trying to understand a world built before him, shaped by control he was trying to break free from.
But understanding could not excuse ignorance.
The caller set the phone down after the message was sent and stared out the window. Nairobi's lights stretched across the horizon, vibrant and beautiful as ever—a little hope in the chaos they called order. People moved through the streets, hurrying home and others chasing work.
In the same district, in a dim office , Marcus stepped out into the corridor.
The space was quiet, a small consulting room rented by students and freelancers. Inside, a desk remained cluttered with books and an empty coffee cup.
Marcus adjusted his bag strap and closed the door behind him.
His face blank, no emotions displayed, like when he was with Smith.
But why was he here?
He walked down the corridor and stepped into the student district's night bustle. Marcus searched for a cafe in the district, finding one; he entered. The place was nearly empty at this hour, chairs stacked against tables and a single barista wiping down the counter.
He walked to the back quiet corner of the cafe before sitting down.
He opened his laptop.
Checked the file section and opened an encrypted folder. Copies of the document Smith had signed, bank records tied to the Wesson family, council members, his father's dealings, and messages that hinted at deeper corruption in the city.
He had built the drive in secret.
If his father discovered it, the consequences would be immediate.
Marcus rubbed his eyes. He was tired—not just from late nights, but from the constant weight of expectations his father had on him. Jack Griffith didn't tolerate weakness. Business was war, and war demanded sacrifice and preparations.
Marcus had been taught that lesson since young, and it stuck with him.
But war also required strategy.
He opened a new window and typed a brief message to his contact: "Package ready. Smith is in the manor today. Jack is pushing the takeover harder. Next move?"
The reply came quickly.
"Patience. Feed Jack what he wants. Wait for the leak; he will falter. Use Smith if necessary. Your share of the fallout will be worth it."
He stared at the words, use Smith. The phrase felt wrong yet right at the same time.
He imagined Smith, loyal, conflicted, trying to be free. Yet he was becoming a tool in a larger game before he even enjoyed his freedom.
Marcus closed the laptop. He stood up and left the cafe, ready to prepare for his next step.
Smith's phone lit up on the bedside table.
He reached for it, his heart tightening when he saw the unknown number's text.
The instructions were clear: past financial records, Uhuru Park, noon, and alone.
His family would want answers if they caught him snooping near the office. Isabel would be proven correct for him being a weak link, and he wouldn't want that.
Smith typed his reply: "I'll be there." He hit send before waiting for the manor to quiet down and his family to sleep.