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Blood After Sunrise – The Shantytown Riots Copyright © 2014 by Major Elazia All rights reserved. No part of this story may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without written permission of the author, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or book reviews. This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidences are either a product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to any actual person, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. Edited by Terry Wright Cover Art by Terry Wright ISBN: 978-1-936991-74-7

Acknowledgements I would like to appreciate the contributions of my mother, Gladys Elazia, my sisters Caroline Emile Elazia and Lily Kisia Elazia, and my friends Fred Ochieng’ and Kevin Hope Njuki. They contributed immensely in the development of the novel. And I’d also like to thank my editor, Terry Wright, for helping me shape the resolution.


By Major Elazia

CHAPTER I A WORLD WHICH IS MADE of competing forces makes an interesting life. The Chinese had the year of the snake, the dragon, the pig, and other animals they named a year after, but to John and his countrymen it was the year of the elections that mattered most. This animal named the election was a strange and dangerous beast. After the conclusion of the general elections, it was evident that ‘their man’ from Shantytown had won, but there were three days of agony while waiting for the official election results to be released. Some people were bound to be happy, others destined to the pool of sadness, depending on who was declared the winner. Which of ‘their man’ had really won this election would remain a mystery beyond the


test of time. But now other events were also happening. It was a time to awake to worlds unfolding. A nation was being divided into two separate worlds within the decaying fabric of its own known universe. Which universe? Was there a universe in all this hell? No answer struck John’s mind. What kind of universe is this? Hell. Something akin to hell? No one has been to hell and back. There is always a first time. Searing heat shook him back from his trance. Down on his knees, he was in shock. The nation had waited. He could feel the tension as the minutes turned into hours, hours into days. He could bet his soul a century had passed in a span of three days. In that moment of confusion, it so happened that there was nothing like the chaotic noise of the Matatu touts and crews shouting and yelling obscenities, honking their horns at everybody and ever alert to dodge the cops. The screaming Mitumba vendors had vanished. The vegetable sellers too had gone for safety. John could only stare at his home on fire. In the smoky haze he imagined his wife smile at him with their baby boy strapped on her back. He smiled as he waved back, showing her the V-fingers for victory. The image faded, and the reality came back to him. He took out a picture of his wife and stared at it. Running feet going in all directions


thundered around him. He lifted his head up, beseeching a god who never answered his prayers to put out the fires that were creating fine ash of the carton and wood houses in the slums. Still, he held his wife’s photo of her smiling at him. Her last whereabouts was a puzzle he could not solve; he did not know where she was. He held the photo tightly to his chest and shouted in pain, “Help me, God!” He closed his eyes. Images he had faithfully tried to block from his mind had turned up to haunt him. He was lost in the jungle of destruction, never having seen a nation of people commit suicide, a nation killing itself and degenerating into tribal fiefdoms controlled by politicians and bandits, thugs and notorious vigilante groups. The peace was gone with the smoke, and the ashes were the remains of a thriving society. Mayhem was the word that rang in his mind. He took a puff of his cigarette and watched the smoke snake its way up into the air, taking in the view in front of him with belated breath. The valley was quickly becoming the prison tomb of the dead. Hell and earth had turned into water and oil. His eyes were filled with tears, and the artist impression of spiral lines alerted him symbolically of the crazy confusion in the slum, and he did not know what to do under this situation. Everything had changed so abruptly. He stood up only to be knocked down by a woman well endowed


with a gigantic size, and he sprawled onto the ground. One of his hands landed in the open slum sewage trench. The photo fell, and he picked it up as another woman gifted with muscles and excess weight accidentally knocked him over in her hurried bid to make good her escape. He rose up, only to find her long gone. Where are my wife and son? He glanced around the burning heap that once was his home, desperately hoping to find his wife and son nearby, but the gut feeling in his stomach indicated he was wasting time. He cursed himself. He should have known better and come home early. Maybe the story would have been different. They had probably died in the flames. He had arrived too late, only to find a gang running away from his house, but they had not seen him, and he had not seen his wife either. He had been warned, but he had not listened, and the gift of his insolence was now bitterness within him, the feeling of having betrayed his wife when she had insisted they go to her sister’s home in the city before the elections began. Now she was probably dead, dying in the horror of the flames. Dead, and there was nothing left but the anger of having lost his dear wife and son. “Rehema.” He called his wife’s name, and the same tense realization of her demise greeted him in the cacophony of the exploding burning wood from the ruins of his shack house. A thought came to him. His wife sometimes went out with the boy


in the evenings. She could be alive, out on her evening noise-making with other women, but she would have returned by now to kneel with him and watch their home burn. He looked around, hoping to see her but found nothing. And what about his son? Was his son dead? He imagined seeing him helpless in the flames, screaming for his mother but unheard over the crackling of the inferno. John closed his eyes tightly then he opened them, hoping that he would wake up and find it was only a dream. The flames and the image were not gone, and the nightmare remained. Tears flowed freely down his cheeks. They were the tears of a desperate husband, a wounded father, a lost man. Across the valley that was Shantytown, more houses were burning, and the pungent smell of sewage swirled alongside the smoke. The intensity of the tension and the fighting made him not realize how awful the smell was, which he was accustomed to anyway. It was an aroma for stubborn flies, not humans. The billows of smoke made it difficult to see, and breathing became labored. He inhaled deeply and coughed, the smoke terrifying him. This was an example of how hell would be like. Along the dirty streets of Shantytown, he walked, not really concerned where he was going, because his target was now the destinations of the winds. He looked around him and saw the famous Shanty Hilton where the men of Shantytown went to take cheap keg beer


and have a bite of Nyama Choma, mutura and matumbo karanga. This was where they exchanged ideas, fought over loose women, and gambled. This was where they went to watch their favorite English teams play. But tonight the Shanty Hilton was in flames, orange fire licking the night sky. It had been torched by the violent youth in the early hours of the evening. The one storied wooden building collapsed, sending a wild ball of fire into the sky that lit the bushes nearby. In that condensed brief moment of intense light, he saw the gang of murderers in the bushes near the Hilton Inn. They were still feasting on looted alcohol, but he did not care. A thunderbolt could have struck him dead through his spine when he spotted Bwana Daudi tied to an old rusted iron pole. He was bleeding profusely from an open wound where his right earlobe had been slashed away. John noticed another big gash on his friend’s chest with dried clotted blood. His face was swollen with the left eyelid partially blocking his view. He had received a thorough beating. John took careful steps towards Daudi, and their eyes met. John whispered, “Sorry. I wish I could help you.” Daudi struggled and barely could he talk. “My hope lies in the tree.” He grimaced in pain. John had to rely more on lip reading to get his message, though he


didn’t understand its meaning. He buried his face in his hands. “My wife and son are dead.” He felt the pain of a lost mankind in the debris of a forgotten humanity. Daudi coughed. “I saw a gang...drag a woman down the street.” John looked up. “Rehema?” “Bwana Daudi.” A young hooligan’s shout interrupted. “You can tell your Mountain tribesmen to return all the stolen votes in the country, but let us see if they will save you.” “Your belly is full of votes,” someone shouted. “Slice it open. We can recover the stolen votes!” John shuddered. The punishment being doled out on his friend was extreme, outrageous. How could an innocent trader carry stolen votes in his big tummy? The devil was visiting the earth. Why had the egos of tribal supremacy taken root in the electioneering process that had just ended? “Who will perform the ritual of vote recovery?” asked Tiger, a mean-looking fellow of John’s tribe. Collo, a very short guy who was a well known pick-pocket spoke up. “Tiger, you are our chief now. Decide who will do it.” “Wait,” John shouted and turned to Daudi strung up on the pole. “Was it Rehema?” Daudi’s head slumped. He was breathing hard. “Was my son... did you see my son?”


Tiger stepped up. “Enough, John. Who has the sharpest dagger a man can ever use in retrieving votes?” he shouted. Enemy Sweeper said, “I do,” and produced an evil-looking blade. “Okay, Sweeper, you remove the stolen votes from that big spy!” “With pleasure, Tiger,” a smiling Enemy Sweeper said, happy at the prospect of vanquishing another enemy from the Mountain tribes. “They have to be taught a lesson not to step on other tribes’ rights.” He walked slowly to the big man tied to the pole, circled him and spat on his face, took a swig of beer from a dirty bottle, and spat it again on the poor man. “Mercy,” Bwana Daudi begged. Enemy Sweeper smiled as if the fear in his victim’s eyes delighted him. “Leave him be,” John managed, unsure of the consequences. “He has harmed no one.” Sweeper cut out Daudi’s navel and screamed in delight. The band of thugs started laughing. Daudi bled profusely from the wound and stared off in the distance. John followed the direction of Daudi’s stare, to a shop door where John was horrified to see a teenage girl, watching with eyes dripping terror. It appeared as though Daudi’s eyes were pleading with her to hide,


as only an anguished father like him could relay without words. John remembered his baby son, and the pain of having lost him, and his wife, who may or may not be dead, maybe kidnapped by a gang then raped and murdered. Not knowing was a kind of torture worse than Daudi’s fate. Daudi struggled greatly not to show his pain to his terror-stricken child. John did not betray her presence to the gang. He backed away then rushed to the door and pushed the girl into the shop, behind the doorframe, and whispered to the girl, “Do not go out there. I will come back to take you to a safe place. Please stay here or you will be killed.” “You will kill me?” “No.” “But you let them kill my father.” “There is nothing I can do.” “You are lying. You people from the tribe of the Runners and HenEaters hate us. You hate all the people from the mountain because you think our new leader will deny your tribes to access the benefits of Uhuru, independence.” “Stop that kind of hate talk and do what I say. I’ll find a way to take you to your mom.” “She is dead.” Dead? It did not make sense. She was a woman who was open to all people and had a warm heart. Why did she get killed? She was not of


the Mountain tribes like Daudi, but from the southern Salty Water Tribes. Then it occurred to him. By virtue of marriage to Daudi, she had been killed. “Please do not go out, okay?” John asked nicely. “And be patient until I return.” She nodded in fear, not trusting him but again not having a better option. John walked out of the shop. He looked at Daudi who was bleeding. Their eyes met. Daudi smiled faintly as John noticed him saying thank you and he turned his eyes to the direction of a lone tree near the railway. John spotted the tree. My hope lies in the tree. Daudi nodded, then he looked at the door behind which John had hidden his daughter, and tears were in his eyes. He dropped his head and died in great pain. John walked away after his friend had died. He looked at the youth who were busy killing their neighbors. Some he knew in person, petty criminals mostly, but others were the most wanted men in the nation. The girl hidden in the shop wasn’t safe from their marauding. John crept back into the shop, grabbed the girl, and laid her on the floor, away from the sight of the hooligans outside. “Stay down.” The girl had no one to turn to. She had witnessed her own father


and mother being killed for reasons she did not comprehend. Will she die? What if she would be injured somehow? Her face was wrenched with sorrow. John took off his old jacket and covered her with it. He never looked back again as he ran out of the shop. The gang had disappeared in search of another victim. A police vehicle rolled by slowly. John stood still, and a big-bodied policeman alighted from the Land-Cruiser and walked to him. John tensed. The cop was the famous police marksman who was always trigger happy to execute his suspects rather than waste time engaging the law courts to prosecute offenders, in particular the hardcore criminals. “What are you doing here?” “I’m lost,” John replied. “A grown up elephant never forgets its way home.” “The elephant will rely on the vegetation to map her way and memorize the different routes she follows. When the vegetation is gone, destroyed, then it suffers a fate of following the wind in search of a new destiny. I’m trying to locate my family. My wife and son were probably murdered.” “If I may put it to you this way, the wolf does not care about the lost elephant, for he is enshrined with a duty to ensure the order of the jungle returns to normal. That is my duty. Too many are in pursuit of lost ones, and too many are taking advantage of the commotion to create


more chaos. If I were you I would be fast on my feet, and for your own safety, do not invite the canine teeth of the wolf.” John kept quite. “I have orders to shoot filthy skunks like you. So scamper off!” He barked at John like a dog, and the other cops in the Land-Cruiser roared with laughter. One shouted, “Mkubwa, I’m cocking the arrow of the devil. Can I proceed?” “Go,” the cop ordered John. John knew better than to argue. He disappeared into the dark alley. Seconds later, the Land-Cruiser sped into the debris of Shantytown. The night was becoming chilly. Most of Shantytown was in ashes. He got to an old building that had survived the mayhem, and he heard a soft moan, but spotted no one near. It sounded as though a woman was trying to stifle her sobbing inside the building. He entered through a broken doorway. The interior was dark and smelt of death and phantoms. A bat screeched and flew out. He tried focusing into the blackness. Nothing. The sobbing had stopped. The hazy image of a woman lunged at him with a weapon. Instinctively he dived for the floor, and a metal bar rattled against the wooden doorframe, missing him by a whisker. Then there was an uneasy silence.


The woman raced towards an open door leading to a darker room. John did not pursue her. He crept to a spot opposite the door where the woman had disappeared into, and he curled himself into a ball, trying to make himself a small target. Was it worth engaging the woman in conversation? Who was she, and why was she crying? “I am a friend,” John shouted. “I come in search of refuge.” Silence. “Hallo, don’t be afraid. I mean no harm. Maybe I can help you.” Silence. “Are you there?” Silence. John kept quiet, then he saw some movement, or so he thought. He rubbed his eyes and tried peering into the darker recesses of the house. Nothing. Then after a moment he heard her. “Go away.” “Why?” “I don’t want your help.” “Why?” A long moment elapsed before she replied. “I hate you.” A vehicle passed by outside. “You don’t know me.” “I know you people want to kill us because of our tribe.” “I haven’t killed anyone.”


“I hate you! Filthy Lake tribal scoundrel! I voted for your candidate. This is not what I bargained for.” “What makes you think I am of the Lake tribe?” “I don’t care which tribe you are from. I will get killed by any of you. I hate everyone now! So get out of here.” “The wildebeests never chase strangers in their midst. When they face danger they run away together. Some of us, like you are running away from everyone. We need to stay together.” “Sweet words got the rabbit from her burrow, and the fox had his kill.” John sighed deeply. “Fine, let me go if you don’t want me to help. Remember the crocodile knows no friend, and it can attack he who has fed it for a lifetime. Madam, that is what everyone is doing. It’s a legacy everyone is building, but it’s a legacy I chose to forego.” He rose and started for the exit. “What is your name?” “I’m a stranger you hate, so why know my name?” “You are wise and have a big heart.” “And foolish for trying to make a difference. My name is John. What is yours?” “Maria.” “Hallo, Maria.” “John, forget this encounter. You must never tell anyone you saw


me.” “I’ll find other refuge, because that will make you feel safe, but I mean no harm to anyone, madam.” “That is hard to believe, John.” “Madam, you do not have to believe me. Blind belief is the source of all troubles. Question your soul, walk with your head, and feel with your heart.” A few moments later he was heading back through the slums and plotting what to do next. The night sky was blacker than normal, as the streetlights were not working. They were perpetually being vandalized by the street children in search of scrap metals for sale, but tonight the power was off to all of them. As he rounded a corner he bumped into Tiger and his gang, who were carrying all types of assorted weapons apart from firearms. Tiger hugged him. “John. Where have you been? I have been looking for you all over the town, worried you could have been killed by rival gangs. Don’t walk alone. You can be killed by the filthy vote thieves.” “I’ve been trying to find my wife and son,” John said. “I fear they could be dead.” “Call her on my phone.” Tiger handed him a cell phone. John took the phone and stared at the keypad. “I can’t remember


her number. She had just bought the phone recently.” Collo the pickpocket suggested, “Why don’t you call a friend of hers, or her sister?” John tried calling his wife’s sister, but he found her line had gone dead. He tried calling again but it was in vain. “It’s no use.” He returned the phone to Tiger. Collo gave John a machete. “For that they shall be avenged if some pretty silly fellow killed them. Our people are not cows and pigs to be slaughtered when they steal our election victory.” Enemy Sweeper joined the group, carrying a blood-stained machete and broadly smiling. “I have just taught one more mountain scum villain a lesson not to steal our election votes and bloody murder our people. I’m telling you it’s real tough, but I feel really good killing those scum bugs for fun.” Noticing John with the machete Sweeper added, “Great! Now you are the substance of a man. Ever tried killing a man for fun? I guess not, but you can do it today.” The gang laughed. John felt a wrench in his stomach and bent over. He could never kill a man. The thought pushed hot bile up the back of his throat. He vomited. Tiger stepped back in disgust. “Did some idiot give you poisoned food?”


“Remember where you had your last meal?” Collo asked. Sweeper chimed in. “I can teach the cook a serious lesson not to meddle with our man, our comrade John.” “I’m okay,” the shell-shocked John said. “All this killing makes me ill.” “I have a cure for that.” Tiger took out a few rolls of bhang and dished them out. All but John accepted the offer. “It’s all right, John,” Enemy Sweeper said. “You will soon realize why soldiers need this stuff at war. There are some things you can’t do with your sober mind. You need to expand your mind with this, and it makes your thinking wider. No wonder Bob Marley produced some of the best Reggae music. If you have ever heard of Forest Gump, he would tell you it expands your horizon.” John spit and wiped his mouth. “It’s good to think wider, but not in your style, and I do not think I really need to expand my horizon using that stuff.” “Marley preached peace with his music,” Tiger added. “But he said you got to be a buffalo soldier like us, men. Take the weed, John. It will do you good.” “No thanks.” “Seems like you are still dazed by the war.” “Killing our neighbors is not war. It’s murder.” “We shall have our man declared president by creating mass civil


disobedience, I tell you.” They were near the railway line that was a hotbed of the conflict in Shantytown. John noticed the tree that Daudi had shown him in his dying gestures. What did the tree mean to him? Had Daudi beseeched him to explore it? Such a question was to be answered later and not in the company of such a gang. He had to elude them. John again recalled Daudi, the tears and the silent noise of death but the thunderous request for help, imploring him to follow his gaze to the tree. My hope lies in the tree. What was it about? He remembered the girl in the shop, her sad face in the glowing embers of dying Shantytown. The chaos and confusion and the problem of accepting fate made John realize there were some things one would never have control over, the actions of his fellow man. It’s time to let such realizations sink into your subconscious mind. You can try and determine your destiny by making choices, but where fate is, you have no control, and when luck is the only hope, sometimes that luck runs dry. When that happens, you accept your fate, and many show acceptance by saying it’s the will of God. They were the escapists who continued fighting fate by fighting for their destiny. Well, fate can be changed if you believe in your destiny, John.


Your inner strength to resolve and beat the pitfalls in your life shapes your destiny. Fate can be altered. He was right. He could never make someone believe in something he had no faith in, because it had to touch the desires, principles, aspirations, norms and traditions, and in their way of life, that belief was brought by faith. The men he was with at that moment had survived on violence and gangster life, and they believed in violence. It was their way of life. It was the foundation of the framework of their faith. Violence to them was a tool to achieve goals by all means. His faith did not tally with theirs, though they were members of his own tribe. He had to change something, to save the girl in order to actualize his beliefs. Save the girl. It was risky, but how many had risked their lives for what they believed in? Or was he trying to become the hero he had never been? Maybe he was just becoming stupid. He took his machete and went to a nearby bush to pee. Then he zipped his trousers and walked to Enemy Sweeper. “Hold this one for me,” he told him, giving him the machete. “I have to pupu somewhere, and I think that derelict shop will do.” “Ah, that one, you can leave all the shit there you want. The owner died handsomely. Wish you could have seen the way we were disappointed to find he had not hidden the stolen votes in his tummy.” Enemy Sweeper seemed proud of his murderous achievement.


John forced himself to grin, shrugged, and went to the shop. He found the place in total darkness. “Hallo,” he called softly, and no reply came back. Maybe the girl was asleep. He was confused to find she was not where he had left her. He moved to one of the ransacked rooms then sensed a movement behind him. He stopped to listen. Not a sound. He turned to leave and bumped into someone. “Watch it, man.” Enemy Sweeper rattled him to the bones. “This place looks like it has no survivors.” Sweeper sniffed the air. “Smells spooky, I tell you, it sends creeps up my nerves.” “Why did you follow me?” “I knew you could have seen someone and wanted to claim a scalp for a prize. I wanted to witness or even help you finish the job. You know I didn’t want you to have all that fun alone. Do you suspect there could be anyone hiding here, John?” “Only us two men are inside here. Maybe you can be good enough to update me if you have spotted anyone else, or maybe I will assume you are hiding someone in here. Yeah, I think that is the greatest assumption, don’t you think so?” “Damn sure I would have told all of you.” “Fine. Murder is your choice. It comes from your beliefs in your life.” “What the hell do you mean?” John smiled. “When you are running, trying to save your life, you


will know.” Enemy Sweeper stared hard at John with bewildered eyes while John fixed an angry stare at him. “What is it about you, John?” “I will never change you. I will never make you believe, but I can only make you know your options so you can make choices that build your beliefs. It’s up to you to change. Nobody will ever change you. Heroes change themselves, Sweeper.” “You make me think, what kind of a hero am I? John, I don’t understand you.” “Go to the mirror of your soul and look at the reflection you see in it. Look at it. Study it with your mind. You don’t have to understand me. I have just opened a door for you to explore. Maybe you will find peace.” “I will always fight for my people. I will wipe out the enemy Mountain tribes for my people to be safe, John. I believe in my people.” He stretched his hand to John, waiting for a handshake. “You fight for your people, not just yourself?” “Surely, I fight for everyone who needs my protection or is a member of my tribe or other friendly tribes.” “Sorry, fighting for everyone is harder than you think. Look into the savannah. The buffaloes gore hyenas to death, inadvertently protecting the lions’ food sources, and the lions hunt down the buffaloes,


but kill the wild dogs and the hyenas to protect their cubs and secure food. But then the hyenas and the buffaloes kill lion cubs, one to reduce food competition and the other to enhance survival from predators. In the long end, who is protecting who, Sweeper? That is the dog life that we are all undergoing now. It’s survival of the fittest. No one is protecting anybody.” Enemy Sweeper retracted his outstretched hand. “We kill to protect our own, John. Don’t be soft to them who kill your own. It’s only your own tribe that can protect you truly.” He swiped his forefinger across his throat, turned, and walked out of the shop. John searched the rooms, trying to figure out exactly where the girl had gone. She could get killed, and Enemy Sweeper meant each word he said with great relish. While groping in the dark he touched something warm, and instinctively he said, “Keep still and do not utter a word or move.” “That is the lie they told mom and later killed her. You are a liar!” “It does not matter now whether I’m a liar or not. I just want to get you safely out of here then you can decide where you want to go.” “So that I can be killed in the streets as you watch? I saw you with a machete.” Her voice was rising. John grabbed her and covered her mouth. “Listen, girl. It is one thing to differ with me, but you are going to keep quiet or I will glue your mouth shut.”


“Leave me alone,” the girl yelled back. John shook her by the shoulders. “I know you are not a baby, and growing up means you understand what I am telling you. By hiding you here I am risking my own life for you because of your father. He was my friend. You can tell me all the things you want, but there is one thing you have no liberty, questioning my intentions to save your life in this dangerous situation. You want that man to come back and kill you? And kill me for hiding you?” She shook her head. “Then be quiet.” There was an uneasy silence between them. John whispered, “Your father kept looking at that tree. Why?” “I do not know.” “Are you sure?” She opened her mouth but left the question unanswered and began to cry. “We always have the right reason to fear, but sometimes fear saves us, and sometimes it causes us to lose our lives. If you let fear control you then this is one of the moments when it will make you lose. Despite fearing, there are some decisions we sometimes have to make, not because they are nice, but to try and secure some hope. You can choose to trust me, but if you do not tell me, then I will be driven by the urge to know. Believe me, but for my friend, I will go there to the tree and see


what I can find myself, at great risk.” When John was near the door she called him again. “John, if they kill my sister, please come and kill me before they get to me.” “Your sister?” “She is hiding in that tree. If they kill her, promise to end my suffering before they can rape and kill me. I’m a girl, and you know the things they did to my mom are too painful for me. Your people will call you a hero for doing that.” John remained quiet. This was a request which was far off the mark of help he could offer. He had to weigh his words, be careful in what he said to her. “I can never kill a man. Or a woman. I’m a coward in that way. I can never take a life. I am no hero.” “Then my death will be like my mother’s.” “Sometimes I wonder why we adore heroes. Some villains are called heroes by others. If I manage to get you out of here, something which I do not know I can achieve, will your people call me hero for that?” “What would it matter to you? You’re not a hero. But I don’t want to die.” “I won’t let that happen. What is your name?” “Jenny.” “Hallo, Jenny. My name is John. Now I have to leave. If I stay for


long, they may decide to come search for me, and you know what that means.” “Yes.” “When it’s safe, I’ll come back for you.” “Then you can be my hero. Promise?” “Fine, you have my promise then. I choose that I should be honored with saving you. I hope I won’t have to live with broken promises.” He exited the shop quickly.


About the Author

Major Elazia was born in Vihiga County, Western Kenya and graduated from Kenyatta University with a B.A. in Sociology. He has been featured in acted plays like Aminata, Government Inspector, and the movie Mizoga, a Born Free production. He has written plays for many schools in Kenya: Son of Woman, Waterfalls of Tragedy, and Jailing of the Scientist, among others. He’s published several poems on Poemhunter, as well. Currently Major is pursuig a M.A. in Sociology at Pwani University in Kenya. He now lives in Kilifi and works as a freelance writer and research consultant.

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Return me to Mistwillow – FREE (TWB Press, 2013) A horror short story by Terry Wright http://www.twbpress.com/returnmetomistwillow.html

Wilderness Rampage (TWB Press, 2014) A thriller short story by Terry Wright http://www.twbpress.com/wildernessrampage.html

The 13th Power Quest, Book 1 (TWB Press, 2011) A sci-fi thriller novel by Terry Wright http://www.twbpress.com/the13thpowerquest.html

The 13th Power Journey, Book 2 (TWB Press, 2011) A sci-fi thriller novel by Terry Wright http://www.twbpress.com/the13thpowerjourney.html

The 13th Power War, Book 3 (TWB Press, 2012) A sci-fi thriller novel by Terry Wright http://www.twbpress.com/the13thpowerwar.html

The Grief Syndrome (TWB Press, 2011) A sci-fi futuristic novel by Terry Wright http://www.twbpress.com/thegriefsyndrome.html

The Duplication Factor (TWB Press, 2011) A sci-fi human cloning novel by Terry Wright http://www.twbpress.com/duplicationfactor.html

The Pearl of Death (TWB Press, 2011) A historical thriller novel by Terry Wright http://www.twbpress.com/thepearlofdeath.html

Black Jack (TWB Press, 2014) A thriller novel by Terry Wright http://www.twbpress.com/blackjack.html

A Choir of Angels (TWB Press, 2011) A supernatural short story by Marilyn Baron http://www.twbpress.com/achoirofangels.html

Follow an Angel (TWB Press, 2011) A supernatural short story by Marilyn Baron http://www.twbpress.com/followanangel.html

The Stand-in Bridegroom (TWB Press, 2011) A supernatural short story by Marilyn Baron http://www.twbpress.com/thestandinbridegroom.html

Dead Mix (TWB Press, 2012) A supernatural short story by Marilyn Baron http://www.twbpress.com/deadmix.html

Just Desserts (TWB Press, 2011) A horror short story by Stephen A. Benjamin http://www.twbpress.com/justdeserts.html

C.A.T. (TWB Press, 2011) A sci-fi short story by Rosie Oliver http://www.twbpress.com/cat.html

Neptune’s Angel (TWB Press, 2012) A sci-fi short story by Rosie Oliver http://www.twbpress.com/neptunesangel.html

Guard Cat (TWB Press, 2013) A sci-fi short story by Rosie Oliver http://www.twbpress.com/guardcat.html

Ghost in the Machine (TWB Press, 2011) A horror short story by Dean Giles http://www.twbpress.com/ghostinthemachine.html

Alien Apocalypse – The Hunger, FREE ebook (TWB Press, 2011) A sci-fi short story by Dean Giles (Prequel to The Storm) http://www.twbpress.com/alienapocalypsethehunger.html

Alien Apocalypse – The Storm (TWB Press, 2011) A sci-fi short story by Dean Giles http://www.twbpress.com/alienapocalypsethestorm.html

Alien Apocalypse – Genesis (TWB Press, 2012) A sci-fi short story by Dean Giles http://www.twbpress.com/alienapocalypsiegenesis.html

The Tournaent (TWB Press, 2012) A sci-fi futuristic short story by Dean Giles http://www.twbpress.com/thetournament.html

What Happened to Rhodri (TWB Press, 2011) A horror short story by Craig Jones http://www.twbpress.com/whathappenedtorhodri.html

Meat Coma (TWB Press, 2013) A zombie short story by Craig Jones http://www.twbpress.com/meatcoma.html

The Jokers of Sarzuz (TWB Press, 2011) A horror short story by Paul Sherman http://www.twbpress.com/thejokersofsarzuz.html

Daemon Page (TWB Press, 2011) A horror short story by Paul Sherman http://www.twbpress.com/daemonpage.html

Missed (TWB Press, 2013) A horror short story by Paul Sherman http://www.twbpress.com/missed.html

The Black Book (TWB Press, 2011) A horror short story by AJ Kirby http://www.twbpress.com/theblackbook.html

The Haunting of Annie Nicol (TWB Press, 2012) A horror short story by AJ Kirby http://www.twbpress.com/thehauntingofannien.html

Incurable (TWB Press, 2011) A zombie short story by Brandy de Cusack http://www.twbpress.com/incurable.html

The Dollhouse (TWB Press, 2012) A horror short story by Edith O’Deer http://www.twbpress.com/thedollhouse.html

Trapped (TWB Press, 2013) A horror short story by Edith O’Deer http://www.twbpress.com/trapped.html

Nit (TWB Press, 2013 A horror short story by Charles Brass http://www.twbpress.com/nit.html

Closure (TWB Press, 2014) A supernatural short story by Charles Brass http://www.twbpress.com/closure.html

Perfect World (TWB Press, 2011) A sci-fi futuristic novel by AJ Kirby http://www.twbpress.com/perfectworld.html

Dead Bastards (TWB Press, 2013) A zombie novel by Jenny Thomson http://www.twbpress.com/deadbastards.html

God’s Assassin (TWB Press, 2013 A supernatural novel by G.S. Naas http://www.twbpress.com/godsassassin.html

Gem, the novel (TWB Press, 2012) A vampire novel by Craig Jones http://www.twbpress.com/gemthenovel.html

The Malagasy Tortoise, A Jim Morgan Adventure (TWB Press, 2012) An action thriller novel by James Halon http://www.twbpress.com/themalagasytortoise.html

Steam City, Anthology (TWB Press, 2012) An anthology of short stories by James Halon http://www.twbpress.com/steamcity.html

The Berlin Affair (Amore Moon, 2013) A romantic thriller by Stephanie Smith http://www.twbpress.com/theberlinaffair.html

Keeper of the Stars (Amore Moon, 2013) A romance novel by Amy Lynn http://www.twbpress.com/keeperofthestars.html

Bloodflow (TWB Press, 2013) A gothic mystery novel by Kevin Paul Tracy http://www.twbpress.com/bloodflow.html

The Love Bureau (Amore Moon, 2014) A supernatural romance by Jennifer Sweetdance http://www.twbpress.com/thelovebureau.html


Profile for TWB Press

Blood After Sunrise  

John is a family man with a big heart and a target on his back. Caught up in the violence of the Shantytown riots, his home is torched, and...

Blood After Sunrise  

John is a family man with a big heart and a target on his back. Caught up in the violence of the Shantytown riots, his home is torched, and...


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