Detective Denise calls at around noon. She asks how Maya is fairing and I say she’s in preterm labour. My wife had pre-gestational diabetes. It ran in her side of the family. The inherited genes coupled with the stress she was apparently going through at home, courtesy of yours truly, aggravated her situation.

“Not much I can do but wait, and hope, and maybe pray,” I say to Denise in a somewhat reassuring tone. But as the detective, I’m sure she can sense the fear behind my solid voice.

Earlier on while in the waiting room, I watched a YouTube video by some Indian doctor and he said, ‘Of the babies born before 27 weeks that survive, nearly 60% have a disability.’ I regretted watching it. It’s now the one thing that keeps popping up in my mind.

“She’ll be fine Jay,” Denise says. I’m surprised she dropped the ‘Mr. Mukoma’ so quickly. Something about her voice just seemed to calm me down. It made me feel as if all will be well. To trust the process. And I liked that.

She says they’ll need me to write a statement with them and asks whether I can pass by the later that evening. Since the CID offices are just a few minutes away, I agree and tell her I’ll be there at 03:00 pm. I have nothing to hide. And to prove it, I plan to co-operate fully with the investigators. If anything, to clear my good name of any suspicion.

I call Oduor, my childhood friend, now a big shot criminal defence lawyer. We went to college together. In fact, he’s the one that introduced me to Maya. He’s doing well for himself ever since he set foot in the concrete jungle.

At around quarter to one, Oduh – his childhood nickname – picks me up in his granite black Mercedes SUV and we head to the CID headquarters. But first, we make a quick stop at Art Caffe for a debrief.

“Some journalist called earlier. Asking all sorts of questions about the Season’s murder.” I say as we scan the long menus.

“I hope you didn’t answer any of his questions Jay.”

“Of course not. And it was a she.”

The waitress comes and smiles at us, ready to take our orders. Coffee for me, black, no sugar, and a croissant. I haven’t eaten since yesterday but still I can’t seem to find an appetite. Oduh orders tea. The lovely waitress dashes off and the lawyer can’t help but stare as she walks away. She is beautiful but my mind is elsewhere right now.

Despite his immense success as a criminal defence lawyer, Odour is yet to settle down. And that doesn’t seem likely to change anytime soon. He’s a year older than me and quite the eligible bachelor according to Adam’s magazine’s list of 2020. He’s also been featured in the Business Daily’s top 40 under 40 men. And rightfully so. I mean, the dude deserves it. I’ve never met a guy that works harder than Oduh. Okay, maybe Michael Jordan and Derek Jeter. His drive and ambition are as infectious as his good nature.

And he can be a ferocious beast in court. Devouring any prosecutor on his way to seeking an acquittal for his clients, most of whom are always guilty by the way. But he just finds a way, a loophole in the constitution, of getting them free. That’s why I called him. Other than the fact that he’s my friend and a lawyer right now would cost a ton of money, something I’m not exactly swimming in right now. And since he’s family, ooh well, we can always work something out. Later.

Still, I can’t seem to shake the fact that tagging him along to the CID would indicate I have something to hide, or that I’m guilty of something. On the other hand, it’d be nice to intimidate the detectives a bit with the city’s most flamboyant criminal attorney, wouldn’t it?

“I’m sure they will ask that you to take a polygraph at some point. Refusing would only fuel their suspicion. But agreeing to it and failing would be like a cigarette butt tossed in gasoline. Not exactly a smoking gun but it would get them excited that they’re on the right track with you.”

“I have nothing to hide. So, if it comes to that, I’ll do the stupid polygraph.”

“Okay, let’s go over the events real quick. So, you went out with her. Had a couple of drinks at the bar then went to your room, right?”


“Then as you guys were about to get your freak on, your brother-in-law spoils the party, and you leave for the hospital. You left her in the shower and didn’t talk to her after?” Oduor asks.

“I just texted her that something serious had come up and that I’d holla at her the next day.”


“And nothing. She didn’t text or call back.” I say as I take a bite of my croissant and push the cutlery aside. Still struggling to find the appetite.

We go through everything from the hospital to this morning, the visit from the detectives and the emergency with Maya.

“Good, I think we have a solid alibi with Chris, Maya and all the folks at the hospital that saw you. We just need to find out her exact time of death. Then we can comfortably rule you out as a suspect. What time exactly did you leave Seasons?”

“Not sure, probably around 09:30 pm. How can we know the exact time of death?” I ask the lawyer and have a sip of my coffee. If I had it any other way, I’d rather be sipping Jack Daniel’s.

“Ever heard of rigor mortis?”

I shake my head and place the cup on the table.

“Well, the coroner can determine, or rather estimate, the time since death, by examining the muscle activity. Body tends to stiffen after death.” The lawyer explains, and I sense some pride in his tone. Like when an older educated brother tutors his siblings.

“How long will the post-mortem take?” The clueless sibling asks.

“Depends. But that’s up to the government pathologist now. Although I don’t expect it later than Monday given the stakes.” Oduor drains his tea as the waitress gets back to our table. She clears it and asks whether I’m done with the croissant. I nod and she wipes the table clean.

He waits till she’s left and asks, “Any idea who would have done this to her?”

“Not a clue man. I’m still scratching my head.”

We join Thika Road, take the exit ramp towards Kiambu Road, and head north-east.

“Why is this case of such great interest anyway? I mean, cops showing up at my place that early, the press already hot on its trail.” I say as we get to the CID entrance, which is quite intimidating by the way. Two uniformed guards approach our car, one with an undercarriage inspection mirror, the other with an infrared thermometer.

“What do you expect when the daughter of a governor is found murdered in a hotel room?” Odour says as he lowers the heavily tinted front windows of the Mercedes.

I was wrong. This day could actually get worse. Where’s the whiskey when you need it?

Stay tuned for Part 7.