The police arrived at Karai, Naivasha, when the road had already spoken its truth. The earth was soaked with blood, warm and silent, as if it had swallowed a scream. Wangu’s body lay broken, her bones caught on the roadside rails, hanging like meat in a butchery, lifeless and exposed. The wind passed over her as if afraid to stop. Even the birds kept their distance. It was not just an accident scene; it was a place where life had been violently removed.
Githinji, her husband, stood there as the driver. His body was untouched, whole, and clean. No bruise marked his skin. No blood stained his hands. The car told a different story. Only the passenger side, where Wangu had been sitting, was crushed into scrap metal, twisted and torn as if it had been deliberately offered to death. The driver’s side remained strong, protected, almost respected. The car itself seemed to know who was meant to survive.
Githinji was not afraid. His eyes did not shake, and his hands did not tremble. Inside him was a cold calm, the kind that comes when a terrible plan has reached its end. What the world saw as a tragic accident was, in truth, a silent execution. This was not reckless driving; it was motor vehicle terrorism—violence disguised as fate, murder hidden behind speed and steel.
The police wrote their reports and closed their files. The road was blamed, as roads often are. Life moved on, as life often does. But Wangu did not move. She remained on that road, in memory and in warning, asking questions that no report could answer.
So listen carefully, because this story is not only about Wangu. It is about you. When you enter a car, do you watch the hands that hold the steering wheel? Do you notice the anger, the carelessness, the silence, or the speed? When you ride in public transport, an Uber, or a family car, do you trust blindly, or do you stay awake? Because not every killer carries a weapon. Some carry passengers. And sometimes, the most dangerous place to sit is right beside the driver.
Githinji, her husband, stood there as the driver. His body was untouched, whole, and clean. No bruise marked his skin. No blood stained his hands. The car told a different story. Only the passenger side, where Wangu had been sitting, was crushed into scrap metal, twisted and torn as if it had been deliberately offered to death. The driver’s side remained strong, protected, almost respected. The car itself seemed to know who was meant to survive.
Githinji was not afraid. His eyes did not shake, and his hands did not tremble. Inside him was a cold calm, the kind that comes when a terrible plan has reached its end. What the world saw as a tragic accident was, in truth, a silent execution. This was not reckless driving; it was motor vehicle terrorism—violence disguised as fate, murder hidden behind speed and steel.
The police wrote their reports and closed their files. The road was blamed, as roads often are. Life moved on, as life often does. But Wangu did not move. She remained on that road, in memory and in warning, asking questions that no report could answer.
So listen carefully, because this story is not only about Wangu. It is about you. When you enter a car, do you watch the hands that hold the steering wheel? Do you notice the anger, the carelessness, the silence, or the speed? When you ride in public transport, an Uber, or a family car, do you trust blindly, or do you stay awake? Because not every killer carries a weapon. Some carry passengers. And sometimes, the most dangerous place to sit is right beside the driver.
