The paper was soft, like it had been folded and unfolded too many times.It had sweat marks, red ink smudges, and the faint smell of fear.I Iound it when helping a student who had been hit by a rubber bullet. She was bleeding from the shoulder, but her grip on the paper was tighter than anything I'd ever seen.I asked her, "Nisaidie na nini?"She whispered, "Usiache hii ianguke."I opened it with shaky hands.The list.Names.Schools.Ages.Dates of disappearance.Some crossed out. Some underlined. Some circled with tiny notes like:Last seen protesting in CBD.Snatched by unmarked carPolice deny arrestingo.mother still looking and at the very bottom, a chilling line written in capital letters:
"IF WE DIE, LET THEM KNOW WE EXISTED."
That line cracked something inside me.
We weren't just protesting.We were archiving our own deaths.For every name on that list, there was a face, a laugh, a dream, a room that still hadn't been cleaned out.I folded the paper back and slid it into my sock.I didn't trust pockets anymore.That night, I couldn't sleep.I kept thinking:If I vanish, who will write my name?The government doesn't keep our names.
So I will.
Next: Chapter 4 – "She Had a Voice Like Rain"
What would you do if you found that list?
Leave a comment. Let's make sure these names are never forgotten.