The short walk from the cool interior of the house to the sun-baked patch of ground where the Land Cruisers were parked felt like a condemned man's final journey to Amani. Each step was heavy, laden with a suffocating dread.
His uncle, Jumaane, strolled beside him, radiating an air of smug confidence, his expensive leather shoes kicking up small puffs of red dust. The oppressive heat of the midday sun seemed to mirror the simmering anger and anxiety coiling in Amani's gut.
The other men, his uncle's silent, watchful escort, fanned out slightly, creating an unspoken perimeter, effectively isolating Amani with their employer. It was a subtle but unmistakable display of power, a tactic Amani recognized with a sickening motion from the fragmented memories of his past life's encounters with his uncle's brand of intimidation.
They stopped near the lead vehicle, a gleaming black behemoth that seemed to absorb and intensify the sun's glare. Jumaane leaned casually against its bonnet, the metalwork no doubt scorching hot, though he showed no sign of discomfort.
He reached into the inner pocket of his linen suit and produced a slim, elegant silver cigarette case and a matching lighter.
With a practiced flick, he lit a cigarette, inhaling deeply before expelling a plume of smoke that momentarily obscured his face, a deliberate, theatrical gesture of nonchalance and control. The acrid scent of the expensive tobacco filled the air, a stark contrast to the clean, salty breeze coming from the distant ocean.
"So, Amani," Jumaane began, his voice smoother now, more intimate, the earlier booming cheerfulness replaced by a tone that was dangerously soft, almost conspiratorial. He took another drag from his cigarette, his eyes, like chips of obsidian, fixed on Amani. "Your mother... she looks well. This new place… it suits her. You've done well for them, nephew. Very well indeed. A son's duty, eh? To care for his family."
Amani said nothing, his jaw tight, his gaze unwavering. He wouldn't give his uncle the satisfaction of a response to such blatant, hypocritical platitudes. He knew this preamble was just that a softening up, a calculated attempt to appeal to a sense of filial piety that Jumaane himself had never possessed nor respected in others.
Jumaane chuckled, a dry, humorless sound. "Still the quiet one, I see. No matter. Actions speak louder than words, and your actions… well, they are making quite a noise, all the way to Europe. FC Utrecht. Impressive." He paused, letting the smoke curl from his nostrils.
"Success like yours... it brings opportunities, but it also brings responsibilities, Amani. Complexities. Especially when there are… family assets to consider."
There it was. The subtle shift, the first mention of "assets." Amani's internal alarms, already ringing, now screamed a deafening warning. He braced himself.
"I'm listening, Uncle," Amani said, his voice low and steady, betraying none of the turmoil raging within him. He had to remain calm, to think clearly, to remember every detail of this conversation. He had to protect his mother, his grandmother, and their newfound peace.
"Good, good," Jumaane purred, taking another long drag of his cigarette, then flicking the ash onto the red earth with a dismissive gesture. "It's about that piece of land in Malindi. Your father's land. Fifty acres, if I recall correctly. Prime location, or it will be, with the new coastal highway developments. Wasted, just sitting there, isn't it?"
The casual, almost dismissive way his uncle spoke of the land, the land that had been the catalyst for so much pain and suffering in his past life, sent a fresh wave of cold anger through Amani. He remembered the dreams his father had once had for that land; a small farm, perhaps, a place to retire peacefully. Dreams that had died with him, dreams Jumaane had then systematically tried to usurp.
"It was my father's inheritance," Amani stated, his voice firm, a hint of steel creeping in. "It belongs to my mother now."
Jumaane's eyes narrowed almost imperceptibly. "Technically, yes. But these things, they can be complicated for a widow, for an old woman to manage. Land requires development, investment, connections… things I have in abundance, nephew." He smiled, a thin, predatory curve of his lips.
"I've been thinking. For the good of the family, of course. That land... it could be generating significant income. It could secure your mother's future, your grandmother's comfort, even more than this… charming little house." The subtle disparagement of their new home did not go unnoticed by Amani.
"What are you proposing, Uncle?" Amani asked, cutting through the veiled insinuations.
Jumaane straightened up from the car, tossing the half-smoked cigarette to the ground and grinding it under the heel of his expensive shoe. The mask of politeness was slipping, revealing the greed beneath.
"It's simple, really. I have investors, serious people, interested in developing that Malindi parcel. A resort, perhaps, or high-end holiday homes. Big money, Amani. Life-changing money for all of us."
He paused, letting his words hang in the hot, still air. "But to move forward, to unlock that potential, I need clear title. I need your mother's formal approval, her signature on a few documents. And yours too, Amani. As the man of the family now, your endorsement… it would smooth things considerably. Show a united family front."
The audacity of it, the sheer, unadulterated greed, was breathtaking. He wanted them to sign away their land, their father's legacy, so he could profit from it, just as he had always intended. The memories of his past life surged again the goons, the shattered knee, the lost scholarship, his mother's tears. All for this. For this man's insatiable hunger for what was not his.
Amani's hands clenched into fists at his sides. He could feel the blood pounding in his temples. He fought to keep his voice even, to mask the fury that threatened to consume him. "And what, exactly, would my mother get in return for signing over her land, Uncle?"
Jumaane waved a dismissive hand. "A generous share, of course! Once the profits start rolling in. A very generous share. She wouldn't have to worry about a thing. I would manage everything. It's too much for her to handle, all that business. You're busy with your football. It's better this way, cleaner."
Cleaner for you, Amani thought, the bitterness rising like bile in his throat. He knew his uncle's promises were worthless, as empty as the man's soul. If they signed, they would see little, if any, of the supposed profits. The land would be gone, and Jumaane would be richer, more powerful, his victory complete.
"My mother is capable of managing her own affairs, Uncle," Amani said, his voice colder now, the carefully constructed neutrality beginning to crack. "And that land is precious to her. It was precious to my father."
The very place his father and grandfather are buried, he doesn't want them to rest in peace, does he?
Jumaane's smile vanished completely. His eyes hardened. "Don't be naive, Amani. Precious sentiments don't put food on the table or pay for medical bills. This is business. This is about securing the family's future, a future far grander than you can imagine from your football earnings alone. I am offering you all a golden opportunity. It would be… unwise… to refuse it."
The veiled threat was unmistakable. Amani felt a chill despite the scorching sun. This was the Jumaane he remembered from his nightmares, the ruthless manipulator, the man who would stop at nothing to get what he wanted.
He knew he couldn't reveal the full extent of his knowledge, the memories from his past life that painted his uncle as a monster. Jumaane would dismiss it as madness, or worse, use it against him. He had to be smarter, stronger this time. He had to protect his family, not with youthful outrage, but with calculated resolve.
"I will discuss it with my mother," Amani said finally, his voice carefully measured, giving nothing away. "It is her decision, ultimately."
Jumaane studied him for a long moment, his gaze sharp, probing. He seemed to be weighing Amani's words, searching for weakness, for an angle to exploit. "See that you do, nephew," he said at last, his tone once again smooth, but with an underlying edge of steel. "And advise her wisely. I'll be in Mombasa for a few days. I expect to hear from you soon. Don't make me wait too long. Some opportunities... they don't last forever."
He turned then, signaling to his driver. The door of the Land Cruiser was opened for him. Before ducking inside, he paused and looked back at Amani, a final, chilling smile playing on his lips. "It's good to see you doing so well, Amani. Truly. Don't let anything… jeopardize that."
With that parting shot, he slid into the air-conditioned luxury of the vehicle.
The doors slammed shut, the engines of the convoy roared to life, and one by one, the black Land Cruisers pulled away, leaving Amani standing alone in a cloud of red dust, the uncle's words, his threats, his serpent-like smile, burning into his memory. The demand had been made. The battle lines, Amani knew, had just been drawn.