Nairobi, for all its noise and chaos, had started to feel like a balm on Amara's wounded soul. The scent of earth after rain, the matatus blaring gospel remixes, the rhythmic buzz of boda bodas—all of it reminded her she was home. And home, even when broken, was better than the illusion of love she left behind in Europe.
She had moved into a modest apartment in Kilimani, a third-floor unit with pale yellow walls and a balcony that overlooked a small garden. It wasn't much, but it was hers. No Markus. No shadows. No secrets.
Or so she thought.
It was her second week when she met the woman who would change everything again.
"Hi! You must be the new tenant," came the cheerful voice one warm Tuesday morning. Amara was halfway through repotting a struggling fern on her balcony when she turned and saw her.
The woman wore a long floral kimono over jeans and a white tank top. Her afro puff was pinned high and effortless, and her smile was the kind you wanted to trust.
"I'm Faith. Faith Kamau. Apartment 3B," she said, extending her hand.
Amara wiped her fingers on a towel and shook it. "Amara. 3C. Just moved in from Europe."
"I figured! You have the aura," Faith laughed. "Come over later for tea. I'm making ginger and lemon. It's medicinal, sweet, and slightly dramatic. Like me."
Amara smiled. Faith was warm, open, magnetic.
And dangerous. Though she had no idea yet.
---
Markus had met Faith Kamau years before Amara ever knew his name. She was a freelance lifestyle blogger then, struggling to gain a following. Markus found her at a travel conference in Mombasa, where she was desperately pitching a YouTube partnership to a European media executive.
He introduced himself as "Michael Schneider," offered to sponsor her Nairobi-based platform, and within six months, she had a studio, a steady income, and a secret contract.
He never touched her.
He didn't have to.
Faith was loyal because she feared poverty more than she feared betrayal. Markus knew the currency of desperation, and he paid well.
"All you need to do," he had said, his voice calm and deliberate, "is be present. Listen. Report. Influence her choices. Protect her when necessary. Sabotage when ordered."
She agreed.
Not because she liked Markus. But because she had once been Amara.
Naive. Trusting. Broke.
And she vowed never to be that again.
---
Back in Kilimani, Faith became the neighbor Amara never knew she needed.
She shared fresh fruit on Sundays. Gave Amara the best hair plug in Lavington. Brought her home-cooked chapatis when she looked too tired to cook. They talked about everything. Men, work, healing, betrayal.
Amara never guessed that every vulnerable confession she offered was being noted, summarized, and sent in encrypted voice notes to Markus every Thursday night.
Faith never lied directly. She simply listened.
She was good at that.
---
One afternoon, Amara broke down.
Natalie had called with news: another job interview canceled mysteriously. No explanation. No feedback.
"It's him," Natalie said. "I know it is. He's still watching."
Faith found Amara crying on the staircase.
Without asking questions, she sat beside her and held her.
"Some people destroy because they think it gives them power," Faith whispered. "But remember, plants only grow when they're buried. Let this bury you deeper. So when you rise, it'll shake the ground."
Amara wept.
Faith made tea.
Later that night, Faith spoke into her burner phone. Her tone was calm, clinical.
"She suspects sabotage but hasn't connected it to you yet. Emotional state: unstable but determined. She trusts me now. She said I'm her only safe space."
Markus replied in a text: "Keep her close. Influence her next career choice. Redirect her away from the media. We can't risk exposure."
---
Things intensified weeks later.
Amara received a call from a top publishing firm. They had reviewed her portfolio and wanted a meeting. Excited, she told Faith immediately.
Faith nodded, smiled, but inside her stomach clenched. She knew what to do.
The next day, the editor who had called Amara received an anonymous tip suggesting she had a history of psychological instability and cyberbullying. It was enough to pause the process.
When Amara was ghosted two days later, Faith brought her cupcakes and held her while she ranted about the universe.
"Maybe I'm cursed," Amara said bitterly. "Maybe he still owns me, even here."
"No one owns you," Faith said. "You're just... healing in public. That takes time."
She was very good.
Too good.
---
But Natalie was suspicious.
One evening, she visited Amara and found Faith there, curled up on the couch, wearing one of Amara's hoodies like they were sisters.
Natalie's eyes narrowed. Something felt off. Faith laughed too easily. She asked too few questions. And she always left the room when Amara got emotional.
Later that night, Natalie whispered, "You sure about her?"
Amara frowned. "Faith? She's been a godsend. Why?"
Natalie shrugged. "No reason. Just... be careful who you bleed in front of. Some people love the sight of it."
---
One day, Amara told Faith she wanted to start a podcast.
"A space for women like me. To talk about betrayal, abuse, starting over. I think it could help others heal."
Faith froze. She didn't show it, but her mind began spiraling. A podcast meant exposure. Amara's voice spreading. Her story being told.
She texted Markus immediately: "Emergency. She wants to launch a podcast."
Markus called. "Delay her. Sow doubt. If she records, we will deal with it."
Faith worked fast.
The next day she told Amara, "I love the idea, but... are you ready for that kind of attention? It might retraumatize you. You deserve peace first."
Amara paused. "You really think so?"
Faith smiled. "Maybe wait a few months. Heal a little more."
The seed of doubt was planted.
But something had shifted in Amara's eyes. A flicker of realization. A faint suspicion.
---
Two weeks later, while cleaning her kitchen, Amara found something odd.
A small black thumb drive beneath the microwave. She didn't remember buying it.
She plugged it into her laptop.
Inside was a folder.
"KILIMANI_OPS"
Dozens of audio files. Labeled by date. All recent. All conversations recorded inside her apartment.
She clicked on one.
Her voice. Crying.
Faith's voice. Soothing.
She clicked on another.
Faith, whispering into a phone: "She told me today she's thinking of going public. I'm steering her away. But you need to act now. She's stronger than before."
Amara sat frozen.
The final file was a recording from just two days ago.
Faith: "If she finds out, she'll burn everything. And me with it."
Markus: "Then make sure she never finds out. Or make her believe you're the only one who can protect her."
Amara unplugged the drive, heart pounding.
The walls were watching.
And Faith Kamau was no friend.
---
That night, Amara didn't cry. She didn't scream. She watched the shadows stretch across her ceiling and knew the game had changed.
She dialed Natalie.
"I need you," she said. "We have to flip the script."
Natalie replied without hesitation. "What do you have in mind?"
Amara stared at the thumb drive.
"Faith thought she was spying on me. What if I start feeding her lies? What if we turn her into our double agent—without her knowing?"
Natalie laughed, dark and triumphant.
"Girl, I'm in. Let's play chess."
Because in this game of shadows, Amara had finally learned:
Trust no smile. Trust no tears.
And never, ever trust the woman next door with the perfect cup of tea.