They came like ghosts.
No number plates. No sirens. Just silence and a white Probox that parked at the corner near the Ruiru safe house gate at 5:29 AM.
Halima had stepped outside to hang her innerwear on the wire line.
She was wearing slippers and humming Bahati's "Adhiambo" under her breath.
She didn't see the man behind her.
A gloved hand. A cloth over her mouth.
By the time Officer Kiprono heard the scream, the car was already reversing. Fast.
Gunshots rang. Moraa shouted.
But the Probox vanished into the morning mist with Halima inside.
Nyambura screamed until her throat cracked. Amina fainted. Chebet tried to run after the car barefoot, but was tackled down.
Even the officers were shaking.
Miss Mukami arrived thirty minutes later with a red face and trembling lips.
"I told them. I TOLD them!" she shouted. "No outdoor chores! Not even five minutes!"
Nobody said anything.
There was no breath left for words.
Just shock.
By 8:00 AM, news had already leaked.
A reporter from local TV channel tweeted:
"Breaking: One of the Gitura 7 girls abducted in a suspected silencing attempt. More to follow."
The internet exploded.
Young people flooded the streets of Nairobi, Kisumu, Nakuru. They held signs:
"WE ARE ALL HALIMA!"
"EXPEL MWAKAZI!"
"SILENCE IS VIOLENCE!"
University students skipped lectures to march. Activists stood outside Jogoo House, chanting.
Someone painted a mural of Halima's blurred photo on Tom Mboya Street, with words:
"Taken. But not forgotten."
Back in Ruiru, Nyambura opened her blog again.
Her hands were shaking.
But she typed anyway.
"They took Halima. We watched her vanish. A girl who once braided my hair. A girl who laughed like a bell. If she dies, the government has blood on its hands."
"They think we are afraid. But even if they take all of us our story is already louder than their lies."
It was shared 1.2 million times in six hours.
CNN, BBC, Al Jazeera, Nation, Citizen, KTN — all ran the story.
Kenya had woken up.
And now… it was angry.
Mwakazi watched the TV from his mansion in Runda.
His usual arrogance was gone. His tie was loose. His phone had stopped ringing.
Kabozi, the MP, had gone silent. His other friends were "in meetings." Even his lawyer was "travelling."
He poured himself a whisky.
Halfway through, his wife came in holding her phone.
"Someone sent me something," she said.
It was a recording.
Mwakazi's voice. In Room 14. Telling a girl to "be cooperative or repeat Form Three."
He dropped the glass.
"How?" he whispered.
His empire was bleeding.
Meanwhile, Kosgei sat in a motel room in Athi River, staring at Halima tied, bruised, but still spitting insults.
"You will never win," she hissed. "Even if you cut my tongue, the truth is already outside."
Kosgei wiped sweat off his face.
He had made a mistake.
A big one.
He had stolen a girl who had become a symbol.
Now, even the President had tweeted:
"We will not tolerate abuse of our girls. Justice must be served."
That night, Nyambura wrote her shortest blog entry yet.
"If they return Halima, we continue. If they don't… we rise harder."