The first sign something was wrong came at 2:47 AM.
Nyambura woke up to the sound of feet — not inside the house, but outside the gate. Careful feet. Heavy, military kind of steps.
She crawled to the curtain and peeped through a tear in the fabric.
Four men.
Dark clothes.
No uniform.
No talking.
Just signals with hands.
She didn't scream.
Miss Mukami was sleeping on the floor, using a scarf as a pillow. Nyambura shook her hard.
"Wake up. They've come."
Mukami sat up. Looked outside. Saw the men.
She didn't panic.
She moved like someone who had practiced.
"Back door. All of you. No noise."
Auntie Kendi was already whispering prayers in Kikuyu.
She handed Mukami an old phone and whispered, "Use this number. My other one is off now. Go!"
The girls slipped out the back alley just as someone banged the front gate.
"Open! DCI!"
Mukami didn't even stop to ask if it was real police.
In Kenya, real police and fake ones can all kill.
Five minutes later, Kosgei stepped inside the empty bedsitter.
The mattress was still warm.
The blog post was still open on Nyambura's second-hand Tecno phone.
He picked it up. Checked the time. 3:09 AM.
He hissed.
"So close."
But he wasn't worried.
He had something else now: the blog password auto-saved on the phone.
He smiled.
At 9:45 AM the next morning, the girls dusty, hungry, but alive entered the Kenya National Human Rights Commission office in Upper Hill.
Miss Mukami had called in every favour she knew. They couldn't go to the police. Not yet.
Inside the boardroom, the girls sat together like soldiers.
A woman named Maureen sat across them, recording everything. She had kind eyes but a hard voice.
"Tell us everything. Don't leave out a single name."
And they did.
One by one.
From the strange notebook, to Room 14, to Kosgei's threats, to how Amina was slapped when she refused to stay behind after evening prep.
Nyambura cried halfway. So did Chebet. But they finished.
Back in Situra, Mwakazi was seated with Honourable Kabozi, the area MP. The two shared whiskey and silence.
"The media is causing noise," Kabozi said, reading the headlines. "But we can fix this."
"Go on," Mwakazi replied.
"We'll say it's fake. Political targeting. Sponsored by NGOs to bring down CBC. I'll organize a press statement. You just lie low."
Mwakazi nodded.
He still had friends.
Still had power.
Still had secrets.
But even he felt it: something had changed.
People were listening.
That evening, someone tried to delete Nyambura's blog.
They changed the bio. Posted a fake story claiming the girls were "paid to lie" by international activists.
But it was too late.
The screenshots had been taken.
People had already downloaded everything.
Even mainstream media had gotten involved.
TV's aired the story at 7PM.
They didn't use names, but the footage was clear the blurred faces of the girls, their voices describing Room 14, Mwakazi's office, the punishments, the midnight calls.
Social media went mad.
#JusticeForSituraGirls trended all night.
The next morning, Miss Mukami received a brown envelope outside the NHRC office. No return address.
Inside were photos — of her walking, shopping, and sleeping.
On the back of one was a message in red ink:
"You're next."
She didn't tell the girls.
She just folded the envelope and walked inside.
Because even if death came… she was not going back to silence.