It Wasn't Me!

The rain in Nairobi doesn't just fall; it orchestrates. On that Tuesday, it drummed against the rusted tin roof of a small café in Upper Hill, providing a rhythmic backdrop to the most uncomfortable silence of Silas’s life.

Across the small, wobbling table sat Elena. She wasn't looking at him.

She was looking at a printed photograph

a grainy, handheld shot of Silas walking out of a high-end jewelry store in Westlands, hand-in-hand with a woman in a sweeping emerald dress.

"I went there to buy a replacement charger, Silas," Elena said, her voice dangerously calm. "I didn't expect to see my boyfriend picking out diamonds with someone else. I thought we were saving for the business."

Silas felt the blood drain from his face. "Elena, look at the date on that photo. It says yesterday at 3:00 PM. I was in a department meeting. I have the minutes. I have the sign-in sheet. I swear, it wasn't me."

"Don't," she whispered, her eyes brimming. "The height, the jacket, even that birthmark on the back of...