The next morning comes in a blur.
No dreams. No nightmares. Just that strange kind of stillness that comes after too much crying. I move through my routine like I've done it for years — shower, hoodie, shoes, keys. Only the knot in my stomach reminds me this isn't home yet.
Outside, the morning air is soft and undecided — like it hasn't made up its mind about being warm or cold. I step into it anyway.
It's Day One at Eastshore Law School.
She would've been proud. Said something dramatic like, "You're going to shake their foundations, baby." I smile at nothing. Then keep walking.
It's exactly how I pictured it: a swirl of nerves and unfamiliar faces. Students dressed sharper than they feel. Fourth-years tossing out directions like seasoned tour guides. Laughter that sounds like confidence. The low hum of competition already in the air.
I keep my head down, weaving past it all, until I reach the hallway leading to Hall B31 — where it begins. Law 101.
The chatter grows louder near the lecture hall. Fragments of conversation bounce between the walls:
➔ "…judicial precedent—" "…Kenya School of Law after this—" "…think we'll make it past first year?"
I slip inside and head to the front. Not dead center — just the left corner. Quieter. Calmer. Somewhere I might breathe through this without falling apart.
I pull out my notebook.
A few more students trickle in. Bags unzip. Pens click. Someone yawns in the back — loud, unbothered.
I sit in a moment that feels like forever. I came early on purpose — hoping to settle before the lecturer arrived. Hoping to feel steady.
But when the door swings open, everything shifts.
Heads turn. Conversations drop.
I glance toward the doorway — and freeze.
It's Haim. From the café.
My hand trembles. My pen slips and clatters to the floor.
He's in slate-grey trousers and a black button-down, sleeves rolled up. Effortless. Collected.
"Good morning," his voice cuts through — smooth and calm. "My name is Maloba. Welcome to Law 101."
It hits like a punch to the chest. H. Maloba from the timetable. So the H is for Haim.
My stomach knots.
He moves with quiet authority, placing a slim black book on the podium. The Art of War.
"I'll be taking you through the foundational principles of legal thought, structure, and application," he says, voice measured.
That dimple appears — occasionally. Infuriatingly.
"Law," he continues, "isn't about memorization. It's mindset. Perspective. Strategy."
He taps the book.
"This isn't on your syllabus," he adds, "but I recommend it. Because law… law is war. Not the loud kind. The silent kind. Psychological. If you don't think ahead, you've already lost."
His gaze sweeps the room — and lands on me.
Just for a second.
His brow creases. Then smooths out, like nothing happened. He turns back to the center of the room.
His voice shifts. Steadier. Sharper. Commanding.
"Let's begin," he says. "So, tell me — what is justice?"
A few hands rise.
A student in the front row answers, "Justice is fairness. When everyone gets what they deserve."
He nods. "Interesting. Anyone disagree?"
Another voice chimes in. "Fairness is subjective. What I think is fair might not match the law."
"Exactly," he says. "Law and justice aren't always the same. That's your first lesson — and a painful one, if you're paying attention."
He turns to the board and writes in clean, sharp strokes:
Law ≠ Justice
I stare. I don't want to be impressed — but damn.
It's wild, the way life just… moves on. A month ago, I was crying on the floor. Now I'm sitting here, trying to act like I'm fine. Like this is just another day.
I look at the way his shoulders move, so effortlessly.
"The law is a system," he goes on, voice steady. "Justice is a concept. They often dance—"
He pauses.
"—but don't always hold hands."
His words hit like lived truths — sharp and deliberate.
"Your job," he says, "is to question everything. Challenge definitions. Understand power. And, more importantly…"
Another pause. This one lingers.
"…know when to stay silent — and when to speak."
I write it down. Not for exams. But because it feels like a secret I need to remember.