Silvergate University had two types of students: those who walked like they owned the world, and those who walked like the world owned them.
Amina Njeri fell into the second category.
Her torn backpack clung to her shoulder like a tired toddler. Her cheap canvas shoes squeaked against the shiny campus tiles as she raced across the courtyard, weaving through crowds of designer shoes and perfume clouds. Around her, students laughed over cappuccinos, snapped selfies in front of flower beds, and flaunted their iPhones like trophies.
Amina, on the other hand, was running late—again.
"Amina! You forgot your file!" Leila's voice rang out from behind her.
Amina skidded to a halt, turned just in time to catch the worn folder flying toward her.
"You're a lifesaver!" she breathed, clutching it to her chest.
Leila adjusted her glasses, already panting. "Savior or not, that literature professor will slice you into pieces if you show up empty-handed."
Amina laughed, nerves still bubbling under her breath. "I'm used to near-death experiences."
They split ways at the fountain—Leila toward the science labs, Amina toward the humanities wing. She had five minutes to reach the class, two to spare for panicking.
Then it happened.
SPLASH!
A speeding black BMW flew past a deep puddle near the walkway, sending a sheet of muddy water directly onto her skirt, her shoes, her soul. Her once-crisp file was now a soggy mess of ink and heartbreak.
The car didn't stop. It didn't even slow down.
Amina stood there in shock, fists clenched at her sides, shoulders stiff with fury and shame. She blinked rapidly, refusing to cry—not here, not in front of these polished strangers.
A cough behind her made her turn.
It wasn't a laugh, or a snide remark, or another insult dressed as pity. It was a man—tall, silent, dressed in a brown janitor uniform with a mop in one hand and a crumpled packet of tissues in the other.
He didn't say a word.
He just held the tissues out to her, his dark eyes unreadable under the shadow of a navy-blue cap.
Amina hesitated, then took them. "Thank you," she murmured.
He gave a slight nod and pushed his cleaning trolley forward without a word.
She turned to watch him as he vanished down the hallway, swallowed by the rhythm of the campus.
There was something unsettling about him.
Not threatening—just… calm. Too calm. Like he knew something no one else did. Like he saw things other people missed.
---
She made it to class late.
Professor Mumo barely glanced up from the board. His booming voice bounced off the walls of the literature hall like a war drum. Amina slid into her seat, trying to ignore the students who turned their noses up at her soaked skirt and frizzy hair.
She should have been used to it. The stares. The whispering.
But something about today felt heavier.
Her thoughts drifted back to the janitor. The quiet one.
Elijah.
She didn't know his name, not yet, but his silence lingered louder than anything the professor was saying.
---
After class, Amina made her way to the finance office, dread tightening around her chest like a rope.
She stepped inside. Cold room. Colder receptionist.
"Name?" the woman asked without looking up.
"Amina Njeri."
Clack-clack. Keyboard taps. Then—
"You still owe fifty-three thousand shillings. Deadline is two weeks."
Amina's stomach dropped.
"I… I was hoping for an extension."
The woman finally looked up, unimpressed. "No more extensions. System has flagged your account. Without payment, you won't sit for final exams."
Amina's throat tightened. "But I—"
"Next," the woman said firmly, waving her off.
Outside, the sun had disappeared behind thick gray clouds. It looked like rain again. It always rained when she got bad news.
She wandered off toward the one place she could think—behind the library. The hidden garden that most students ignored.
She sat on the stone bench under the old tree and let herself breathe.
"God," she whispered, pressing her forehead against her damp file. "I need a miracle."
A voice answered softly.
"What if I am that miracle?"
She jumped.
Standing beside the bench, leaning casually against the tree trunk, was him.
Janitor. Blue cap. Silent eyes.
"Seriously?" she said, annoyed. "Do you follow people around or is this just my lucky week?"
He smiled faintly. "Just passing by."
Amina folded her arms. "Well, thank you for the tissues. But I don't think a mop can clean up my school fees."
He said nothing.
She narrowed her eyes. "Do you always talk like a riddle?"
"Only when people need answers," he replied.
There it was again—that calm voice, like water over rocks. She didn't know whether to punch him or ask him to sit down.
"What's your name?" she asked.
"Elijah."
No last name. No explanation.
"I'm Amina," she said after a pause.
"I know."
She frowned. "How?"
"I clean the halls. I hear names."
"Creepy."
He smiled. "Efficient."
That made her laugh despite herself.
---
Later that night, Elijah sat alone in a cramped room at the edge of Kawangware. No fan. One flickering bulb. His old laptop hummed as he typed away at code lines the average person wouldn't understand.
On the screen was a fintech app prototype—faster than anything in the market, already encrypted, already secure.
At the bottom of the page:
Creator: Elijah M. (alias: E-Mwanzo)
He opened a folder on his desktop—photos. One caught his eye.
A young Elijah, maybe thirteen, smiling beside a tall, powerful man.
Maxwell Mwangi.
Billionaire. Tycoon. Father.
And murderer, perhaps.
Elijah stared at the screen. At the man who had once introduced him to the world as the "future of the Mwangi Empire."
Now, that empire had erased his existence.
But not for long.
---
The next morning, Amina was behind the counter at the Silvergate Café, tying on her apron with sleepy hands. It was her weekend shift, 6 a.m. to 10 a.m.—barely enough to cover groceries.
She poured tea into a cup, handed it to a grumpy first-year, then turned—and froze.
Elijah was mopping the floor near the back, earbuds in, nodding to a beat only he could hear.
One of the rich boys from the business department strolled by and made a show of stepping in his water.
"Watch it, mop boy," he sneered.
Elijah didn't react.
Another whispered, "I swear that janitor thinks he's a monk."
They laughed. Elijah didn't flinch. Just kept mopping.
Amina stared.
Then smiled.
She didn't know who he really was yet.
But somehow, she already knew...
Elijah Mwangi wasn't just a janitor.
He was a storm pretending to be the wind.