Lit eZine Vol 7 | p-12 | FICTION | The Cost of Visualization

SHORT STORY

THE COST OF VISUALIZATION
by Emecheta Christian

Nairobi’s bustling streets rumbled as Amani Wangari sat in her cramped apartment, staring at the acceptance letter from the Kenya Institute of Management. Her hands trembled slightly as she read the words for the hundredth time, the paper now crinkled from constant folding and unfolding. The prestigious MBA program had been her dream for the past three years, but the tuition fees might as well have been written in blood—every digit represented months of her meager teacher’s salary.
“You’re going to wear holes in that paper,” her younger sister Zuri remarked from the doorway, her dark eyes twinkling with amusement. Unlike Amani’s conservative teacher’s wardrobe, Zuri wore bright Ankara prints that matched her vibrant personality.
“I got in, but what’s the point?” Amani sighed, letting the letter fall to her lap. “I’d need to sell my soul to afford it.”
Zuri crossed the room and perched on the arm of Amani’s chair, her bangles jingling softly.
“Or just your car.”
The words hung in the air like smoke. Amani’s gaze drifted to the window, where her beloved Toyota Corolla sat in the apartment complex’s dusty parking lot. The sun glinted off its silver paint, still glossy despite its age. She’d bought it three years ago, scraping together every shilling from her teaching job at Uhuru Primary School. The car represented more than just transportation—it was her first real achievement, her declaration of independence.
“I can’t,” Amani whispered, but even as she spoke, something shifted in her chest. The car payments, insurance, and constant repairs had been eating away at her savings. Every time she thought she was getting ahead, another mechanical problem would emerge, draining her bank account like a slow leak.
“Can’t? Or won’t?” Zuri’s voice was gentle but probing. “Remember what Mama always says— sometimes we must let go of what we have to receive what we need.”
Amani stood abruptly, walking to the window. Below, the early morning traffic was building, cars honking and intertwining through the streets like beads on a string. She pressed her forehead against the cool glass, closing her eyes. In her mind, she could visualize herself walking across a stage in graduation regalia, her family cheering from the audience. The image was so clear it made her heart ache.
“It’s not just about the money,” she said finally, turning back to face her sister. “That car… it changed how people see me. The other teachers respect me more. The parents take me seriously. Even the headmaster treats me differently.”
Zuri stood and crossed the room, her expression serious for once. “Dada, those people respect you because of who you are, not what you drive. You’re the teacher who stays late to help struggling students. The one who organized the reading program that raised the school’s test scores. The one who–”
“Who dreams too big for her own good,” Amani interrupted, her voice bitter. She picked up the acceptance letter again, running her thumb along the embossed letterhead. The paper felt heavy, weighted with possibility and terror in equal measure.
A knock at the door made both sisters jump. Their mother, Mama Wangari, stood in the doorway, her face lined with concern. She still wore her nightdress, unusual for a woman who was typically dressed and ready for the day before dawn.
“I heard voices,” she said, stepping into the room. Her eyes fell on the letter in Amani’s hands, and understanding dawned on her face. “Ah, so today is the day of hard choices?”
“Mama, tell her she’s being foolish,” Zuri said, gesturing at Amani. “She got accepted into the MBA program, but she’s ready to throw away the opportunity because she doesn’t want to sell her car.” Mama Wangari’s expression remained neutral as she settled into Amani’s reading chair, her movements deliberate and thoughtful. “Sometimes the things we think define us are actually the things that confine us,” she said, smoothing her dress over her knees. “When your father died, I had to sell his shop. It broke my heart—that shop was his dream, his legacy. But selling it meant I could educate you girls, and look at the accomplishments that decision made possible.”
Amani’s throat tightened. She rarely thought about the sacrifices her mother had made after their father’s death. It had seemed so natural then, the way Mama had held them all together, kept them in school, put food on the table. But now, looking at her mother’s weathered hands folded carefully in her lap, she saw the cost of those difficult choices written in every line and callus.
“But what if I fail?” The words escaped before Amani could stop them, carrying all the fear she’d been holding back. “What if I sell the car, take out loans, work myself to exhaustion, and still can’t make it through the program?”
“Then you will have tried,” Mama Wangari said simply. “And that is worth more than any car.” The morning light had strengthened, filling the room with a warm glow. Outside, the city was fully awake now, its pulse steady and insistent. Amani looked at her mother and sister, these women who had always believed in her, even when she struggled to believe in herself. Then she looked at the acceptance letter one more time, seeing not just the costs, but the possibilities.
“I need to think,” she said finally. “Just… give me time to think.”
Zuri opened her mouth to argue, but Mama Wangari raised a hand, silencing her. “Take your time, my dear. But remember—sometimes our destinies come disguised as difficult choices.”
As they left the room, Amani returned to the window. Her car sat below, static and unaware. But for the first time since she’d bought it, she allowed herself to imagine a future without it. The thought still scared her, but mixed with the fear was something else now—a flutter of excitement, a whisper of possibility.
She pressed her palm against the glass, watching as a group of students walked past on their way to school, their uniforms neat, their futures unwritten. In that moment, she realized that while her car had given her one kind of freedom, perhaps letting it go could give her another.

***

The next morning, Amani arrived early at Uhuru Primary School, parking in her usual spot beneath the sprawling acacia tree. She sat in her car for a moment, inhaling the familiar scent of old leather and the strawberry air freshener hanging from the rearview mirror. Every detail seemed sharper now, weighted with the possibility of a radical decision.
“Mambo, Ms. Wangari!” A cheerful voice interrupted her reverie. It was Jabari, one of her brightest students, his school uniform unspoiled despite the dusty morning air. “Are you okay? You look sad.” Amani forced a smile. “I’m fine, Jabari. Just thinking about some important decisions.” “My baba says when he has to make big decisions, he writes all the good things and bad things in his notebook,” Jabari offered, adjusting his backpack. “Then he counts them up like we do in math class.”
The simple wisdom of children never ceased to amaze her. “That’s very smart advice, Jabari. Thank you.”
As she watched him skip away toward the school building, Amani pulled out her lesson planner and turned to a blank page. On one side, she wrote “Keep the Car,” and on the other,

“Pursue MBA.” The lists grew quickly.
Keep the Car:
– Independence
– Status
– Security
– Comfort
– Ease of navigation
Pursue MBA:
– Career advancement
– Higher earning potential
– Personal growth
– Setting an example
– New opportunities
– Following my true dream
She stared at the lists until the school bell rang, signaling the start of classes. The answer was there in black and white, yet her heart still clenched at the thought of change. During her lunch break, she called Kariuki, the mechanic who had maintained her car since she bought it. “Habari, Kariuki? I need your honest opinion about something.”
“Eh, Ms. Wangari! Is the transmission giving you trouble again?”
“No, no. I’m… I’m thinking of selling the car. What do you think I could get for it?”
There was a long pause on the other end. “Selling? But this car is your baby! You’ve taken better care of it than most people take care of their children.”
“Things change,” she said softly, twisting the phone cord around her finger. “Dreams change.” After discussing the car’s value and potential buyers, Amani felt both lighter and heavier. The possibility was becoming more real with each passing hour. That evening, instead of driving home, she decided to take a different route and walk. The setting sun painted Nairobi’s skyline in shades of grey and orange, and the evening air was alive with the sounds of street vendors, children playing, and the familiar tune of city traffic.
As she walked, memories flooded back—of walking these same streets as a student, dreaming of the day she’d have her own car. She remembered the pride she’d felt the first time she drove to school, the way her colleagues had congratulated her, the pride in their eyes. But had that respect really come from the car, or from the status it represented? Lost in thought, she almost collided with someone coming out of a small shop.
“Pole sana!” she apologized, stepping back—and found herself face to face with Juma Ochieng, her former university classmate who now worked as a financial advisor at Equity Bank.
“Amani? Is that you? I haven’t seen you in ages!” His smile was warm and genuine. “But where’s your car? Don’t tell me it’s giving you trouble again.”
She hesitated, then gave a sharp reply. “Actually, I’m thinking of selling it. I got accepted into the MBA program at KIM.”

Juma’s eyes lit up. “That’s fantastic! You know, I just finished my MBA there last year. Best decision I ever made.” He glanced at his watch. “Listen, I was just going to grab some coffee. Want to join me? I can tell you all about the program.”
They found a small restaurant nearby, and over cold cups of coke, Juma shared his experience—the challenges, the opportunities, the ways it had transformed his career and his life. As she listened, Amani felt the last of her doubts beginning to fade.
“You know what the hardest part was?” Juma asked, sipping his coke thoughtfully. “Not the coursework, not the late nights studying. It was taking that first step. Believing in myself enough to make the leap.”
Amani nodded, thinking of her car sitting in the school parking lot, faithful as ever. “How do you know when it’s the right time to leap?”
Juma smiled. “You don’t. You just have to trust that your wings will grow on the way down.” Later that night, as Amani lay in bed, she could hear the distant sound of traffic, a reminder of the decision waiting to be made. Her phone buzzed with a text from Zuri: “Whatever you decide, I’m proud of you, dada.”
She closed her eyes, remembering all the dreams she’d had as a young girl—dreams of making a difference, of growing beyond the boundaries others set for her, of becoming someone who could inspire her students not just with words, but with actions. Tomorrow, she decided, she would begin the process of selling her car. The thought still scared her, but now the fear felt more like excitement—the kind of nervous sensation that comes with standing on the edge of something new and delightful. Her last thought before drifting off to sleep was of something her father used to say: “Dreams are like birds, my dear. They need open skies to fly.”

***

The process of selling her car proved more emotional than Amani had anticipated. Each potential buyer who came to inspect it felt like an intruder. Their critical eyes and probing questions made her want to call off the whole thing. But then she would touch the acceptance letter she now kept in her purse, and her resolve would strengthen.
One Saturday morning, a young doctor named Njeri came to see the car. Unlike the previous buyers who had tried to haggle the price down, pointing out every minor scratch and dent, Njeri simply walked around the vehicle once, then smiled.
“You’ve taken beautiful care of this car,” she said, running her hand along the hood. “I can tell it’s been loved.”
Amani felt tears pricking at her eyes. “It has been.”
“I’m starting my residency at Kenyatta National Hospital,” Njeri explained. “I’ll need something reliable for those late-night shifts.” She paused, studying Amani’s face. “But I sense you’re not entirely sure about selling.”
“The car represents something important to me,” Amani admitted. “Independence. Success.
But now…”
“Now you’re ready for a different kind of success?” Njeri’s voice was gentle, understanding.
“Yes,” Amani whispered. “Exactly that.”
They agreed on a price, and as Njeri wrote out the check, she said something that would stay with Amani for years to come: “Sometimes the best thing we can do for our dreams is to let go of our comfort.” That evening, after all the paperwork was signed and her car keys were in Njeri’s hands, Amani sat on her apartment balcony with her mother and Zuri. The moon tinted the sky in brilliant strokes of black and grey, while the evening call to prayer floated melodiously from a nearby mosque.
“To new beginnings,” Zuri declared, raising her glass of passion fruit juice. “And to my brave sister who’s finally letting her real dreams take flight.” Mama Wangari reached over and squeezed Amani’s hand. “Your father would be so proud, my dear. He always said you had his spirit—the courage to reach for more.”
“I don’t feel very courageous,” Amani admitted. “I feel terrified.”
“That’s how you know it’s worth doing,” her mother replied. “Fear and growth walk hand in hand.”

***

The next few weeks brought dramatic changes to Amani’s life. Without her car, she had to reorganize her entire routine. She learned the intricacies of Nairobi’s matatu routes, downloaded ride-sharing apps, and rediscovered the simple pleasure of walking. Some days were harder than others—like when the rains came suddenly, leaving her drenched at a bus stop, or when she had to carry heavy bags of groceries up the hill to her apartment. But there were unexpected joys, too. She noticed things she had missed while driving: the old man who sold newspapers on the corner and always had a story to share, the beautiful jacaranda trees that lined her route to school, the way the city seemed to wake up in stages each morning. She found herself arriving at school earlier, feeling more energized despite the longer commute. Her colleagues’ reactions varied. Some, like Mr. Kimani, the physics teacher, couldn’t understand her decision.
“You’ve worked so hard for that car,” he said during one lunch break. “Why throw it all away for more schooling? You’re already a good teacher.”
“Because being good isn’t enough anymore,” Amani replied, surprising herself with her conviction. “I want to be more, do more.” Others, particularly the younger teachers, were inspired by her choice. Ms. Akinyi, who taught English, confided that she, too, had been thinking about pursuing further studies.
“Watching you take this leap,” she said, “it makes me think maybe I’ve been playing it too safe.”
As the weeks passed and the start of her MBA program drew closer, Amani found herself transformed in subtle ways. She walked taller, spoke more confidently, and felt more connected to her community. The respect she had feared losing hadn’t diminished—if anything, it had grown, based now on who she was rather than what she owned.
One morning, as she stood at the front of her classroom teaching a lesson about dreams and goals to her students, she noticed Jabari’s hand shoot up.
“Yes, Jabari?”
“Ms. Wangari, remember when you were sad about making a big decision?” he asked. “Did you use my baba’s advice about writing lists?”
Amani smiled, touched that he remembered. “I did, Jabari. And it helped me realize something very important—sometimes we have to give up something good to get something better.”
“Like trading a small dream for a bigger one?” another student, Aisha, suggested.
“Exactly like that,” Amani agreed, looking around at their eager faces. “And you know what?
The biggest dreams often require the biggest sacrifices. But that’s what makes them worth fighting for.”
As she wrote on the blackboard, she felt a profound sense of peace settle over her. The car had been her first dream, a symbol of how far she had come. But now it had served its purpose, becoming the bridge to an even greater dream. And somehow, that felt exactly right. That evening, as she walked home through the bustling streets of Nairobi, a matatu passed by with Njeri at the wheel—her old car, now serving a new dream. They waved to each other, two women on different paths but connected by the understanding that sometimes letting go is the surest way to move forward.

***

Six months into her MBA program, Amani sat in the university library late one evening, surrounded by financial management textbooks and spreadsheets. The transition hadn’t been easy—balancing full-time teaching with evening classes demanded every ounce of her energy and determination. But she felt alive in a way she hadn’t for years. Her phone buzzed with a message from Zuri: “Dada, guess who I just saw? Your car’s new owner saved a child’s life today! It’s all over the local news—Dr. Njeri drove a critical patient to Kenya National Hospital during the massive traffic jam. They’re calling her the ‘Highway Hero.’”
Amani’s eyes welled up as she clicked the link Zuri had sent. There was her former car, now painted with the hospital’s emergency response insignia, and Njeri being interviewed about her quick thinking in using side roads to get a critically ill child to the hospital during rush hour.
“I couldn’t have done it without this reliable car,” Njeri was quoted as saying. “Its previous owner took such good care of it, and now it’s helping save lives.”
Something lifted in Amani’s heart—a final release of any lingering doubts. Her car hadn’t just found a new owner; it had found a new purpose, one even more meaningful than she could have imagined. That night, walking home from the library under a sky scattered with stars, Amani took a detour past Uhuru Primary School. The grounds were quiet, but light still spilled from one classroom window. Inside, she could see Ms. Akinyi grading papers. Inspired by Amani’s example, she had enrolled in a master’s program in literature. Amani smiled, remembering something her professor had said in class earlier that day: “Success isn’t just about personal achievement. It’s about creating ripples that inspire others to dream bigger.” As she continued her walk home, she passed the spot where she used to park her car. The space was occupied by a young street vendor selling mandazi and chai to late-night commuters. He recognized her and waved.
“Mambo, Teacher Amani! The usual?”
She smiled, approaching his stand. Over the past months, their brief morning exchanges had become a cherished part of her new routine. “Asante, Mwangi. How’s your daughter’s schooling going?”
“She’s top of her class!” he beamed. “She says she wants to be a teacher like you. I told her about how you sold your car to go back to school. Now she believes anything is possible if you work hard enough.”
Amani felt warmth spread through her spine as she accepted the steaming cup of chai. These were the unexpected gifts of her decision—the connections made, the inspirations shared, the community strengthened. Reaching her apartment, she found her mother waiting at her door with a covered dish of pilau rice and a knowing smile.
“I thought you might need some brain food,” Mama Wangari said, following her inside. “How are your studies going?”
“Challenging,” Amani admitted, setting her heavy bag down. “But good. Today our professor talked about sustainable business practices and their impact on local communities. I kept thinking about how we could apply those principles to improve our school’s resources.” Her mother nodded, her eyes twinkling. “You see? The dream wasn’t just about getting an education. It was about expanding your vision of what’s possible.” They sat together at the small kitchen table, sharing the aromatic rice and catching up on family news. As they talked, Amani realized how much her perspective had shifted over the past months. The car had once seemed like the ultimate symbol of her success, but now she understood it had merely been a stepping stone to something greater.
“You know,” she said thoughtfully, “I used to think dreams were like destinations—places you finally reached and then stopped. But they’re more like doorways, aren’t they? Each one leading to another, bigger dream.”
“And each sacrifice is just a key to unlock the next door,” her mother added softly. Later that night, after her mother had gone home, Amani stood on her balcony, looking out over the city lights of Nairobi. Somewhere in the hospital parking, her old car was parked, ready for its next lifesaving mission. Somewhere, a street vendor’s daughter was studying, inspired by a story of sacrifice and determination. Somewhere, her own students were sleeping, their young minds filled with new possibilities about what they might become. She thought about all the dreams still waiting to be discovered, all the doors yet to be unlocked. The night air was cool on her face, carrying the scent of jacaranda blossoms and the distant sound of city life. In that moment, she felt perfectly aligned with her choices, her path, her purpose. The car had given her one kind of freedom, but letting it go had given her something far more valuable —the freedom to become who she was truly meant to be. And that, she realized, was the greatest dream of all.
As she prepared for bed, Amani picked up the framed acceptance letter that now hung on her wall, running her fingers over the glass. Next to it, she’d pinned the newspaper clipping about Njeri’s heroic drive. Together, they told a story not just of sacrifice, but of transformation—of how one dream could flow into another, creating a river of possibility that carried everyone it touched toward something better. She fell asleep that night with a smile on her face, at peace with the knowledge that sometimes the best dreams aren’t the ones we hold onto, but the ones we set free.

Glossary:
 Asante: Thank you
 Dada: Sister
 Habari: Hello; How are you?
 Jacaranda: A type of tree common in Nairobi, known for its beautiful purple flowers
 KIM: Kenya Institute of Management, a prestigious business school
 Mambo: Hi; How’s it going? (informal greeting)
 Mandazi: East African sweet fried bread/doughnut
 Matatu: Public minibus/van transportation commonly used in Kenya
 Pilau: A spiced rice dish popular in East African cuisine
 Pole sana: I’m very sorry (used as an apology)
 Shilling: The currency of Kenya
 Uhuru: Freedom/Independence in Swahili (often used in names of institutions)
 Chai: Tea, often served with milk and spices
 Ankara: Colourful African printed fabric/textiles
 Acacia: A type of tree common in East Africa