Sharm El Sheikh, Egypt – Present Day

Company retreats were not the kind of reward you could quantify. They didn’t show up on payslips or annual reviews. But they were a kind of currency, one that bought loyalty in subtle, silent ways. A few days away from office noise, dressed in strategy decks and “leadership alignment” sessions.

On paper, it was training. In reality, it was rest, with just enough corporate jargon to keep HR satisfied.

Japheth wasn’t ungrateful. Neither were his friends, Luyando and Mwila.

Four years at Nezelcom Zambia had taught him how to survive structure, how to be competent, agreeable, quietly ambitious. But this? This was new. For the first time, the company had flown its best performing staff out of the continent. Five nights in Egypt, at a seaside resort where the air smelled of salt and luxury, and the beds were so soft they made you forget deadlines, managers, and even your alarm clock.

It felt indulgent in a way that made him slightly uneasy. Even though life had been kind to him, he was always waiting for the other shoe to drop.

The breeze from the pool stirred gently as Japheth leaned back on the sunbed, eyes half-closed. Luyando lay beside him, scrolling through his phone, mumbling something about Real Madrid’s formation for the night.

They looked nothing alike, Japheth, with his quieter grace and serious brows, Luyando, always smiling, easygoing, his energy so light it made people forget how rich he was. But if anyone saw them now, laughing, teasing, matching shorts and identical slides, they’d swear they were twins.

And for most of their lives, that’s exactly how they’d been treated.

Yet the story of how they became brothers didn’t start in childhood. It started with a decision. Japheth’s decision to run.

Years ago, after that terrible evening at home, Japheth had packed nothing and gone straight to Luyando’s house, not to stay, just to say goodbye. He told him he was leaving Lusaka, dropping out of school, done with life as he knew it.

Luyando had stared at him like he’d spoken in a strange language. They hadn’t gone to the same school, Japheth’s father couldn’t afford one like Luyando’s, but they’d been inseparable in church. Prayer partners, choir boys, boys who hid under pews to whisper about girls they liked and scriptures they didn’t understand.

So when Japheth said he was leaving, Luyando marched him straight to his father.

Mr. Chanda had listened. A former diplomat with sharp eyes and a quiet voice, he nodded slowly, told his wife what Japheth had said, then turned to Japheth and said, “We’ll take you home.”

But Japheth had broken down.

He had cried, and said he wasn’t going back. Said he would disappear into the world instead. Be nothing. Or maybe find something. Anything that wasn’t the house he’d left.

That night, the Chandas made a decision that changed all their lives. They didn’t just shelter Japheth. They adopted him. Officially. Fully. Willingly.

Mr. Chanda had even gone to see Japheth’s father, promising to cover the school fees of Japheth’s younger brothers in exchange for legal guardianship. And more than that, they sent food. Every month. Groceries, clothes, shoes. Everything Japheth had worried about his brothers not having, had been provided. And in a new house, under new rules, Japheth thrived.

He was the more brilliant one, sure. But he never made Luyando feel it. If Luyando’s grades dipped, Japheth tutored him through the night. If Luyando didn’t understand a topic, Japheth explained it until he did. There was no competition, just an understanding.

Luyando, the golden child. Japheth, the fire-tested one.

And still, no resentment. Not once. They wore the same clothes, shared the same jokes, and learned each other’s silences. Over time, people just assumed they were blood.

But they were something deeper. 

He’d been sitting by the pool with Luyando and Mwila, Luyando with his big opinions on football, Mwila with his phone glued to his palm, when a message came through. A simple calendar notification.

Mwila groaned, the sound full of exaggerated betrayal. “These people won’t even let us rest a little.”

Luyando stood with a lazy stretch and slipped his feet into his slides. “Still better than debugging for eight hours back in Lusaka.”

Japheth lingered a moment, watching the pool shimmer under the sun. He thought of how easy it was to get used to softness, to comfort, and how quickly it could be taken away.

Then he rose too, brushing water from his calves, and followed his friends back toward the glass-walled training room, where the illusion of escape gave way, once again, to reality.

She was already there when they walked in.

Front row. Back straight. Arms crossed. She wasn’t typing. She wasn’t texting. She was just… there.

She didn’t look like she wanted to be.

Japheth noticed her, but said nothing. Mwila, on the other hand, was wide-eyed immediately.

“Wow. Hello, Ma’am.”

Luyando threw him a look. “Don’t start.”

Mwila grinned. “I’m just appreciating the scenery. You know, God’s work.”

Luyando’s voice dropped a little. “She is not your type. Let her go.”

Japheth turned briefly. “How do you even know?”

Luyando shrugged. “I just do.”

The truth, of course, was deeper.

She was his cousin.

No one else knew. And he didn’t plan on telling them. All he knew was, if Mwila thought she was a random pretty face, he was about to get humbled.

The facilitator walked in. Older man. Local accent. No time for icebreakers.

“We’re beginning with routing system failures. Can someone tell me the core issue with tower-to-tower signal delays across transnational lines?”

He looked directly at the girl in the front row.

She didn’t blink.

Didn’t even pretend to care.

The silence dragged.

Japheth lifted his hand.

“Most of the delays come from congestion and signal rerouting when local switching fails. If the failover isn’t configured properly, the delays stack.”

The man nodded. “Good. Japheth Mwansa?”

“Yes, sir.”

“You’ll lead Group One.”

The man made a few clicks on his tablet, then said, “Team lists are up. Move to your groups.”

Japheth looked down. Group One: his name… and hers, he knew this because he saw it on her table when they entered earlier.

Mwila saw it too.

“Wait, she’s in your group?” he asked. “Guy, please, switch with me.”

Luyando didn’t even lift his eyes. “No.”

“Come on, now,” Mwila begged. “You’re not even interested.”

Japheth paused.

He looked at the list again, then at Mwila, who was already pleading with his whole body.

“Fine,” Japheth said. “Take it.”

He got up and passed him the tag.

Mwila lit up like he’d just won a car.

Luyando shook his head.

“You don’t know what you just signed up for.”

Japheth said nothing.

He just walked to the other table and settled in, already opening the training dashboard. His group session had been more interesting than he anticipated, especially because he met colleagues from other subsidiary countries, Botswana and Congo.

Their discussion was winding down when something shifted in Japheth’s peripheral vision, he turned slightly and saw her rise.

Kaweme.

That was her name. 

She moved quietly but firmly, gathering her notebook, eyes locked on the door like she couldn’t wait to get out. Japheth noticed Mwila reaching out, maybe to tap her arm or stop her just long enough to say something.

Before he could speak, she snapped.

“Don’t touch me.”

Sharp. Loud. Enough to stop all conversation in the room.

Heads turned. Even the facilitator looked up, confused.

Mwila froze, hand mid-air.

She didn’t wait for a response. She walked straight out of the room, her steps steady, her face unreadable.

A beat of silence. Then Luyando let out a short, amused laugh. “Well done, Romeo.”

The groups dissolved into laughter. The facilitator cleared his throat. “We’ll pick up from here tomorrow. Looking forward to seeing you all then.”

As they began packing up, Luyando leaned in toward Japheth. Just low enough for only him to hear.

“I don’t look forward to seeing you,” he said, mocking the facilitator’s tone.

Japheth laughed. “I’m actually enjoying the sessions. It’s been an eye-opener.”

Mwila caught up with them, flustered. “I don’t understand that girl. She didn’t say anything all through the session. Not one word. I just tried to ask if she was okay, nothing serious, and next thing, she raised her voice like I slapped her.”

He shook his head. “God. What an ice queen. All these…”

“Don’t,” Luyando stopped him from finishing the sentence.

Mwila blinked. “What? Are you…?”

“I said don’t,” Luyando repeated. “She’s not your type. Leave her alone.”

Mwila scowled. “What’s it with you? You’ve been guarding her like a national treasure.”

Luyando didn’t answer.

Japheth stepped in. “Alright, guys. Let’s go eat before you start round two.”

Luyando checked his watch. “Yes, please. I want to eat quickly. My club, Real Madrid, is playing Chelsea tonight.”

At that, Japheth’s steps slowed slightly. His heart tugged in a direction he hadn’t planned.

Ham.

His little brother.

Signed to Chelsea.

From backyard kickabouts to a Premier League pitch. It still didn’t feel real.

The pride was sharp, clean, warm, but it also stirred something else.

Shem’s message.

From last night.

Even if you don’t consider us family, I’ll still tell you. The man you used to call father is sick. He wants to see you.

Lieutenant Shem Mwansa.

Twenty-nine. Army tough. Raised on chaos and adrenaline. Japheth’s brother by blood, by memory, and by tension too thick to name.

Japheth still hadn’t replied. He didn’t know if he would. Any conversation from Shem was always a good sign of the possibility that they could rekindle their brotherhood, but whenever he brings up their father, Japheth never knew what to say. 

“Guy, you good?” Mwila asked, noticing the shift in his expression.

“Yeah,” Japheth said quickly. “You two go ahead. I’ll meet you. I want to use the restroom.”

“You sure?” Luyando asked.

“Yeah. Go.”

They didn’t argue.

As they walked off, Japheth stood still for a moment, his mind flicking between his brother’s words, Ham’s new club, and the father he hadn’t seen in years.

Then he turned and walked the other way.

Japheth took the long corridor. Not because the restroom was far, but because he wasn’t ready to breathe the same air as everyone else.

He needed space. A quiet space to walk off the weight sitting in his chest.

The mention of Chelsea had cracked something open.

Ham.

His little brother.

The last time they spoke, Japheth had been standing on the other side of a gate, calling his name. Ham didn’t come out. Didn’t say a word. Just stood by the window, staring. Then turned and walked away.

And that was years ago.

Still, Japheth had tried. Quietly. Always quietly.

It was him who submitted Ham’s name for the national youth trials. Mr. Zimba, Luyando’s father, had casually mentioned, “there’s an opening, but I don’t have anyone,” and Japheth didn’t think twice.

He sent the name.

And now, Ham has signed with Chelsea.

The world was watching his brother shine, but Ham didn’t even know who held the torch to start the flame.

It was better that way, Japheth told himself. It wasn’t about recognition.

But he’d be lying if he said it didn’t ache that Ham won’t even speak with him.

Shem was no easier. Even though they were chatting on and off now, there was no warmth.

They had started talking after Shem needed his help.

“If there’s anything you ever do for me, let it be this,” he had said. “Help me get into the army. And don’t pretend it makes us even.”

Japheth made it happen. Pulled the strings with the help of Mr. Chanda, again.

Even if the calls between them felt like punches, quick, jabbing, heavy, Japheth won’t trade them for anything. At least one brother was back in his life.

Japheth reached the corridor that led to the restrooms and paused at the bend, the tightness in his chest still lingering.

He hated this feeling. That faint grip around his ribs. The way his breath shortened when he thought too long about home, or what used to be home.

Ham.

Shem.

Mutale.

The names stayed quiet in his mouth but loud in his memory.

He rounded the corner, distracted, eyes slightly down, and nearly walked straight into the wrong door.

He stepped back just in time, catching the bold sign that read “Ladies”, as the door swung open from inside.

She stepped out.

Kaweme.

They both froze.

“Oh, I’m sorry,” Japheth said quickly, hands halfway in the air. “I wasn’t trying to… I didn’t realize.”

She looked up at him, expression unreadable. Then the smallest smile tugged at the corner of her mouth.

“You were really about to walk into the ladies’ restroom?”

“I was… deep in thought.”

“I can see that.”

He scratched the back of his neck. “So… you’re okay?”

“I am fine. You didn’t hit me. It’s okay.”

Japheth smiled despite himself, “Great! I won’t want to be on your wrong side.”

Her expression flickered. “If you’re referring to the Mwila thing, I’m fine. Embarrassed. But fine.”

He nodded. “I figured. You seemed… done.”

“I was done the moment I landed in Egypt.”

She leaned against the wall beside the door, like the tension she was carrying had finally lessened.

“This whole thing,” she said, gesturing toward the air. “I’m not even supposed to be here. I’m interning. Technically, that’s what they’re calling it, but I run a beauty brand back home. Yet, my dad insisted I come.”

He didn’t interrupt.

“I’m 24,” she went on. “I should be building something I care about. Not attending telecom retreats where people act like spectrum allocation is the highlight of modern life.”

He smiled. “You do have a way with words.”

“Occupational hazard. My entire brand is about stories.”

A small silence settled between them, not awkward, and for Japheth this was not normal. He was always awkward around girls, especially since he was determined never to be anything more than a very casual friend with any female.

“I’m not good at pretending to be interested,” she said. “That’s what today was.”

“You couldn’t have fooled us even if you tried,” he said. “You held a straight face the entire session.”

“Because I was planning my escape.”

“Well,” he said, “if you’re serious about that… there’s a beach.”

She looked at him.

He shrugged. “It’s quiet. Past the poolside café. You take a wooden path, no excess lights, no crowd. Just wind.”

Her expression softened. “No pie charts?”

“None.”

She considered it. “And who’ll be there?”

“Just me,” he said, surprising himself. He definitely wasn’t thinking. “I will be there. But no pressure. Nine o’clock. If not, I’ll assume you chose sleep, and I won’t take it personally.”

There was a pause. She nodded slowly.

“Okay,” she said. “Maybe.”

He smiled.

“See you,” she added.

“Or not,” he replied.

Then he stepped past her toward the men’s room, and she walked away without looking back.

But the hallway felt different somehow.

Lighter.

—————————————————————————————————————————-

Dinner was noisy in that comfortable kind of way, cutlery clinking, small laughs between spoonfuls, and the slow, steady hum of people letting the day slip off their shoulders.

Japheth and his friends sat at a corner table on the resort’s terrace, plates cleared, drinks sweating gently in the night air.

Mwila leaned back in his chair, picking at the last cube of pineapple with a toothpick. “Guys,” he said, “I’m hitting town tonight. There’s this place I heard about, Soho Square. Bright lights, music, actual people. I need to see the real Sharm El Sheikh before we’re back in our rooms saying ‘goodnight’ like retirees.”

Luyando chuckled. “Actually? That wouldn’t be a bad idea. Might be nice to breathe something outside resort air, but only after the match.”

Mwila pointed his toothpick like a microphone. “That’s going to be too late. I want to go now. Japheth?”

Japheth shook his head, a quiet smile playing at the corner of his lips. “I’m not going. I want to pray.”

Luyando raised an eyebrow. “You’ve really been on this prayer streak lately. I mean, we all know the importance of prayers, but…” He motioned around Japheth like he was a puzzle. “It’s like something is wrong.”

Mwila stretched and stood up, slinging his denim jacket over one shoulder. “Abeg, if you people won’t come, I’m going solo. I might even bump into that girl. What’s her name again… Kaweme.”

Japheth felt something twist in his chest.

Luyando’s expression shifted. “I’ve told you to back off.”

Mwila blinked. “Wait, what?”

“She’s not for you.”

“Why?” Mwila asked, squinting between them. “You like her?”

“That’s not your business,” Luyando said flatly. “Just leave it.”

There was a flicker of something, awkward and sharp, that passed between them.

And Japheth felt it.

He looked down at his glass, unsure what to say, because he had plans to meet her later after his prayers.

At nine.

And now he was wondering if he should go at all.

He pushed the thought aside.

“I’ll be praying,” he repeated quietly.

Mwila waved them off. “Pray for me too”

“I’ll be watching the Real Madrid and Chelsea match,” Luyando said, stretching his arms as he got up. “Should I call you when it starts?”

Japheth hesitated. “I can’t watch it.”

Luyando paused. “Still?”

“Still.”

The weight in that one word was heavier than the table between them.

Luyando gave a short nod. “I’ll tell you the scores.”

“I’ll be checking them online,” Japheth murmured, already rising.

Mwila gave them a casual salute. “You both are boring. See you in the morning.”

He turned and disappeared toward the resort gates.

Luyando walked off in the opposite direction, muttering something about kickoff and a spot with better Wi-Fi.

Japheth stood still for a second.

That pressure was back. In his chest. In his head.

He wasn’t sure if it was guilt. Or fear. Or just… something else that he couldn’t name.

He turned toward his room.

The air in his suite was chilling, yet Japheth remained shirtless. The lights were soft. And for a moment, he didn’t move.

Then he dropped to his knees beside the bed.

He wasn’t sure how long he stayed there.

Long enough for the words to rise on their own.

“God…”

His voice cracked.

“I don’t know what I’m doing.”

He let the sentence sit.

“I want to fix it. Not all at once. But something. My brothers. The ache. The way I still see Mutale when I close my eyes.”

His hands gripped each other at the fingers.

“I just want peace. There is so much noise inside me, that’s why I set up a meeting with that girl. I need a distraction”

He exhaled. “And I don’t even know if I should meet her. It’s not like I need another friend.”

He went silent for a few minutes, then managed to say a few more words, his voice choking in near tears.

“I just… I want to be whole again.”

No other words came from him, this prayer was almost like a broken record now, because he knew what God wanted him to do first. 

Forgive your father.

Japheth didn’t know how to forgive a man who robbed him of his life. So, he stayed on his knees.

Because some nights, just staying was the prayer and the therapy needed to get some fraction of peace, and strength for obedience.

—————————————————————————————————————————-

An hour later

Japheth almost didn’t go.

He had talked himself out of it three different times, convincing himself that she wouldn’t show. Someone who snapped in front of a full room and walked out mid-session wasn’t exactly the “see you at nine” type. And even if she meant it, maybe she was just being polite. Humoring him.

But something in his chest pulled him off the bed at 9:10 p.m.

By 9:17 p.m, he was walking down the wooden path behind the poolside café, hands in his pockets, half-expecting to find empty sand and an excuse to go back to his room.

But she was there.

Kaweme.

Perched on a low beach wall, her feet in the sand, an iPad in her lap, screen glowing soft against her skin. The breeze caught her braids slightly as she looked up.

“You’re seventeen minutes late,” she said, not looking annoyed, just amused.

Japheth smiled. “I really thought you weren’t going to come.”

She shrugged. “I’m a girl that keeps her word.”

He stepped closer. “Now I know.”

He paused. “So what’s your name, girl that keeps her word?” He knew it already, he just wanted a conversation starter.

“Kaweme,” she said, pronouncing it slowly, evenly. “It means ‘beautiful’ in Bemba. Not that I go around saying that.”

He smiled. “Well, it fits. I’m Japheth.”

She blinked. “Japheth? As in… the last son of Noah? I’ve only ever seen that name in the Bible.”

Japheth’s smile shifted. A little softer now. A little sadder. “Well… I’m also the son of Noah, his first son though.”

Her eyes widened. “Wait. You’re serious?”

He nodded. “And he named my brothers Shem and Ham.”

Kaweme burst out laughing. “Are you kidding me? That’s… wow. Your father’s got jokes.”

“He does,” Japheth said. “Even if he doesn’t have anything else.”

She tilted her head. “Sounds like there’s a story there.”

“There is.”

“Care to share?”

“Not tonight.”

“Fair.”

A moment passed. The tide rolled quietly into the shore, pulled back again like breath.

He nodded toward the iPad on her lap. “What are you working on?”

“Oh,” she said, tapping the screen, “Packaging. My Chinese manufacturer is sending me colour options. I’m white-labeling a makeup line under my own name. Trying to bring something to market before the end of the year.”

Japheth leaned slightly to glance. “Are you going with the coral or the wine shimmer?”

“You know colors?”

“I know aesthetics. Comes with working in UX design.”

“You’re a software engineer,” she said, narrowing her eyes.

“And a few other things.”

“Don’t be humble. Tell me.”

He grinned. “I like solving problems. Sometimes that means writing code. Sometimes that means helping someone choose between ‘nude pink’ and ‘copper rose’.”

She laughed. It wasn’t forced. It came easy this time.

“Do you think it’s weird?” she asked. “That I like makeup?”

“No.”

“You’re saying that because I’m a girl.”

“No,” he said, gently. “I’m saying that because it’s more than just looking beautiful, it’s a business for you as well, and people excel when they work from their strengths. You clearly have a vision.”

She exhaled. “My parents don’t think so. They forced me to study software engineering. I failed miserably. Now they think I’m not brilliant. But it’s just because I was in the wrong field.”

“Then leave,” he said. “Create your own field. And when it works, they’ll respect it.”

She looked at him.

“You make it sound so simple.”

“Simple doesn’t mean easy. But it’s still worth doing.”

She shook her head. “My ex never talked like this.”

“Oh,” Japheth said. “So there’s an ex.”

“There’s ‘a’ none.”

He smiled. “Is there a ‘next’?”

She rolled her eyes, but she was still smiling. “You’re sweet. My ex was an idiot.”

“Then he didn’t deserve you.”

“You always talk like this?”

“I try.”

“I like it.”

Behind them, the sea whispered to the shore, rhythm steady, waves folding in and out like prayer. Lights from the other side of the resort reflected in the water, and voices drifted through the breeze; French, Arabic, Nigerian Pidgin, American accents and loud laughter.

The beach was busy in a soft way. Not chaotic. Just alive. Small families, couples walking hand in hand. A man from Kenya explaining a local dish to a woman from Spain. A group of women in hijabs taking photos with a man who spoke in crisp British English.

It was beautiful.

The kind of beauty that didn’t need to be explained.

Kaweme was still scrolling when her phone buzzed.

She looked down. “My dad.”

Her face fell slightly. “This will be long. I need to go read the email before he calls again.”

Japheth stood. “Of course. Thanks for coming.”

“Thank you for inviting me.”

“Will I see you in class tomorrow?”

She slipped her iPad into her tote bag. “Let’s hope so.”

Then she smiled, gave him a small wave, and walked off into the night.

He stood there a moment longer, watching the waves roll in, then back out.