Lusaka, Zambia – Fifteen Years Ago

                                                SHEM

Shem Mwansa had been fighting for as long as he could remember.

Fists were easier than feelings. They didn’t ask questions, and didn’t expect apologies. They just landed where they were aimed and helped him breathe a little easier.

People said he was angry. They weren’t wrong. But nobody ever asked why.

He didn’t know what a mother’s touch felt like. Not really. The woman who gave birth to him had died in the process. Just like that, gone before he ever opened his eyes. Everyone said she was sweet, kind, and beautiful. He had no memories to prove it. Only silence where her voice should have been.

Japheth remembered her faintly, and had baby pictures of her holding him. Ham had his own mother, kind and gentle, even if she wasn’t around much anymore.

But Shem? Shem only had Noah. And Noah was a lesson in everything a father shouldn’t be.

That day, the heat was thick enough to chew, and the walk home felt longer than usual.

He had gotten into a fight behind the school latrines. Nothing new. Some boy from the upper class had said something stupid about his family. Shem had responded with his fists. It was how most of his school days ended.

Japheth had pulled him off the boy, like he always did. No yelling, just a look that said “Again?” Then they’d found Ham, barefoot, playing with a half-flat football like he didn’t have a care in the world.

Shem envied him sometimes, Ham’s ability to dream. To smile. To still believe his mother might walk through the door.

They saw Mutale standing under a jacaranda tree as they neared the compound. She was hugging her books tightly to her chest, like if she let go, she’d fall apart.

She didn’t come to school that day. Everyone knew why, her family couldn’t afford the fees.

“Mutale, come with us,” Ham called. “Mummy might be back. We’ll eat together.”

Shem didn’t say anything. He liked Mutale. She was quiet, but she saw things. People. And she didn’t flinch when Shem walked by like others did.

He watched her hesitate, then walk over slowly. Her shoulders were tense, her eyes wary.

When they got home, their father was in his usual spot, shirt half-buttoned, eyes glazed, the smell of stale beer clinging to the air.

“Mutale can stay a bit,” Ham said as they passed the sitting room. “Right, Daddy?”

Noah didn’t respond.

In the kitchen, Ham rummaged through empty pots. Shem didn’t bother. He knew there was nothing there.

He reached for his slippers and left the house, unable to watch his brother search for food that did not exist.

One Hour Later

Shem didn’t mean to end up at the corner near Kwacha Shop. He was angry. Hungry. Tired.

But when he heard the sounds, laughing that wasn’t right, the scuffle of feet, the whimper that didn’t belong, he stopped.

Then he saw them.

The Kasonde brothers. Everyone knew their name. Their father had money, their fists had power, and their hearts had rot.

Mutale was there. Trapped between them. Her face was wet, her skirt torn.

Shem didn’t think.

He moved. She wasn’t supposed to be here, he had left her at home with his family.

The Kasondes didn’t expect him. He didn’t say a word. Just stared long enough to make them step back, then he held Mutale by her arm carefully, and led her home.

She didn’t speak. Just shook. Blood ran down her legs. Shem gritted his teeth and walked faster.

When he reached the house, the compound was quiet.

Until Ham saw them.

“Mutale!” he cried, running forward. “What happened?”

She couldn’t answer. She just held on to Shem’s sleeve like it was the only thing keeping her from falling.

Japheth appeared in the doorway. His eyes widened, his breath caught.

“She needs to bathe,” Shem said quietly. “Ham, help her.”

Ham didn’t argue. Just took her hand, gently, and led her inside.

Things became clearer later, when the shouting began, apparently their father had sent Japheth to buy cigarettes and Mosi without providing money for food and so Japheth had refused to run the errand, which was transferred to Mutale.

Japheth turned on their father, his voice cracked under the weight of everything he’d tried to carry, Shem didn’t stop him.

He only stepped in when Japheth raised a fist.

“Don’t,” he said. “He’s not worth it.”

And, Japheth listened.

But then…

“I’m leaving,” Japheth whispered. “I can’t do this anymore.”

Shem wanted to say something. Anything. But his throat wouldn’t cooperate. So he just stood there, watching his older brother walk out of the house, out of their lives, out of the mess they were all drowning in.

He didn’t look back.

And Shem didn’t call after him.

That night, Shem lay awake on the thin mattress in their room, staring at the cracked ceiling.

He wasn’t the kind of boy who cried. He fought. He survived.

But for the first time, tears rushed down his face as he wondered…

What if Japheth never came back?

What if this was how their story ended?

And somewhere deep inside, something hardened.

If love could leave that easily, then maybe it was better not to need it at all.