Chapter One

Sixteen Years Later

HAM

The floodlights hummed over the training pitch long after the last whistle had blown. The stadium was empty. The coach had left, and the team was gone. Even the groundskeeper had taken his tea flask and zipped off on his little cart.

But Ham was still there.

Boots on, shirt soaked, ball at his feet, the pitch was empty now. He should have left too, but he lingered.

He moved like a shadow, with quick turns, sharp cuts, slick one-twos with a rebound net. Sweat darkened his chest. The cold air didn’t touch him. He wasn’t training anymore, not really. He was exorcising.

This was the third night in a row he had stayed behind after everyone left. Nobody said anything, yet. But he saw the way they looked at him.

They used to say he had the talent of Ronaldo, but the discipline of a stray dog. He never trained much, he didn’t need to. His foot just understood the game. His body spoke football like it was his first language.

But ever since he got back from Zambia, he hadn’t stopped moving.

Every sprint was a thought he didn’t want and every drill, a memory he needed to sweat out.

Every cut, a voice he didn’t want to hear, hers, mostly, not because he didn’t love her, but because he loved her too much, yet, he had done the one thing he promised never to do to her.

He fired the ball into the net. It ricocheted and rolled into the far corner. He let it go.

His chest heaved, but it wasn’t from the running. He wasn’t thinking about trophies, or money, or headlines.

He was thinking about that night. The night of his father’s funeral. The kiss had started special, and was so sweet, he lost control. The pleasure of her body in his hands was a high he could only compare with winning the Champions league. They had both enjoyed it, too lost in what must have been pent up desire to use their brains, till it was over.

On that day, Ham had made up his mind, he was going to take her to dinner, a quiet, intimate space where the noise of mourners, condolences, and loss couldn’t reach them. As far as he was concerned, his father didn’t deserve all the drama. In fact, if he hadn’t been off season and already in Zambia, he wouldn’t have gone for the burial. However, being in Zambia and skipping the ceremony could make the news in a bad way. Shem would also not forgive him, and he didn’t want to offend Shem. To him, Shem was his father, the brother who stepped up to be a covering when things fell apart.

Mutale hadn’t said no. She never really could, not to him.

She only asked, with that soft worry in her voice, “Where can we go that people won’t mob you?”

He smiled. There was a private chef, one of those lowkey spots he used whenever he was in Zambia, hidden, and exclusive. It wasn’t about extravagance; he just wanted her to feel special. Because even though he had just buried his father, life always made sense whenever Mutale was near.

She didn’t even know it. The role she played in his life. The quiet anchor she had become. She fussed over him like she was his mother, yet he could banter with her like she was his best friend. And when life fell apart, she stood there like a sister, constant, steady.

Shem had remained after Japheth left, yes, but Shem was… distant. Always buried in one volunteer project or the other, always chasing the soldier dream, always unavailable. Japheth, despite his absence, still sent money, paid fees, and made sure they never lacked, but on the day he walked away, their relationship was over as far as he was concerned.

Only Mutale was always present. The girl who did his chores when he fell sick. The girl who went to the cinema with him when he could afford it. The girl who would sit outside with him at night, just to listen. The girl who never judged.

And that was why he never touched her.

There were times, too many times, when he wanted to. In high school, in university, even before matches. There were times he would look at her and feel that pull but he always stopped himself.

Because if they ever tried and it didn’t work… If he lost her, he would lose everything.

He had girls. Girls who would follow him to parties, slept with him when the loneliness became too much. Girls who filled gaps. But Mutale? She was different.

She was the girl.

To him, she was a guardian angel.

After dinner that day, he should have let her go. He should have told the driver to drop her off and said goodnight.

But that night, he was thinking too much. His father was gone. The only brother he cared about was slipping away. Shem had started talking about Japheth again, like they were getting closer. He felt the gap widened, because after all, he was only a halfbrother to them, they didn’t have to deal with avoiding calls from the mother who abandoned them, and the father who tied them together was now gone. He felt truly, frighteningly alone.

So when he asked Mutale to come with him, just for a bit after dinner, to his place in Lusaka, he hoped she would say yes, even though he was aware that no, was the better answer, because he knew that he would want more.

But she didn’t say no.

Maybe she felt the pull too. Maybe something in her was trying to comfort him. Maybe something in both of them cracked wide open that night.

They were watching something on TV when he reached out and took her hand. Then gently, wordlessly, he pulled her down from the couch to sit beside him on the rug. His arm found her waist. His nose brushed her neck. She didn’t move away.

And suddenly, Mutale was no longer a sister, no longer a guardian angel.

She became the girl, the one he had silently crushed on for years.

He raised his head, touched his lips to hers and kissed her.

It started slow and gentle, but the dam had broken.

They didn’t talk. They didn’t think.

The world had already ended that day, hadn’t it? So what was one more broken rule?

But when it was over, when the silence returned and the TV kept playing scenes no one was watching, he couldn’t look at her.

He felt the shame rise like bile, not because he didn’t want her, but because he did. Too much.

The way she looked at him after, like he had ruined something sacred still haunts him.

He had only meant to be comforted by her, to mark the end of an era with just a few hours away from grief, a grief he couldn’t share with his step brothers, but now he had entered sacred grounds.

Mutale had always been his most treasured person on earth, the only woman that loves him for who he is at his core. She was the sister and mother he never had, all rolled into one.

But now, they had rewritten the contract of their lives, and there was no going back.

He drove home without music.

The mansion greeted him in silence, glass and steel gleaming under motion-sensor lights. The kind of place that made magazines write the word “exclusive” in italics.

Cobham was quiet at night. All the rich boys lived here, Chelsea stars, retired midfielders, hedge fund kids pretending to be farmers.

He walked through the marble entryway, dropped his training bag onto the hallway table, and watched his football roll out slowly onto the tiles.

It stopped beside the leg of the staircase, like it was waiting for him to play again.

He didn’t.

Inside, the house looked untouched. Black marble counters, glass staircase and abstract art bought by a decorator. The only thing personal was a photo frame turned face down on the console table, a picture of Mutale and him, the day they signed the marriage certificate. He had printed it to remind himself of who they were now, and of his new status, but the picture made him feel guilty, always, so he had turned it down.

His phone lit up: Shem calling.

He didn’t even let it ring before declining and dropping the phone on the table.

He stood for a long time, staring at the screen, then quietly, he picked it up again and called someone else.

His trainer.

“I’ll be at the training center by 4 a.m tomorrow,” he said.

The man on the other end sounded half-asleep. “Ham, chill. Are you trying to kill yourself? I heard you just left now.”

“You’re not paid to ask questions,” Ham replied. “If I say I want to train, I want to train.”

“The point of training is to improve you, not destroy you before match day. I think -”

Ham cut the call mid-sentence and tossed the phone across the sofa.

“I need a new trainer,” he muttered to no one.

He sat down, head in his hands, eyes on the ceiling.

In the quiet, he could almost hear her voice again. The way she whispered it when the doctor gave her the news.

The baby is gone.

Story of his life: Everybody leaves Ham, even the Baby!

MUTALE

The fan spun in slow, lazy circles above her head. The room was dark, save for the orange light bleeding in from the corridor outside. Mutale lay on her side, phone in hand, the glow casting soft shadows across her face.

It was just past midnight in Lusaka. She hadn’t meant to stay awake this long.

When her phone lit up with a caller ID, she groaned quietly.

Shem.

She rolled her eyes, not in irritation, but in sadness.

“Why am I disturbing him?” she muttered under her breath, thumb hovering over the screen. “The guy probably has better things to do with his life.”

She had called him an hour earlier, just to ask how Ham was doing. She should have called Ham herself, she knew that, but she couldn’t bring herself to. The silence from him wasn’t just confusing. It was insulting and hurtful.

Everything about this situation made her feel like an accessory.

Her best friend had gotten her pregnant, married her to honor her, but vanished after they lost the baby.

It wasn’t even him who spoke to her now. It was his manager. His manager was the one talking to her about her visa process. Her paperwork and her flight arrangements.

Ham himself? Nowhere.

And still… Still, she had wanted to know how he was so she had called Shem.

He was six years older. The older brother she never had. Ham was older too by two years, but it wasn’t the same. Ham had always been a friend, a fierce, protective friend. Until he wasn’t.

She felt guilty picking up Shem’s call now, but ignoring it felt worse.

She answered quietly. “Hey.”

His voice came gently too, like he’d been waiting for her tone. “Don’t worry. It’s going to be alright.”

She swallowed. “You talked to him?”

“I called him just now. He didn’t pick. Actually, he ended the call. So yeah, I think he doesn’t want to talk.”

Her chest tightened. “Do you think something is wrong?”

Shem paused. “Not professionally. He’s winning. He played a great match last week. The club loves him. So I don’t think it’s anything like that.”

“But we lost the baby, and he gained an unwanted spouse.” she whispered. “Not just me. He may not be okay.”

“I know,” Shem said. “You have both been dealt a heavy blow. He might be processing that in his own way.”

“Well, this silent treatment is killing me,” she said, her voice rising before she caught herself. “I don’t even think I want to go to Britain anymore. To what end?”

“You’re married to him,” Shem said, gently but firmly. “If you’re going to make that decision, you have to make it together. Or…” he hesitated, “do you want to annul the marriage?”

“Annul?” she repeated. “What kind of annulment? On what grounds?”

“Well, I think legally, an annulment can happen if the marriage hasn’t been consummated. Like, if you two haven’t—”

“I don’t think you know your brother,” she cut in, eyes narrowed in the dark. “Of course we’ve gone there. Before we lost the baby, he was very attentive. Very. Let’s just say we were an… active couple.”

Shem chuckled awkwardly. “I’m sorry to go there.”

She sighed. “It’s fine. I just… I don’t know what to do.”

“If you two are that close,” he said carefully, “if the attraction and the connection are real, then I think it’s worth giving a chance. But I also recommend this: pray about it.”

She looked up at the ceiling, blankly. “Pray?”

“Yes. When you’re discouraged, when you’re afraid, when you’re sad, and when you’re confused as a Christian, what do you do?”

She didn’t answer.

“Mutale.”

“You take it to God,” she said quietly.

“Exactly,” he said. “Take this to God, that’s where clarity comes from.”

Her eyes filled again. “Sometimes when you know you’re the one who messed up, praying doesn’t come easy.”

Shem said nothing.

She continued. “That’s how I feel. I feel guilty, I feel like I failed God. Like I’m being punished and I don’t have the right to go to Him.”

“You always have the right to go to God,” Shem said.

“Thank you.”

“I’ll be praying for you.”

She ended the call before he could say anything else.

Mutale sat in silence for a moment, staring at the screen.

Then, with a long breath, she whispered, “God help me.”

She scrolled through her contacts, stopping at Ham’s name.

Pressed call.

The phone rang once.

Twice.

Three times.

No answer.

HAM

The phone rang again.

Ham didn’t move.

Mutale’s name lit up the screen, gentle and unthreatening, like the beginning of a love song. He watched the screen quietly. Five seconds. Then ten. Then the name disappeared.

He exhaled.

“Sweet Mutale,” he murmured to himself. “What do I even say to you?”

He picked up the phone, then opened his banking app. With a few taps, ten thousand dollars was wired to her account.

Then he opened his WhatsApp and typed a message to her:

Hey wifey. How are you doing? I can’t wait to connect with you here. David says we’re almost at the finish line, and you’ll be able to join me here soon. I really can’t wait. I think you’ll need to buy some stuff for the move, so I sent you some change. Take care of you. I’m training right now so I can’t talk, but I’ll reach out tomorrow.

He read it once. Then again. Then hit send.

The moment it left his screen, he felt his chest tighten.

Lying to her wasn’t hard. That was the scary part.

He opened Instagram. Typed her name in the search bar, even though she was always the first result.

Her profile photo hit him in the stomach, a soft close-up of her laughing into a bouquet of yellow flowers. No filters. No makeup. Just joy.

He scrolled. Her eyes were too pure for the mess he had made. She wasn’t like the girls here. Not like the ones who showed up at events with glass smiles and glittery intentions. Mutale was…

She was good.

He swiped out of the app.

Maybe this was a mistake. The whole marriage. Maybe it should never have happened. A child conceived in grief, a wedding planned in panic, and a house built on guilt. Could it ever grow?

She deserved better than this.

The thought rang loud in his head.

A divorce. That was probably the best thing to do. Let her come to Britain, settle in. Then he will explain it gently, like a man. Tell her the truth, that apart from football, things leave him, and he would rather let her go before she leaves too, after things had gotten deeper.

She’d be hurt but that would set her free.

And maybe that was the kindest thing he could give her now.

His phone buzzed.

A WhatsApp message.

Zainab.

Of course.

He hadn’t spoken to her since he got back from Zambia. The moment the plane landed, he had gone silent. Blocked her number for a week. Then unblocked it and never replied. She’d sent him photos, jokes, and voice notes. Nothing dirty. Just reminders.

Now she’d sent a simple message:

“You alive?”

Ham stared at it.

Zainab wasn’t anything serious, just a Ghanaian model with a wicked laugh and zero expectations. They had a thing, off and on, but ever since he put a ring on Mutale’s finger, he couldn’t touch her, not because he didn’t want to, but because he saw Mutale’s face even when he closed his eyes, and it burns him just to think about another woman in the way he had experienced her.

But maybe…

Maybe the way out of all this was through fire.

Maybe he needed to ruin it. Really ruin it so Mutale wouldn’t want him anymore. Make himself into a monster, so she could finally be free of this sad, broken man.

Maybe Zainab was the key.

He typed:

Can you come over?

The reply was instant.

30 minutes.

He replied: