The house was still.

Ham woke up late, light already creeping through the blinds. His shirt was half-off, body stiff from the awkward angle he’d passed out on the couch. One foot was still on the floor, the other curled under him. His head throbbed.

The wine glasses on the table were still there. Lipstick stains. An empty bottle. A subtle scent of perfume hung in the air, sweet, chemical and undesired.

He groaned, sat up slowly.

His phone had slid under the table.

When he picked it up, the notifications hit him like a slap.

10 missed calls.

3 messages.

All from his trainer.

He had told him to come at 4 a.m.

It was nearly 10 a.m. now.

Ham rubbed his face hard. Guilt rose in his throat.

He scrolled to the messages.

[Trainer, 4:03 AM]

I’m outside. Gate locked.

[Trainer, 4:45 AM]

Bro, I waited 30 mins. Everything good?

[Trainer, 6:00 AM]

Let me know if you’re alive.

Ham didn’t reply.

He tossed the phone on the couch and sat in silence. His thoughts weren’t loud yet, but he could feel them stretching their arms, waking up.

He opened the message thread with Mutale.

Still nothing since last night.

He typed:

I’m sorry. I was stupid. I just,

Deleted.

Typed again:

I miss you. I hate that I keep doing this.

Deleted.

He couldn’t send anything.

He opened Instagram instead. Checked her profile. She hadn’t posted since he checked last night. He scrolled through older pictures. Ones where her smile reached her eyes. Ones where she looked happy.

There was one he’d taken of her at sunrise in Lusaka, shortly after they got married. She had just brushed her teeth, wearing one of his hoodies, and laughing at something he had said.

He remembered exactly how it had felt that morning. Like maybe everything could be okay. Like maybe marrying her wasn’t a mistake.

Then the memory shifted.

He was back in Zambia, his thoughts revisiting that day again. The day everything changed through one moment of pleasure.

Afterward, they’d just laid there.

Mutale had whispered, “Oh my God, what did we just do?”

And Ham had said nothing at first.

Then: “I’m sorry.”

They’d both agreed to forget it. Pretend it was grief. Nothing more.

Until weeks later, she called.

She was pregnant.

And Ham had said the only thing he could think of to make her feel safe.

“Let’s get married.”

His phone rang, breaking his memory lane trip.

David.

Ham answered.

“Yo.”

“Morning,” David said, in his usual casual tone. “Just a heads-up, her flight’s being processed. Ticket’s nearly booked. We should have confirmation by the end of day.”

Ham stood up straighter. “Wait. What?”

“Mutale’s visa’s cleared.”

“I know. But, you never told me you were moving this fast.”

David hesitated. “Honestly? You didn’t sound like you wanted details. You asked me to ‘handle it.’ So I did.”

Ham rubbed his eyes. “Yeah. Okay.”

“Just making sure you’re good with it. She’s set to land Friday morning.”

Ham ended the call.

He walked to the kitchen. Opened the fridge, closed it. Opened a cupboard, closed it. He wasn’t looking for food. Just… movement.

He sat at the table and opened his WhatsApp.

He typed:

I don’t know how to be a husband. I didn’t mean to hurt you. I keep hurting you anyway. That girl is not my girlfriend, just an old..

He stared at the screen.

Then deleted it all.

He went to the bathroom and turned on the tap. His eyes moved to the mirror, he looked like hell. 

Bloodshot eyes,  jaw clenched, the outline of shame etched across his face.

“I’m not ready,” he whispered. “To be anyone’s husband.”

He touched the mirror.

“You’re going to lose her,” he said to his reflection, and the worst part is that he didn’t know how to stop it.

 MUTALE

Mutale didn’t want to go out, but she had what was supposed to be a simple venue inspection.

Just a quick check-in for the upcoming graduation ceremony for the girls in their care. That was what Glory had said, nothing too serious, a walk-through, even though Mutale was leaving tomorrow.

But the moment she stepped through the gate, the music started.

And the crowd erupted.

“SURPRISE!”

Her breath caught.

Decorations hung from every wall, streamers, balloons, garlands in soft lavender and gold. The banner strung above the dais read: “Send-Forth Celebration: We Love You, Mutale.”

For a moment, she didn’t know whether to laugh or cry.

Her family was there. The girls from the shelter, staff members, her church community. Even the little girls they had rescued from violent homes were clapping and jumping, grinning wide with gap-toothed smiles.

Children sang. Testimonies were shared. A cake was rolled in on a cart, dripping with fondant and love. Someone had even made a printed booklet, “Letters to Mutale”. filled with notes from girls whose lives she had touched.

She stood still, hand on her chest, overwhelmed.

She hadn’t realized how much she meant to people until now.

Tulu was the first to reach her.

She’d come running from behind the camera setup, phone still mounted on her tripod. Her face was streaked with mascara and tears. She wrapped her arms around Mutale in a tight, shaking hug.

“You can’t go,” she sobbed. “You just can’t.”

Mutale smiled through her own tears, stroking the girl’s head. “Tulu, I’m not leaving you forever. I’m just going to be based somewhere else. You know I’ll keep checking in.”

“You’re like my mum,” the girl whispered.

Mutale’s heart clenched. “And you’re like my daughter. I’m still here. Just further away. You’ll be alright.”

Tulu nodded, slowly.

Then she wiped her face, sniffed, and went back to the camera, still filming, still crying.

Later, as the celebration mellowed and the sun dipped behind the clouds, Mutale saw her pastor preparing to leave.

She crossed the room quickly to catch him.

“Sir,” she said warmly. “Thank you for coming.”

“We’ll miss you in church,” he replied with a gentle smile. “But we’re proud of you. You’re doing the right thing.”

She hesitated. “The right thing?”

“You’re married,” he said simply. “That’s always the right thing. And you’re a Christian girl. Whatever choice you made, I’m sure you had your reasons. We only regret that we didn’t get to bless the union in church.”

Mutale looked down. “May God forgive me.”

“You think He hasn’t?” the pastor asked. “It’s not Him that holds on. It’s usually us.”

She looked up at him, eyes full. “Do you think… Do you think He really has?”

“I know,” the pastor said slowly, “that the moment you asked, He washed it all away. That’s the beauty of Jesus. Forgiveness is full. Immediate. If there’s something still bothering you, maybe you need to forgive yourself too.”

She blinked. Her throat tightened.

“Pastor,” she whispered, “did someone tell you something?”

“No,” he said gently. “I just felt like telling you that.”

She nodded, barely able to speak. “Thank you. Please pray for me. I need it.”

“Just trust God,” he said, patting her arm. “He knows how to finish what He starts.”

And then he left.

People began trickling out, hugs, waves, goodbyes.

Grace stayed close. So did Glory.

But Mutale was only half-present now.

Her phone kept buzzing in her palm.

Ham.

First a message:

Mutale! Trust me. She is not my girlfriend. Can we talk?

She stared at it.

Typed:

Go ahead.

Then a call.

She ignored it.

Another message:

Can I please just talk to you?

She typed back:

Whatever you want to say, send me a text.

There was a long pause.

Then:

I guess… see you on Friday.

She didn’t reply.

Glory slipped beside her, sensing everything without needing to ask.

“You alright?” she asked softly.

Mutale nodded. Then shook her head.

“I don’t know,” she murmured. “I just… I hope so.”

Glory reached for her hand.

“Everything will be alright.”

Mutale looked toward the gate, toward the sky, toward the future.

“I hope so,” she said again.

 HAM

Ham shoved his phone into his pocket and jogged back onto the pitch. The air was cold and sharp in his lungs, the kind that should clear a man’s head, but his thoughts refused to stay quiet.

His legs moved faster than usual. His passes were sharper. His tackles, borderline reckless.

The coach noticed.

“Ham!” the man barked, waving him over. “You alright?”

Ham wiped sweat from his brow. “I’m fine, Coach.”

“You’re playing like you’re angry.”

Ham gave a short laugh. “I’m African, remember? You lot say we’re all aggressive.”

The coach didn’t smile. “You’re our main striker tomorrow. Don’t make me doubt your focus.”

Ham nodded quickly. “No, no. I’m good. Just had a long night. I’ll check myself.”

He jogged back into position.

Manchester United.

Friday night under the lights.

He needed to be on point.

But his head… his head was still 5,000 miles away.

After training, Ham headed to the locker room, peeled off his damp shirt, and sat in silence. He didn’t want to talk. But the silence didn’t last long.

“Yo.”

It was Henry.

Teammate. Midfielder. British-Nigerian. The closest person to a friend Ham had on the team.

“I heard Coach checking in on you,” Henry said. “I won’t bother asking. But you were wild out there tonight.”

Ham forced a smile. “Like I said to him, African aggression.”

“Nah, man. This was different.” Henry sat beside him, untying his boots. “You looked like a man fighting something invisible.”

Ham hesitated. “My wife’s coming tomorrow.”

Henry froze. “Wife?”

“Yeah.”

“Hold up. You’re married?”

Ham nodded.

Henry stared. “No press? No post? No hints?”

Ham shook his head. “It was private. Rushed. We thought she was pregnant.”

Henry let out a low whistle. “You thought?”

“She was. We lost it.”

Henry gave him a long, unreadable look. “So you married her because of a baby… and now the baby’s gone… but the marriage is still standing?”

Ham ran a hand through his hair. “She’s special, man. I’ve known her my whole life.”

Henry tilted his head. “You don’t look like a man who’s sure he made the right choice.”

Ham didn’t reply.

Henry leaned forward, elbows on knees. “Bro… you’re at the prime of your career. You can’t let emotions chain you to a decision like this. Did you get an NDA?”

Ham blinked. “What?”

“Non-disclosure. Did she sign one?”

“No.”

“Jesus.” Henry sat back. “Look, I’m just saying, how do you know she was even pregnant?”

Ham frowned. “She told me.”

“Did you see the test? Go to the hospital together?”

Ham hesitated.

“Exactly,” Henry said. “You just took her word for it.”

Ham looked away. “She is a good christian girl.”

Henry lowered his voice. “You ever think… maybe she played you? Some women, especially church girls, know exactly how to work guilt. One tear, one line about a baby, and boom, you’re in a marriage you never asked for.”

Ham stood up.

Henry raised his hands. “I’m not saying she did. I’m saying… don’t rule it out. You’re worth millions. You’re a ticket out of a life of uncertainty. And now, conveniently, there’s no baby to prove anything. But the marriage? That stays.”

Ham grabbed his bag.

“Don’t lose your game over a maybe,” Henry said as Ham walked away. “No woman’s worth that.”

Outside, the cold air hit Ham harder than it should have if he had won a sweater, but he wanted it that way, walking slowly in just a t-shirt, breath fogging, heartbeat steady.

But his mind? Not steady at all.

The words of Henry clanged around in his skull.

Did you see the test?

What if she played you?

Now the baby’s gone…

He shook his head, trying to clear the thought.

But the seed had been planted.

And it would grow.