MUTALE

The last time Mutale left Zambia, it had been for a conference in Lagos, a modest event on “Restorative Advocacy for the Vulnerable Girl-Child in Post-Conflict Societies.” That trip had taught her that most flight’s economy-class wasn’t built for dignity. Long queues. Cramped seats. Chicken or beef. A stale bun. Her knees had ached by the time she got there.

But this?

This was something else entirely.

The attendant’s smile was the kind you couldn’t buy, warm and unhurried, as if she had all the time in the world for Mutale alone. “Welcome, ma’am,” she said, taking Mutale’s boarding pass  and glancing at the gold-stamped letters that confirmed it: First Class. Then, with a graceful turn, she guided her to a leather armchair by the window. A silver tray appeared, holding crystal flutes, champagne for those who wanted bubbles, and a deep golden mango juice for those who didn’t. Mutale chose the mango juice. The first sip was silk on her tongue, sweet and cool, and for a moment she wished her life was as simple and beautiful as it looked.

Now, seated in the private cabin of her first-class section, she stared at the hot towel in her hands like it might dissolve if she blinked.

She still couldn’t believe it.

Everything was so… quiet. So clean. So soft.

The flight attendant came by again, all smiles and red lipstick. “Miss, Champagne or orange juice before takeoff?”

Mutale blinked. “So early?”

The man seated beside her let out a chuckle. British. Maybe late 30s. Salt-and-pepper hair, thick fingers, designer shoes.

“Is this your first time flying premium?” he asked.

“Am I that obvious?”

“Yes,” the man said. Then added, kindly, “And no. It’s just, you keep looking at the tray like it’s going to talk back.”

She laughed, embarrassed.

He leaned back in his seat, still watching her. “You’re taking everything in. That’s rare. It’s… refreshing. Most people here act like they were born in this leather.”

“I wasn’t,” she said, folding her towel nervously. “This is all… a lot.”

“Well, welcome to the clouds,” he said. “I’m Evan, by the way.”

“Mutale.”

“Lovely name.”

Just then, her phone buzzed. She jolted, eyes wide. “Oh my God, I haven’t even switched it off.”

She checked the screen. A message from Ham.

“Do you have the test results of the pregnancy?”

Her stomach dropped.

Her jaw clenched.

She turned the phone off.

“Bad news?” Evan asked.

She shook her head. “No. Yes. I don’t know.”

“You look upset.”

“I am. But not at you.”

“Good,” he said. “I’ve barely done anything yet.”

She forced a smile.

“First time going to London?” he asked.

She nodded. “Yeah.”

“You’ll love it. Cold, grey, brutally polite. I do interior design there. Homes mostly and a few clubs. If you need someone to decorate a space, or just navigate British snobbery, I’m your guy.” He reached into his wallet and handed her a card, thick, black, embossed in silver.

She took it politely. “Thank you.”

“You know what would be more useful than a card?” he said, reaching for her phone. “A number.”

“I’m… I’m just starting a new life,” she said, hesitating.

“Oh?” Evan grinned. “New life how?”

“I’m going to reconnect with my husband.”

Evan raised his brows. “You’re married?”

“I think so,” she said quietly.

“You think so?” he laughed. “Now you’re confusing me.”

She gave him a side glance, trying not to smile.

He leaned in slightly. “No offense, but I think you’re making that up just to get me to back off.”

“Is that the kind of thing a married woman would say to get you to back off?” she replied.

He chuckled. “Touché.”

Then, before she could stop him, he reached for her phone, her new phone, the one Ham had delivered and powered it back on.

“What are you—?”

“Relax. No password?” he asked.

“I just bought it,” she muttered. “My husband sent it.”

“This husband,” he said, skeptically. “The invisible one.”

He opened the contacts app and typed in his number.

“Evan,” she warned.

“There. Now I’m on your WhatsApp. Just in case London gets lonely.”

“It won’t.”

“Sure.”

He called the number.

His phone rang, just as the attendant walked by and smiled politely. “Excuse me, sir and ma’am, can you please switch off your phones now?”

Mutale nodded, cheeks flushed.

Evan smiled. “Lucky me. Now I have your number.”

“Which won’t work in London,” she said sharply.

“It’s WhatsApp. It works anywhere. And I think you’ll need a friend.”

She turned away, picked up the menu, and pretended to read it.

Evan leaned back. “I still don’t believe you’re married.”

“I am.”

“Then why do you look like someone flying away from something, not toward it?”

She had no answer for that.

When he looked away, she quietly unlocked her phone again, just to read the last message Ham had sent before turning it off.

“Can we talk?”

She stared at the screen.

Then at the seat in front of her.

Then at the clouds.

What have I gotten myself into?

What kind of man asks for pregnancy test proof from a woman who has never lied to him?

She didn’t know why she was even going anymore, but she was already in the air. No turning back now, it was already too late. It wouldn’t make sense, but still she couldn’t stop asking herself, ‘Where am I going to?’

———————————————————————————————————————–

Ham stared at the screen of his phone, thumb hovering over the message he’d just sent.

“Can we talk?”

It looked innocent. Too simple. Like a pebble tossed into an ocean trying to start a wave.

He opened the chat again. The two blue ticks were already there.

Read.

His heart sank. He had hoped to unsend it, to pull it back before it said too much or too little, but now it was out there. Hanging between them like all the other words they hadn’t said.

He muttered to himself, “I am stupid.”

Henry’s voice crept back into his head like smoke under a locked door. 

Did you see the test? What if she played you?

Ham hated that it made sense. He hated even more that it made him doubt Mutale, because she didn’t deserve it. She wasn’t a liar. If anything, she had given him the kind of faith and loyalty most people only dream of.

And here he was, entertaining shadows.

His phone buzzed again. The caller ID stopped him cold. It was his mother, again.

How on earth had she even gotten his number? And why now, of all times? If there was ever a moment he had zero room in his head for nonsense, this was it. The woman had abandoned him easily, conveniently, for sixteen years… and now she wanted to reconnect? He had no space of mind to even process it.

His thoughts slid back to Mutale, the one person he would have taken these sudden calls from his mother to, the one voice that could steady and counsel him. His phone buzzed again. He groaned, thinking it was his mother determined to press through. But no, it was his trainer, the one he had abandoned for a few days now. The guilt was already making him reckless, turning him into someone he barely recognized, unaccountable.

The sky outside had begun to blush faintly with dawn. His boots were already on. The pitch was quiet. Empty. Just the way he liked it.

He pulled out his phone again and called David.

“Hey,” David answered, his voice gravelly from sleep. It was midnight.

“Pick me on your way to the airport,” Ham said.

There was a pause.

“You’re going to meet her?”

“I’m not sending a driver. She’s my wife.”

Another pause. “Alright. I’ll be there in the morning.”

Ham hung up.

Seconds later, another message popped up on his screen.

Zainab.

“Can I come over? Miss you…”

Ham rolled his eyes and replied with a flat:

“No.”

He stared at the message for a second, then tossed the phone onto the bench beside the training cones. He needed to stop thinking.

He jogged to the field, the crisp air slicing against his arms. The lights overhead buzzed faintly. He exhaled through clenched teeth and began running drills.

Back and forth. Sprint and stop. Touch and turn.

Whatever the storm was, he’d sweat through it.

Because tomorrow morning, she will be here.

And whatever he was, he had to be ready.

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

Several Hours Later 

Ham had pushed himself until he couldn’t anymore, all night!

By the time he got back to the house, his legs felt like gravel and every muscle in his body begged for mercy. He walked straight into the living room, where the scent of lemon polish and fresh orchids greeted. The housekeeper had done an incredible job, everything spotless, neat, almost showroom-perfect.

It looked like the home of a man who had his life together.

Except that he didn’t, because the one thing nobody could clean up, nobody could get ready… was him.

Ham was still in yesterday’s sweat-drenched gym wear, half-limping into the kitchen to gulp water, when David let himself in.

“You do realize she’s going to land in London any moment now?” David said, staring at him with mild horror. “We’re supposed to be halfway to Heathrow.”

Ham blinked. “Oh my God.”

“You look a hot mess,” David said, not unkindly. “Get your ass upstairs. You need to shower, shave, and put on something that doesn’t smell like regret.”

“I was supposed to buy flowers,” Ham muttered. “I should’ve done that earlier. Maybe we can stop—”

David held up a hand. “Handled. Bought the flowers myself. Classic white roses, elegant wrap. You’re welcome.”

Ham let out a long breath. “You are a lifesaver.”

“I know,” David said with a slight smirk. “That’s why you pay me.”

David was a purebred Brit, suave, sharp, and utterly fluent in the high-society code of London. Ham had hired him because he could glide through the cold politeness of old money and come back with contracts. But more than that, David made sure Ham got every dime and ounce of respect he was due. They were a match made in Premier League heaven.

Except for this one thing.

The one bargain David hadn’t helped broker, the woman in question.

David leaned against the kitchen island. “I just hope you’re doing the right thing, mate.”

Ham turned, raising an eyebrow. “Why do you sound like you’ve got reservations?”

“I don’t,” David said. “I don’t know her. Which is exactly my fear. She might be great. Lovely. But I have zero data. No one briefed me before you decided to go off and become a husband.”

Ham ran a hand through his hair. “I’m sorry, alright?”

“Don’t be sorry,” David said. “Just… I hope your heart doesn’t lead you into ruin.”

Ham gave a dry laugh. “You sound like Henry.”

“What did Henry say?”

“That I should’ve gotten an NDA. And, how do I even know she was ever really pregnant?”

David paused. “That’s a valid question.”

“Come on.”

“No, listen. I’m not saying she lied, but… you didn’t go to the hospital with her. No scans, no test results, no doctor visit. She told you she was pregnant, and then she told you the baby was gone.”

Ham stared at the floor.

David softened. “I’m not trying to make you spiral. But the facts are the facts.”

“What do you want me to do?” Ham asked, voice tight. “She’s already on the plane. She’s here.”

“Then we deal with it,” David said. “If she turns out to be a nightmare, we’ll get her out. Fast. Clean. No scandal.”

“Don’t talk about her like that,” Ham snapped. “Mutale’s… she’s the best person I know.”

David held up his hands. “Fine. I’m just saying, you haven’t exactly acted like a man in love.”

“There are only two people I care about in this world,” Ham said. “Mutale… and my brother Shem. Maybe Japheth too, but we don’t really talk. He probably doesn’t know I care.”

David nodded slowly. “So what’s the real issue?”

Ham sighed. “I don’t think I’m ready for this. And I feel like I dragged her into something she didn’t ask for.”

David shrugged. “Then say the word. Quick divorce. I’ll arrange it before lunch.”

“It’s not that easy.”

“You’re wrong,” David said. “It’s easier than you think.”

Ham gave him a weary look. “You people think this is some Netflix series. I like her. I don’t want to hurt her.”

“Then marry her properly. Buy her a ring that wasn’t panic-ordered. Stop ghosting her and act like a husband.”

“I just…” Ham trailed off, rubbing his eyes. “I don’t know if I am what she needs.”

David picked up the bouquet of white roses from the counter and handed them to Ham. “You need Jesus.”

Ham laughed. “You? Preaching now?”

David grinned. “I didn’t say Jesus, Jesus. I meant something, anything. Because right now, your head’s not in the game. And we’ve got Manchester United to win.”

Ham stood there, flowers in one hand, his mind heavy.

The clock ticked toward Heathrow.Time was up and he needed to be ready.

————————————————————————————————————

 MUTALE

Mutale stepped off the plane into the cool, crisp London air that rushed through the jet bridge. Inside the terminal, a British Airways representative in a tailored navy suit waited with her name on a discreet card.

“Welcome to London, Mrs Mwansa,” he said smoothly, taking her carry-on.

He guided her through the fast-track lane at immigration, bypassing the long queues. Within minutes, her passport was stamped, and they were gliding toward the private baggage collection area.

She kept her expression calm, as though this was normal for her. But inside, she couldn’t ignore it, this was first-class treatment in every sense. Not just wealth. Ham’s wealth. She was spending his money despite the ridicule of the situation.

Even now, she was still replaying the message he had sent when she boarded the flight:

“Do you have the test results of the pregnancy?”

It wasn’t the question itself that stung. It was the fact that it was the only thing he had asked in a week. No “How are you?” No “Are you scared?” No “I miss you.”

Just a clinical stab into her womb.

She told herself not to cry. Not here. Not now. She adjusted her handbag, lifted her chin, and walked with quiet grace through the private corridor.

Outside, two figures waited behind tinted glass. The SUV looked like something used to transport presidents or drug lords.

The driver opened the door.

David stepped out first, beaming like they were old friends. He wore his usual: slim-fit wool blazer and turtleneck. His voice rolled with that sharp British polish she had grown used to over WhatsApp video calls.

“There she is,” he said. “The woman we’ve been prepping London for.”

Mutale smiled, genuinely. “David.”

He gave her a brief hug. “You look amazing. Ham is here too. She swallowed.

Then she saw him.

Ham stepped out of the SUV, his six-foot-something frame unmissable even among tall people. Black hoodie, joggers that clung to thighs carved from discipline, and those ridiculous white trainers he always bought five pairs of.

He looked tired. He had probably just finished another round of overtraining.

And still, he was heartbreakingly handsome.

She blinked once. Then again. Her breath caught.

He walked toward her, carrying a bouquet of white roses.

“I know,” he said before she could speak. “This is awkward.”

She accepted the flowers. “I wasn’t expecting to see you.”

“Where else would I be?” he said softly. “You’re my wife.”

She raised an eyebrow. “You say that like you believe it.”

They stood facing each other, unsure how close was too close.

Eventually, he leaned in and hugged her. She stiffened at first, then slowly let herself lean into him, briefly.

David cleared his throat. “Shall we?” he asked, already opening the door again.

The car ride was quiet.

London passed in clean lines and dripping skies. The driver weaved through traffic with silent precision. Mutale kept her hands in her lap, eyes flicking between the wet windows and the man beside her.

Ham said nothing, and she didn’t ask.

Instead, under her breath, she whispered a prayer only God could hear.

“Help us. Help me not ruin this. Help him remember who I am to him.”

They turned into a private road, past hedges so perfectly trimmed they looked artificial. The mansion loomed at the end like a European fortress, all grey stone and long glass.

When the car stopped, Ham stepped out first and offered her a hand. She took it.

She looked up at the building and blinked. “This is your house?”

“No,” he said, meeting her gaze. “It’s ours.”

But as she stepped through the massive doors into cold marble and polished silence, she couldn’t help the thought that rose in her chest:

It didn’t feel like hers.

Not yet.

Maybe not ever.

Ham couldn’t stop staring at her.

As Mutale walked quietly ahead of him into the house, trailing the faint scent of vanilla and rose water, her usual fragrance, the one that always lingered in his car long after she drops, he felt something inside him unravel. She looked like light: skin the color of clean cream, untouched by effort, her face bare except for a stroke of lip gloss. No filters. No concealer. Just her.

She didn’t even try. That was the part that wrecked him the most.

She wasn’t loud. She wasn’t “styled.” She wasn’t a show.

And yet, she stunned him speechless.

Now he remembered.

Why he had lost his mind. Why he had kissed her after dinner that night when he was trying not to grieve. Why he had whispered he would marry her when she wept into his chest about the baby. Why, despite everything else, he had never really stopped needing her.

She wasn’t like Zainab or any of the other girls who lingered after games, who wore their ambition like perfume. Mutale wasn’t looking for a way in.

She was already inside.

And now, she was in his house, carrying a small duffel, wearing flats, eyes darting across the marbled floor and grand staircases like someone dropped in the wrong movie.

The housekeeper had already taken her bag upstairs. She followed her, slow and silent. Ham wanted to stop her, wanted to apologize again for the stupid message about the pregnancy test, wanted to hold her face and say, you’re not like the others. You never were.

But the words choked in his throat.

Then he froze.

He smelled it before he heard it.

Zainab’s perfume. Expensive, thick, citrusy, and unmistakable.

He clenched his jaw.

No. No. No. No.

She had come here? He had told her never to come back. He had even blocked her line this morning. And now—

“Ham?” Zainab’s voice cut across the hallway, playful and slow like syrup. “Is that you? I heard the car. You left me hanging the other night, baby. We’re not done.”

Ham’s stomach dropped.

Mutale froze at the foot of the stairs.

David, ever the fixer, moved fast. “Let me handle it,” he muttered, already halfway up the staircase.

But it was too late.

Zainab appeared at the top of the landing, barefoot, legs long, hair tied up. She was wearing black lingerie, like she belonged there.

The silence was thick.

Mutale turned slowly to Ham, her eyes glassy and still.

“The girlfriend?” she said, calm but cutting.

Ham swallowed hard. “It’s not… Mutale, it’s not what it looks like…”

Zainab leaned over the banister. “Who is this?” she said. “Are you cheating on me, Ham?”

Ham’s chest heaved. “Zainab, shut up. What are you even still doing here?”

Zainab stepped back, confused and annoyed. “What do you mean, what am I doing here? You told me to come the other night—”

David reached her just in time, hand on her back, gently steering her toward the guest room. “Let’s talk inside,” he whispered.

“Talk about what exactly?” she shot back, her voice rising. “Is this guy serious? Are you serious, Ham?”

“I have nothing to do with her,” Ham turned to Mutale, desperate. “I swear to you, it’s over. She just, she just showed up.”

Mutale’s face remained still. But her eyes were wet. She blinked them clear.

“You don’t even have the decency to clean up your act before I arrive?” she said quietly. “On the day I enter your house?”

“It’s not like that,”

“I heard her voice the other night, Ham. She was in your room. Do you think I’m stupid?”

“I, yes, she was. But we didn’t, she’s from the past. She means nothing to me.”

“Save it,” Mutale said flatly. “Save it for someone who believes you. Please show me to the guest room.”

“Mutale,”

“I said what I said.”

He reached for her, but she stepped back.

Down the hallway, Zainab reappeared, fully dressed now, a handbag on her shoulder. She waved her phone in the air. “I’m calling a cab. I’m done with this drama.”

David followed after her. “Wait, let me arrange one for you—”

She cut him off. “Save it, David. Just get me out of here.”

Then she turned to Mutale. “Good luck, sweetheart. He’s all yours.”

Mutale didn’t flinch. She just looked at Ham one more time.

“This is worse than I imagined. I can’t stay here. I am leaving.”

She walked out of the house.

Ham followed, but David intercepted him at the door. “No. Don’t.”

“Are you mad? I have to—”

“You have a game tomorrow night. Manchester United. Your team is expecting you in an hour.”

“That’s my wife,” Ham snapped.

“And your career matters too. You don’t want the coach to doubt your seriousness. Let me handle this.”

Ham exhaled through his teeth, pacing. “She’ll never believe me if I just hop and leave.”

David sighed.

“I want to explain. I have to” Ham insisted.

“You’re due at Stamford Bridge in an hour. Go. I’ll handle her.”

Ham nodded. “I don’t care, I am going after her.”

Ham caught up with her just as she stepped onto the curb. The soft wheeze of traffic in the posh Chelsea neighborhood was a muted backdrop to the roar inside his chest.

She was crying. The tears rolled down without drama.

“Mutale,” he called gently. “Please, wait. I’m sorry. It’s not what it seems.”

She didn’t turn. Just stared at the quiet street.

“I don’t get it,” she said. “I know you’re busy. I know you’re under pressure. But you still had time for someone else?”

Ham dragged a hand over his face. “I had a life before this… before you and I, before all of this. I promise you, I’m not fooling around. I haven’t touched her since I married you.”

“She is your girlfriend?”

“No. She was never really anything. Someone I fooled around with before Zambia. A body girl. But it meant nothing. I swear.”

“But I heard her,” Mutale said, eyes flashing. “Just this week. In your room.”

He flinched. “Yes. I confess. I called her. In a moment of weakness. I was confused. I was stupid. But I didn’t… I didn’t touch her. I haven’t lied to you, Mutale.”

She let that hang.

“Okay,” she said quietly. “You didn’t touch her, but you called her, while I was calling you and you didn’t pick up. You called someone else instead.”

Ham’s shoulders sagged. “I’m trying to adjust to this. The marriage, the pressure of the game, the guilt. I don’t know what I’m doing most days.”

“I don’t have to be a burden to you,” she said. Her voice was soft but sharp-edged. “We can end this, Ham. Let’s do our research. Find out how to annul it or dissolve it. Let’s not drag this.”

“Let’s not rush either,” he said quickly.

“Oh, but let’s do it eventually?” she shot back. “So what’s the point of wasting time?”

He stepped closer. “Please. Come back with me.”

“Why?” she said, lifting her head. “David already told me you have to be at Stamford Bridge today, that you won’t even be sleeping home tonight. That’s why I didn’t expect you at the airport.”

“Why would I not come?” he said. “You’re the most important person in the world to me, Mutale. Beyond marriage, beyond all this, you’re my person.”

She shook her head. “There you go again. Sweet words. You’ve always had those, Ham. That mouth of yours. But not this time. I’m not interested in your rubbish, you are too spoiled.”

He chuckled bitterly. “Spoiled, huh?”

“Completely,” she snapped.

“And weren’t you part of the problem?” he asked. “Doing all my chores growing up. Letting me skip kitchen duties. You practically raised me.”

“I’m not going to let you downplay your nonsense,” she said, snatching the duffel bag closer.

“Please,” he said, stepping in front of her again. “Come inside. I swear, there is no other woman. Since I married you, I haven’t touched anyone.”

“Oh, fantastic,” she muttered. “You want a trophy for doing what you’re supposed to?”

He sighed. “Maybe not. But you know me. I’m not the type to go without. And I have. Since the last time I saw you.”

“That’s your standard?” she said, glaring. “You want applause for not cheating physically? You think that wipes out the fact that you ghosted me, and considered another woman?”

“I have a game tomorrow,” he said quietly. “I need my head in the game. I’m not asking you to forget this. I just… Please, let’s talk after. After United.”

Mutale stared at him for a long beat.

Then she said flatly, “I’ll go back in. Take me to a room that is not yours, one of your guest rooms, and disappear. I don’t want to see you until after your game.”

Ham nodded slowly. “At least… you’ll be safe here. Thank you.”

She didn’t respond, she just walked ahead of him, and Ham followed behind her, his steps heavy, his heart heavier.