HAM

Ham stayed in the shower until the steam blurred the tiles and the roar of the water drowned out everything else, the noise in his head, the hum of the dressing room beyond.

When he finally stepped out, he dressed without hurry: grey joggers, a soft hoodie, gym bag slung over one shoulder. His mind was already halfway home.

He was almost at the exit when Henry appeared in the corridor. “A few of us are heading to Priority Club,” Henry said, leaning casually against the wall. “To decompress. You in?”

Ham shook his head. “Nah. I’m heading home.”

Henry’s smirk was knowing. “To the wife?”

Ham gave a noncommittal nod.

“Alright then,” Henry said, clapping him on the back before strolling away. “You know where to find us, just in case.”

Ham adjusted his bag and kept walking. Home didn’t exactly promise peace, but it was the only place he wanted to be.

David was waiting near the backdoor, hands in his coat pockets, eyes sharp.

“I don’t like this,” he said as Ham approached.

Ham exhaled. “It’s one game.”

“No. It’s this game. And the one before. You’re slipping.”

Ham narrowed his eyes. “You’re overthinking it.”

David stepped closer. “I’m watching your edge dull, Ham. You’re slower. Less clinical. And that marriage…”

Ham snapped, “Don’t bring up Mutale.”

David didn’t back down. “She’s affecting you, whether you admit it or not.”

“I swear,” Ham said, voice low, “if you ever talk about her like she’s a mistake again…”

David raised his hands. “I’m just saying what everyone’s thinking. Your head is not in the game.”

Ham’s voice trembled with frustration. “You think you care more about my life than I do? No. You care about how this affects you. Your reputation. Your bonus. Your access.”

“You really believe that?” David’s voice cracked.

“Yes. And I need you to back off.”

Ham brushed past him, chest tight.

David didn’t follow.

Ham walked on, headphones in hand, into the chilly London night.

Today’s match was over, but the real battle, for his form, his marriage, and his future, was just beginning.

MUTALE

Mutale had been pacing.

It had been two hours since the match ended, and her chest still felt tight.

She wasn’t on the pitch, she hadn’t worn a jersey, but somehow, the loss had hit her too. Maybe because she’d seen how hard Ham had been training. Maybe because she hated the look on his face in that final close-up on the screen, blank, but not unreadable.

He was disappointed.

And she wished she had been there, close enough to let him know that one game didn’t make him a failure. 

She didn’t expect him to come home. He hadn’t the last time, after that match, the one where he’d scored, he hadn’t even texted, so she assumed this would be the same.

She dressed to go out, jeans, a green sweater tucked in neatly, gold hoops, a touch of lip gloss. Her braids were pulled into a half bun, a few strands falling to frame her face.

She slung her small brown purse across her shoulder, opened the door—

And froze.

He was standing there. Key still in the lock.

Ham.

Mutale stepped back instinctively. “You came home.”

He looked tired. 

“You were going somewhere?” he asked, voice quiet.

“Just dinner,” she said. “I didn’t think you’d come.”

He stepped in and closed the door. “Were you hoping I wouldn’t?”

Mutale frowned. “No. Of course not. I… I just didn’t expect it. I thought you’d want space.”

Ham took a long breath. “Do you want space?”

“Ham…”

He looked at her again. Something in his face cracked. “I’m not okay.”

“I know.”

“I need to hug you.”

That made her blush. She stepped forward and opened her arms. “Then come here.”

He didn’t hesitate. Just stepped into her, like water seeking its level.

His head rested against her shoulder, arms wrapped around her waist. He breathed her in.

“Your heart is racing,” she whispered.

“I know.”

“What’s going on?”

“I don’t know what I’m doing anymore,” he said. “On the field. Off the field. Everything feels blurry.”

“You’re still the same player. You just had a hard night.”

“No. It’s more than that. I feel like I’m slipping. Like the world’s watching and I’m giving them exactly what they want, a fall.”

She rubbed his back slowly. “You’re not falling. You’re just… human.”

He was quiet for a beat.

Then he murmured, “Can we not talk right now? Just… come with me. Let’s go to the room.”

She hesitated. “That’s not always the best way to deal, Ham.”

“I’m not trying to deal,” he said. “I’m trying to feel okay, even if it’s temporary. Come and help me shower.” 

“You showered at the stadium, didn’t you?”

He didn’t reply.

“You’re not going to freshen up. You’re trying to escape.”

He leaned back, just enough to look at her. “Is that so wrong?”

“No. It’s just… not enough.”

He touched her waist, then her cheek. “We got married to try again. To do things differently. Isn’t that what we said?”

“Yes,” she whispered. “But not just with sex. That can’t be the glue.”

“I haven’t touched anyone else since we got married,” he said. “If that’s what this is about,”

“It’s not,” she said, firm but gentle. “I believe you. I do. But this… I don’t want us to use each other as a hiding place.”

His hand lingered on her waist, then dropped.

He stepped back, eyes dimmed.

“Okay,” he said. “I get it.”

She watched him, unsure if he was angry or just tired.

“Where are you going?” she asked.

“To the room.”

“Ham…”

“I’m fine,” he said, already walking away.

She stood by the door for a moment longer, her hand still on her bag.

Then she let it slide off her shoulder.

She wasn’t going out anymore, but she couldn’t go after him either.

Sex won’t fix us.

LUSAKA, ZAMBIA 

Japheth was having a late dinner, slowly pushing pieces of yam around his plate. The egg sauce had gone lukewarm, but he didn’t seem to mind.

Kaweme had eaten earlier, yet she wandered into the dining room to join him. She leaned against the doorframe, arms folded, watching him in that quiet way of hers.

“Why is it,” she asked, “that you can’t eat while watching your brother play?”

He looked up briefly, then back at his plate. “Because for me, it’s not entertainment. When Ham is on the field, I’m there with him. I feel every kick. I want him to win,  always.”

Kaweme came closer. “But I don’t get it. You love him so much, you never miss any of his matches. And if you can’t bring yourself to watch live, you’re glued to your phone, tracking every update. You even keep a record of his wins and losses.” She tilted her head. “Yet… you don’t talk to him. He didn’t even come to our wedding. He’s a brother who clearly doesn’t like you, and you two have no relationship. I’m happy you care for him, but this,” she gestured between them “this can’t go on. Why not just reach out?”

Japheth sighed, the kind of sigh that seemed to carry years of frustration. He toyed with the yam, breaking it into smaller pieces.

“I actually want to,” he admitted. “The Spirit of God has been ministering to me these past few days, strongly, that I should call Ham, but I’m afraid of embarrassment. I’m afraid of rejection. What do I even say to him? This boy hasn’t spoken to me since he was ten. He makes it a point to avoid me whenever I show up. The closest we’ve had to a conversation was at the burial… and even then, he slipped away with Mutale at the first chance.”

He gave a dry laugh. “Now God is saying he needs me. Need me… how? Ham is richer than anyone his age I’ve ever met. He’s fine. And now he’s married to Mutale, sweet girl.”

Kaweme rested her palm on the back of his chair. “Everything isn’t about money or being married to the right person,” she said softly.

Japheth met her eyes. “The way this last match played out…” He trailed off, remembering the loss, the strange heaviness in Ham’s posture. “It pulls me closer to him somehow. I wonder if he’s going through something.”

“Just because a person loses one match doesn’t mean they’re falling apart,” Kaweme said gently.

“Yes,” Japheth murmured, “but there’s a way he’s playing. It’s different. I’m worried.”

“Then call him.”

He shook his head. “No. I’ll message him instead… tell him to call me when he’s ready.”

Kaweme circled around the table until she stood beside him. “My dear husband,” she whispered, leaning down to brush a kiss against his cheek, then his lips.

They were close enough to share breath now. She slid her arms around his shoulders. “Call your brother.”

Japheth exhaled, the resistance in him loosening just a little. He drew her closer, lifting her onto his lap, his head finding a home against her chest. He didn’t answer right away, just sat there, listening to the steady beat of her heart.

MUTALE

When Mutale entered her room, she sat on the edge of the bed, her fingers loosely clasped in her lap. The silence pressed in, and her eyes wandered over the neatly folded clothes, the dim light pooling in the corners, the untouched glass of water on the nightstand.

What am I doing? she thought. This man has just had a bad night, and he came home to me. Isn’t this what I’ve been praying for? He’s my husband. Why am I denying him?

Her chest ached at the thought. She whispered under her breath, “Oh God, please forgive me.”

Sliding to her knees, she clasped her hands and began to sing softly, her voice trembling with the weight in her heart. After a few verses, her song melted into prayer. “Lord, please help us. Help me. Show me what to do. Heal whatever is hurting him, and fix whatever is broken between us.”

When she finally sat back on the bed, a verse rose unbidden in her mind:

‘Do not arouse or awaken love until it so desires.’ – Song of Solomon 8:4

She frowned. “No… I’m going to him,” she murmured, standing up.

But then, clear, like a whisper brushing her spirit, she heard, 

Not yet. Leave him for me.

Mutale froze. “Eh? Am I hearing you clearly? But he’s my husband. He reached out to me for comfort.”

Again, the still, steady voice: 

Not yet.

She shook her head. “But this is contrary to the Word of God. My husband should be able to…” She stopped, another fragment from Song of Solomon stirring in her memory, how the bride hesitated, how timing mattered.

Her resolve hardened. “I have to go to him,” she said, stepping into the hallway.

The voice came again, 

Go back.

Her steps slowed, but she pressed on. At his door, she placed her palm against it, ready to knock.

Go back.

She gripped the doorknob, heart beating fast.

Not yet.

Still, she knocked, three quick raps. From inside, music thudded against the walls, so loud he likely didn’t hear. She tried the handle, but it was locked.

Mutale… go back.

She stood there for a long moment, hand lingering on the knob. Finally, she whispered, “Okay, Lord. Whatever it is You’re doing… I don’t know. I don’t understand. But I’ll trust You.”

The voice came once more, gentle but firm: Go back and pray.

She sighed, stepping away from the door. Turning back toward her room, she let the dim light of the hallway guide her as she walked, slowly, quietly, back to her knees.

LUSAKA, ZAMBIA

Shem stepped out of the small barbershop, brushing the fine hair clippings off his neck. The cool night air in Lusaka wrapped around him, laced with the faint smell of rain. He had chosen night duty at the clinic instead of dinner with Malaika, not because he didn’t want to see her, God knew he did, but because lately, his thoughts had been too loud, too distracted.

He wanted her too much, and he hated that his mind kept drifting there.

As he walked down the dimly lit street, hands buried in his pockets, he whispered under his breath,

“Lord, help me. Please keep my eyes, my heart, and my body under Your control. I don’t want to be ruled by my flesh. I want to honour You, and I want to honour her. Help me to keep this desire in its place. Help me to wait.”

His voice was low, almost blending into the hum of the city, but his heart pressed urgently against heaven.

Rounding the corner by a block of small shops, he caught the sound of laughter, two young men leaning against a kiosk, talking in animated tones. He heard the words “Chelsea… Arsenal…” and his steps slowed.

He turned to them.

“Sorry, please, what’s the score?”

One of them grinned. “Arsenal won. One–nil.”

The words felt like a slap. His chest tightened. “Oh no… Ham,” he muttered.

His first instinct was to call immediately, but as he pulled out his phone, a thought rose in his spirit, gentle, but firm. Pray for him first.

Shem stood still on the pavement. He slipped his phone back into his pocket, closed his eyes, and began to speak under his breath again.

“Father, whatever is troubling Ham, whatever is weighing on him tonight, please take control. Comfort him. Give him strength. Don’t let this loss break his spirit. Visit him, Lord, in a way that only You can. In Jesus’ name.”

When he finished, he pulled out his phone again, thumb hovering over Ham’s name.

Not yet.

The whisper was clear, like it had been the whole week.

Shem frowned. “Not yet? Lord, You’ve been telling me to talk to him, and now You’re saying not yet?”

He tried again. 

Not yet.

He exhaled sharply. “Alright, Lord… whatever You’re doing, perfect it. But please… don’t leave him alone. If I can’t call him, it means You’re calling him Yourself. Please, reach my brother.”

Before he could dwell on it, his phone rang. Malaika.

He smiled faintly and answered.

“Shem, I’m not happy,” she began without preamble. “How can you just cancel tonight like it’s nothing?”

He chuckled. “Babe, it’s not nothing. It’s not easy for me either. I just… I’m trying to control myself.”

“Control yourself? How?”

“Don’t worry,” he said softly. “It’s just for tonight. I’ll see you tomorrow, I promise. I’m taking you to that place you love.”

“You are sure you’re not already tired of me?”

He laughed. “I’m not tired of you, Malaika. I like you too much for that.”

Her voice softened. “Okay. So, when are you picking me up?”

“I’ll let you know once I confirm my schedule.”

“Alright… let me get back to my music. I’m mixing a sound for you.”

“I can’t wait to hear it,” Shem said, smiling.

“I love you, Shem.”

“I love you right back.”

When the call ended, he stood there for a moment, staring at the night sky.

“Thank You, Lord, for Malaika,” he whispered. “She’s… sunshine to me.”

Then his thoughts shifted again. “Lord… let Ham and Mutale find joy in each other. I know they started on the wrong foundation, but please, You can rebuild it. Give them joy.”

He reached for his phone one last time. Again, he heard it, 

Not yet.

He sighed, then typed a short message instead:

Dear brother, my heart is with you. Sorry about the game tonight. You’ll win next time. I love you, and you are in my prayers.

He hit send, pocketed his phone, and kept walking, still praying for him.