HAM

Ham didn’t know where he was when he woke up the next morning. His head pounded like a drumline in his skull. The sunlight was too bright. He blinked hard, and saw David, standing by the window, arms folded.

“Where’s Mutale?” Ham croaked. “I can’t remember waking up without her in the last few days.”

David hesitated, then, “Sorry, mate, but I have bad news.”

Ham pushed himself upright. “Bad news? What’s wrong with my wife?” The movement sent pain shooting through his skull.

David held out a glass. “Drink this. Best hangover cure you’ll get.”

“I’d rather have the headache. Where’s Mutale?”

“Ham…”

He was already on his feet, ignoring the way the floor seemed to tilt. “Why am I even asking you?” He stumbled toward her room. The bed was perfectly made. No suitcase. No shoes. No Mutale.

The kitchen was empty. The living room was empty.

“Ham, listen,” David started.

“Where did she go?”

David lifted a folded sheet of paper. “You need to read this first.”

Ham snatched it, scanned the words, and felt the air leave his lungs. “Oh my God… she thinks…. She got the wrong message last night.”

“No,” David said carefully. “She got a clear message. A taste of your world,  and she’s decided she doesn’t want it.”

“You read the letter?”

“It’s my job to read things that could break you. I need you to be steady.”

“Well, I am not steady. Book me a flight. I’m going to Zambia.”

“Slow down,” David said. “Don’t make a rash decision over…”

“Over a mistake?” Ham cut in, his voice rising. “Mutale is not a mistake. My wife walks out on me and you expect me to stay here when I can actually go after her? It’s off-season. Nothing’s keeping me in London.”

“That’s where you’re wrong.” David’s tone hardened. “Real Madrid called. The offer is now massive. You need to decide now. And with nothing keeping you at Chelsea…”

“What do you mean nothing? I just qualified them for the Champions League. London loves me. And my wife—”

“You cannot drag her to Spain, right?” David asked flatly. “Yes I agree. Stay in London, get a bigger cut from Chelsea, but don’t do it because of her. She doesn’t understand the world of elite football, and will certainly not last with you. You’d be throwing away a career people kill for.”

Ham’s face darkened. “Get out of my house.”

“Ham!”

“I said, get out. You threw that stupid party. And now I’ve lost the most important thing in my life.”

“The most important thing in your life is football,” David shot back.

“No,” Ham said, voice low but lethal. “The most important thing in my life is Mutale’s love. Football has always come second. I love that girl.”

David stared at him, something soft flickering in his eyes. “I didn’t know.”

“Now you know.”

“What about Madrid?”

Ham’s jaw clenched. “I don’t know. Right now, I just need to get to Mutale.”

DAVID

David had always known Mutale was different.

She wasn’t just another pretty distraction on Ham’s arm, she had a quiet strength, but he’d never imagined she could become this dangerous to his plans, with the kind of pull that could make a man turn his back on the game, the glory, and the gold. 

And here was Ham, pacing the kitchen barefoot, hair disheveled, muttering her name like a man under a spell.

David’s gut tightened. 

This is not good.

While Ham rummaged through the living room like he might find her hiding behind the flower pot, David drifted silently toward the study. His steps were deliberately soundless. In seconds, he was at the desk. He opened the drawer, reached beneath a stack of bank papers, and found what he was looking for, the slim navy booklet embossed with a gold crest.

Ham’s international passport.

David turned it over in his hands for half a second, then slid it into the inner pocket of his blazer. Against his chest, it felt like holding the final piece of a chess game he was about to win, because without this, Ham wasn’t leaving London for Mutale.

He knew exactly how to play this. He’d keep Madrid dangling, just long enough for Chelsea to panic. When they did, they’d throw money at the problem, big money, possibly more than Madrid and certainly more than Ham could walk away from. And with Ham’s love for London, it would be easy to convince him to stay.

Real Madrid would become a bargaining chip, not a destination.

Uprooting to Spain? No. David had his life here, his flat, his routines, his network. All of it built around being Ham’s manager in the heart of the Premier League.

He wasn’t about to trade that for sangria and siestas just because some girl from Africa had caught Ham’s eye.

This wasn’t personal. It was business.

And business was war.

One Month Later – Ham

Ham had never known a month could feel this long.

In the beginning, he’d called Mutale every day, trying to explain, trying to apologise for the night that had spiralled out of control. At first, she would answer, staying calm but distant, telling him they didn’t belong in the same world, that she was tired of pretending she could live in his, and couldn’t “put up with this” for the rest of her life.

Then she stopped picking the calls.

One morning, a divorce letter slid into his inbox like a slap. He’d sent her a message instantly: 

I’m not giving up on us that easily. 

But even as he typed it, he knew how hollow it sounded when he couldn’t even get on a plane to find her.

“If you wanted me that bad,” she’d said in their last conversation, “you’d be here. The fact that you’re still in London tells me everything I need to know.”

“I can’t find my passport,” he’d told her.

She’d laughed, telling him to invent a better lie.

It wasn’t a lie. Somewhere between that cursed party and the morning after, his passport had vanished, and with it, every visa he needed to connect with the world. Even if he got a new one, he’d be starting from scratch.

So he’d stayed back to look for it, and  stayed sober, because the night she left was the night he saw the worst version of himself. He swore he’d never drink like that again, and not drinking made him see things he wanted to ignore clearer.

The pattern was clear, his mother had left, Japheth had left, and now Mutale had left. Maybe he was simply unlikable. Maybe nobody stayed.

His therapist didn’t buy that. “You’re blocking everyone out,” she’d said, “but connection is part of healing.”

She told him to call Japheth. He didn’t want to, in fact he blocked Japheth and Shem two weeks ago to avoid their constant check-ins. He even blocked Mutale too, because in his mind, if she couldn’t reach him, she couldn’t divorce him. Twisted logic, but it was something.

David was the only one who hadn’t left. David, and the Madrid deal.

Madrid had offered a monster package: €12 million a year, plus bonuses. Chelsea had matched it and added a loyalty bonus on top, which is extremely rare. It is indeed a bold statement of trust. David wanted him to sign before Madrid walked away, because if Madrid was out, Chelsea could slash the offer. On paper, it made sense to decide now.

But Ham couldn’t think about Madrid or Chelsea. The only decision he could make today was to call Japheth.

He unblocked him and dialled, not even knowing what to say. Japheth picked up on the second ring.

“Hi, Ham.”

“Hi, Japheth.”

“Wow,” Japheth said with a smile in his voice. “Today is a beautiful day.”

“I don’t know what today is,” Ham muttered, “but I’m tired of nursing people leaving me. So I’m calling you.”

“I’m not leaving you,” Japheth said softly. “I never left you. You’ll always be the brother I love.”

“I’m your step-brother. There’s no obligation.”

“I don’t see you as my step-anything. You’re just my brother. That’s all that matters.”

Ham swallowed hard. “I’m losing my mind. Mutale has left me. I want her back. Can you help?”

“I’ll call her,” Japheth said. “Hear her side. But Ham… I think what you need right now isn’t just your wife. You need Jesus.”

Ham groaned. “Here you go again, tormenting me with this Jesus talk.”

“Because He’s the answer to every problem. Letting Him in is letting peace in.”

“You know what?” Ham said, voice flat. “Sorry I called.” He hung up before Japheth could reply. He needed someone that understood him, and wasn’t trying to change him.

David had never left him. David wanted the best for him. Maybe being around someone who actually liked him would help.

He grabbed his keys and drove to David’s house.

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

ZAMBIA – MUTALE

Mutale had been back for a month, yet it still didn’t feel like she’d truly come home. She slipped quietly into her old routine, avoiding the awkward explanations. Everyone at the NGO had seen her pack her bags and leave for London; announcing her return felt like admitting defeat. Only Glory knew, the new CEO she’d appointed to run the foundation in her absence, and one of her closest friends.

That morning, Mutale had enlisted Glory to help her decorate the garden at the park. Today was a special day, Shem was going to propose to Malaika. Mutale’s own love life might be lying in shambles, but if anyone deserved a love that was sure and true, it was Shem. And Malaika adored him.

They worked side by side under the soft sun, hanging fairy lights between tree branches, tying ribbons to benches, and arranging small bouquets of white and yellow flowers along the walkway. Volunteers moved about carrying boxes, and somewhere in the distance, a Bluetooth speaker hummed faint background music. Kaweme was in charge of bringing Malaika to the park later, just in time for the surprise.

Mutale sneezed. It was sharp and sudden.

Glory glanced up from a vase she was filling. “Again?”

“That’s the second time today,” Mutale muttered, rubbing her nose. “First it was this morning after I sprayed my perfume. Then, when you arrived and I caught the wave of yours, I sneezed again.”

“Maybe it’s this diffuser,” Glory said, pointing at a glass bottle set on the garden table.

“Could be,” Mutale replied. “Anytime I smell a strong fragrance, my nose goes crazy. It’s never been this bad since…” She hesitated, her voice dropping. “Since I was pregnant.”

Glory’s eyes narrowed. “You can’t be pregnant, right? You told me you hadn’t… you know… with him.”

Mutale’s cheeks warmed. “It might have happened. Once or twice. In London.”

“I thought you said it was all bad.”

“It was,” Mutale sighed. “Mostly. But there was… a break from the bad.”

Glory gave her a knowing look. “You like this man. Why not try to make it work? You know what footballers’ lives are like—”

“I miss him,” Mutale interrupted, almost whispering. “I love him. Being around him in London only made me realise it but I can’t tie myself to that life. What does light have to do with darkness?”

“He’s not darkness,” Glory said gently. “He just needs Jesus. And you’re his wife. If you love him, maybe you’re meant to help him.”

Mutale shook her head. “I shouldn’t have been married to him. Sin brought me to his doorstep.”

“I don’t agree,” Glory replied firmly. “Yes, you sinned, and I’m sorry for that, but you’ve always been at his doorstep. You two were meant for each other. You just got there faster because of… what happened, but you can’t just abandon him.”

Mutale bit her lip. “I’m worried about myself. I don’t know what to do.”

Someone nearby sprayed the diffuser again. Mutale sneezed hard.

“When last did you see your period?” Glory asked casually.

Mutale hesitated. “I… missed it.”

Glory’s eyebrows shot up. “You’re pregnant.”

“I am not,” Mutale said quickly. “I’ve missed it before and it came later. It doesn’t mean anything. It was just a brief encounter.”

Glory crossed her arms. “The first time you ever… with him, you got pregnant. What if it happened again?”

Mutale gave her a mock glare. “Mind yourself.”

Overhead, the light began to shift. Clouds thickened, muting the gold of the afternoon sun.

They kept working, but Mutale’s eyes flicked to the sky again and again. The breeze picked up, rattling the ribbons. A low grumble of thunder rolled in the distance.

And then, without warning, the sky split open. Rain poured down in great sheets, drenching the fairy lights, soaking the bouquets, flattening the ribbons against the wet benches.

“Ah! My God!” Glory yelped as they scrambled for cover. Volunteers grabbed boxes and plastic wraps, but it was useless. Within minutes, the garden looked like the aftermath of a storm in a romance film, beautiful but ruined.

Mutale shook the water from her arms. “What kind of bad luck is this?”

Her phone rang. It was Shem.

“We just got to the park,” he said, voice strained. “We’re drenched. Walking towards you now. Please abort mission, we’ll have to postpone.”

“I’m so sorry,” Mutale said.

“It’s okay,” Shem replied, though she could hear the disappointment. “At the right time, we’ll do it. Next time, no outdoor parks.”

Mutale hung up, her heart sinking for him. She and Glory helped pack the last of the soggy decorations into the car.

As she settled into the passenger seat, the rain drumming hard on the roof, she whispered under her breath, God, please… let me not be pregnant.