Two months later

The ache didn’t lessen by the day, instead she was going through the different stages of grief. Some days were easier than others. Today was one of the very hard days.

Kaweme sat quietly at the front row of the auditorium, holding her little brother’s hand as though her grip alone could keep him from disappearing too. His fingers were damp, clutched tightly in hers. His legs bounced every few seconds. At random intervals, he sniffled.

She didn’t flinch.

The tributes had begun, one voice after another, rising and falling like waves against rock. People stood behind the wooden lectern and said beautiful, impossible things.

“Obadiah Muntanga was a man of integrity.”

“Grace Muntanga gave her life to the community.”

“Musonda lit up every room she walked into…”

Past tense was cruel.

If not for her brother beside her, she would have walked out. But Kalo needed a pillar.

And so did she.

The crying, the loud wailing, she was done with all that now. Not because the grief had softened. But because it had gotten deeper. Quieter. Private.

Now she cried at night, buried under blankets, tears falling into her pillow as if they too were hiding from the world.

Beside her, Malaika squeezed her free hand. Her oldest friend. The one who refused to give generic condolences. The one who came and stayed.

“I’m here,” she whispered, barely audible over the speaker system.

Kaweme didn’t look at her. Just nodded. Malaika had already done enough. If not for her, she would have completely fallen apart.

Kaweme scanned the auditorium, diplomats, senators, CEOs, even musicians. All in one room. All there for her father. All saying they would be there for her. She wanted to believe them.

But when your father was the richest man in the country, how did you separate sympathy from strategy?

She shifted her eyes slightly and caught a figure near the back: Japheth.

He was hugging Luyando, a hand on his friend’s shoulder, saying something Kaweme couldn’t hear. He looked solid. Gentle. Quietly present in a way that didn’t ask for attention.

She swallowed.

She hadn’t seen him properly since the week after the crash. And even then, only from a distance. He came to visit Luyando sometimes. Always in the garden. Never inside. She saw him once through the kitchen window, laughing faintly at something Luyando said.

She’d wanted to speak to him. To say thank you for that night upstairs.

To say please, don’t disappear.

But she hadn’t.

He’d sent a few messages to her. A verse. A prayer. A single line.

She never replied, even though before this tragedy she had wanted his number, wanted him to chat her up and continue from where they left off at this resort, to fan the flame of the crush she had on him.

But that was over now.

She told herself that this wasn’t the time to build friendships. Certainly not the kind that made your heart feel like it was healing.

A deep sniffle from Kalo pulled her back.

His head was down, tears dripping into the sleeves of his small blazer. His tie was slightly crooked.

Everyone had insisted he needed this service. Closure, they said.

She wasn’t convinced, she wanted to shield him from this pain.

She bent closer to him and brushed his hair gently. He didn’t look up.

Tomorrow would be the burial.

And after that, what?

Lawyers. The reading of the will. Her father, ever dramatic, had insisted it be read that night. Who planned their will to be read after the burial?

She sighed.

She didn’t care about the will.

Didn’t care about the assets.

Didn’t want to be the heir of anything.

She just wanted her family back.

She straightened slightly and looked back again, Japheth had disappeared into the shadows. Probably stepping out with Luyando. Probably still being the quiet rock she remembered from that day.

And something deep inside her ached, again.

Luyando couldn’t sit through the tributes.

Ten minutes into the second panel, he leaned into Japheth’s ear and whispered, “I can’t do this anymore.”

Japheth nodded and gently steered him out of the hall.

They stood under a neem tree by the parking lot, away from the murmurs of grief, blinking lights, and endless eulogies.

“If you feel this way,” Japheth said, arms folded tightly, “only God knows how Kaweme’s holding up.”

“She’s not,” Luyando replied, rubbing his forehead. “She’s falling apart for sure. I don’t even know how to reach her. She barely speaks. Malaika’s been amazing, literally moved in, but she may be leaving after the burial, when a new normal will begin for Kaweme and Kalo. I don’t even want to think about it. It’s too sad.”

“Yeah,” Japheth said quietly. “Definitely too sad.”

He paused. “Do you want to go back in?”

Luyando shook his head. “Nope. Let’s just go to work. I need to distract my brain before it caves in.”

“Same.”

They got into Japheth’s car, and for the next twenty minutes, silence rode with them.

At the office, the mood was no better, quieter than usual, like the building itself was in mourning. Japheth had barely reached his desk when a message pinged his phone:

Come to my office. Now. It was from his boss, Nkandu.

He entered the glass-paneled room, already bracing himself. Nkandu was a man with a voice as smooth as smoke and a smile as sharp as a paper cut, he didn’t waste time.

“You’re slow-walking this.”

Japheth kept his face blank. “In light of all that’s happened… with the MD, I didn’t think we were still moving forward.”

Nkandu leaned forward. “Oh, we’re moving. In fact, there’s never been a better time. The clients are desperate now. We’re getting a bigger cut.”

“I’m not slow-walking anything,” Japheth said, voice steady, realising he could no longer hold this off. “I’ve made up my mind. I can’t do this.”

Nkandu arched his brow. “You’re growing a conscience now? Because the M.D. died?”

“I wasn’t going to do it either way. I was just trying to find a respectful way to tell you.”

The smile disappeared. “Respect? Do you think because people call you a genius, I can’t take you out quietly? I can make you disappear from this company so fast, you won’t even have time to explain.”

Japheth’s jaw tightened. “Then I’ll take my chances outside. But I won’t defraud this company. I’m a Christian.”

Nkandu snorted. “You were a Christian when you agreed.”

“I never agreed,” Japheth said. “I delayed, out of respect for you or maybe out of fear for what you could do to me. But let me be clear, I won’t do it. Not now. Not ever. I am ready to damn the consequences.”

Nkandu’s voice dropped. “Then consider this your last week here, and if you tell anyone about our deal, I’ll make sure your career ends in this industry. Permanently.”

Japheth said nothing. Just nodded once, turned, and walked out.

Japheth stepped out of Nkandu’s office with a blank expression, but his spirit felt scraped raw.

Luyando caught sight of him from across the room. “Bro,” he called, lowering his voice as Japheth approached. “What happened?”

Japheth paused at his desk, fiddled with his laptop bag, deciding not to add more worry to Luyando’s plate. “Nothing major. Just work.”

Luyando tilted his head. “You sure? You look like someone just slapped you.”

Japheth gave a dry chuckle. “Maybe I needed the slap.”

Silence stretched for a beat too long.

Luyando leaned in. “Is this about the bad deal? I thought you already got a promotion. You should be out of their noses already.”

Japheth nodded slowly. “It was merely a conversation, nothing official. So.”

“So what now?”

“I don’t know,” Japheth said, finally sitting. “I guess I just keep doing what I’m doing, till I can’t.”

Luyando studied him, then lowered his voice again. “You’re being weird, and not in your usual introvert-weird way. Something happened.”

Japheth didn’t answer.

“You know you can talk to me.”

“I do,” Japheth said. “That’s why I’m not.”

Luyando blinked. “That doesn’t make any sense.”

“It does,” Japheth said quietly. “If I tell you, you’ll want to fix it. Or step in. And I don’t want that.”

“Why?”

“Because I’m tired of needing rescue. I’m tired of being the boy Mr. Chanda took in. The guy who gets doors opened for him. If I stand, let it be because I stayed standing. Not because someone lifted me up.”

Luyando sighed, sat back in his chair. “Man. That’s deep. And unfair. You’ve always carried more than your share, Jaf.”

“I just made a hard decision,” Japheth said. “And I might pay for it.”

Luyando nodded slowly. “Then I’ll be here when you do. That’s what brothers do.”

Japheth looked at him. Really looked.

“Thank you.”

They both stared at their screens for a while. Then Luyando cracked his neck.

“Well,” he said, half-smiling, “if I sit in this grief one more minute, I’ll lose my mind. Let’s actually work.”

Japheth gave a small laugh. “Work might save us both.”

And just like that, they returned to the comfort of keys and code, two friends building software, while everything around them was still breaking.

A few hours later

Japheth’s phone wouldn’t stop buzzing.

He gripped the steering wheel tighter, jaw clenched, eyes locked on the driveway of the Chanda compound. Beside him, Luyando sat in silence, scrolling through his phone while the gates slowly opened.

It had been two months since Obadiah Mwansa, his wife and daughter had died in the crash, and Luyando and his mother had moved into their mansion to be with Kaweme and ten-year-old Kalo. Japheth had become their unofficial driver, picking Luyando up for work each morning, dropping him off again each night.

Tonight, Japheth’s phone rang for the third time.

It was Shem.

Again.

Japheth ignored it.

The car rolled to a stop under the curved awning. Japheth exhaled sharply and finally picked up the phone, unlocking it to read the message.

I don’t understand how you can be this stubborn. The man just wants a final word.

Japheth dropped the phone onto the center console.

Luyando glanced over. “Problem?”

“You have enough on your mind.”

“I’m still here for you,” Luyando said. “Whatever it is.”

Japheth hesitated. “It’s Shem. He wants me to go see… my father.”

Luyando nodded. “Then go. I could come with you if you want. You don’t even have to stay long, just see him.”

Japheth shook his head. “I can’t unsee her, Luyando. That’s the problem. Every time I think about him, I see her. That girl. I see the blood. I hear her crying. I caused that. All of it. I left her defenseless… because of him.”

Luyando leaned back, breathing in deeply. Then, softly, “You know you have to forgive him, right? It’s not about him. It’s about you. Forgiveness isn’t earned, it’s obedience.”

He paused, quoting, “‘Forgive us our trespasses, as we forgive those who trespass against us.’”

Japheth closed his eyes. “I know. I know, man. I’m just… I’m carrying too much right now. I can’t add that to the weight.”

Luyando gave his shoulder a firm pat. “You don’t have to carry it all. Just carry the next thing.”

Japheth nodded, the ache in his chest too full to reply.

He parked the car. They both stepped out.

As they approached the door, Luyando turned to him. “For tomorrow… the burial. Do you have to be at work, or will you come?”

Japheth shook his head. “No. I’ll come with you.”

“Good,” Luyando said. “You’re original. I want you there. Pick me up.”

“I will.”

Luyando looked up at the house, then down again. “I can’t believe I’m going to say goodbye to my aunty. She was the best. Now I wish I spent more time with her. Our family has been so distant, you didn’t even know they existed in our lives till recently, now they are gone…”

He trailed off.

Japheth finished for him. “Yeah. I can’t even imagine what Kaweme is feeling.”

Luyando swallowed. “I don’t want to imagine it. I need to check on my mum. She’s not coping well.”

He disappeared through the front door.

Japheth turned to head back to his car when he heard a faint sound. Like sniffling.

He followed it around the side of the house, through the garden walkway, until he found her.

Kaweme.

She was leaning against the wall, arms wrapped around herself, face streaked with silent tears. She didn’t wail. She just stood there, watching the light dim across the compound as evening crawled in.

His chest tightened.

“Kaweme,” he said, voice gentle. “I’m so sorry.”

She wiped her face quickly but didn’t look at him. “I’m tired, Japheth. I’m confused. I don’t know what to do.”

He moved closer, but not too close. “You don’t have to know right now.”

“I’m not smart,” she said, almost whispering. “How am I supposed to bury my family and still live after that?”

“You’re smart,” Japheth said. “You’re strong. You’ll be okay.”

She turned toward him, eyes full. “Can you take me away from here?”

Japheth blinked. “What? Now?”

“Please,” she said, voice trembling. “You can text Luyando or something. Just… get me out of here. I can’t breathe in this house anymore.”

He hesitated.

But then nodded.

They walked to the car without another word. He opened the door, and she slipped in quietly, like someone running from a world on fire.

Japheth got behind the wheel, took one last glance at the house in the rearview mirror, and drove off into the night.

Japheth didn’t know where he was driving to.

He’d just pulled out of Kabulonga, the high-walled, tree-lined neighborhood where Kaweme’s family lived, and let instinct lead him past the polished gates of Ibex Hill, down into the winding roads near Woodlands. Lusaka’s wealth pulsed quietly in the streetlamps and eucalyptus shade, but he wasn’t looking at any of it.

Beside him, Kaweme sat curled into herself, her right hand clenched into her dress.

She wasn’t wailing. She wasn’t even sobbing loudly. But the quiet sound of her breathing, shaky, uneven, felt like a blade dragging across his chest. Like pain, breaking into sound.

Japheth reached over and gently took her hand.

She looked up, eyes red, and whispered, “Thank you.”

He didn’t speak. Just ran his thumb in slow, comforting strokes over the back of her palm, his other hand steering them deeper into Lusaka.

“I don’t know what to do,” she whispered. “I think I’m going to ruin everything. My father’s legacy… all of it. I’m not like them. I wasn’t supposed to carry this. I’m sure he didn’t even leave anything for me. Why would he? He thought I was the unserious one. And now… everyone’s gone.”

“You’re stronger than you think,” Japheth said.

“No, I’m not. I’m not smart. I don’t know how to raise Kalo. I don’t even know his allergies.” She started crying again, quieter this time. “He used to call me his cool big sister. I don’t know how to be his guardian. I don’t even know how to be me anymore.”

“You don’t have to know everything right now,” Japheth said. “Kalo still has his nanny, the woman who raised all of you. She would help you. You just need to lead. Not do it all.”

She laughed bitterly. “Lead? How do I lead with makeup palettes and packaging options? My family always saw me as decoration.”

“Well, then they weren’t paying attention,” Japheth said. “Because I see a woman who built a brand. Who negotiated with Chinese manufacturers and figured out her own logistics at 24. That’s not weak. That’s not dumb.”

She turned to him slowly. “It’s just makeup.”

“It’s business. It’s beauty. It’s power. And it’s yours.”

A quiet fell over the car.

She turned her face to the window. “I want to disappear.”

“You will get through this,” Japheth said gently.

“Will you be there for me?” she asked.

He looked over, without even giving it any thoughts. “Yes.”

And just like that, the road spilled open in front of them.

They had reached Lilayi Lodge, tucked at the edge of Lusaka’s southern limits. A beautiful retreat surrounded by nature, with open plains, soft paths, and a breeze that felt like a prayer.

Japheth parked and turned to her. “Come on.”

They stepped out into the cool evening air. The trees whispered above them, and not far away, the rustle of grass hinted at wildlife deeper in the reserve.

They walked slowly, no words needed.

“Have you eaten today?” Japheth asked.

She shook her head. “I tried. But nothing stays down.”

“You need to eat something,” he said. “Come.”

They walked into the open-air restaurant. It was quiet, just a few guests sipping wine and murmuring in low tones.

Japheth ordered nyama choma with nshima, grilled vegetables, and a cup of hibiscus tea.

When the food arrived, she shook her head. “I can’t.”

He took a spoon, scooped a bit of nshima, and held it to her lips.

She stared at him.

He smiled gently. “Try.”

She opened her mouth.

One spoon. Two. Three.

Then she reached for the spoon and said, “I’m actually hungry.”

Tears rolled down her cheeks again as she ate.

She didn’t stop until the plate was empty.

When she finished, Japheth handed her the water. She drank slowly, then leaned back.

He stood, helped her out of the chair, and they returned to the car in silence.

On the drive back, she said, “I don’t want to go home.”

“I know,” he said. “But you have to.”

She looked out the window. “Please don’t leave me.”

“I won’t.”

She turned to him. “I know this sounds strange, but I admire you. My cousin speaks highly of you. I’ve seen how you’re there for him. You’re consistent. I don’t want anything from you, just… be there for me the way you are there for him, help me stay sane. Help me keep this legacy.”

Japheth glanced at her. “You have me.”

She nodded.

As the lights of Kabulonga reappeared, she rested her head lightly against the window.

She didn’t speak again.

But she didn’t let go of his hand, and oddly, he didn’t even know when she held it.