HAM & MUTALE – LONDON 

Ham adjusted the strap of his duffel bag as he stepped into the hallway. The flat was quiet, but not empty. He hadn’t seen Mutale since yesterday, when he left the living room and stepped out to clear his head, but he knew she hadn’t gone out. Her presence still lingered in the air like the scent of her hair oil, faint, and familiar.

He found her by the window in the guest room, scrolling through her phone with the blinds half-open.

“Hey,” he said, voice low.

Mutale looked up. “Hey.”

There was a pause.

“I’m heading out,” Ham said, nodding slightly. “I need to join the team at the hotel. Matchday protocol.”

She nodded once. “All the best.”

He lingered.

“It’s an away game,” he added, almost casually. “We’re playing Arsenal at the Emirates. I thought maybe you and David could come. It would be a chance for you to see more of London.”

Mutale blinked slowly. “You mean David who doesn’t like me?”

Ham frowned. “What?”

“David,” she repeated, “your handler. The one who treats me like I’m a distraction. A problem you brought home.”

Ham exhaled. “Mutale…”

“I’m just saying what’s true.”

“He doesn’t even know you yet.”

“And he doesn’t want to,” she said, folding her arms.

“You’re reading too much into everything,” he muttered. “Since when did you become this…”

She raised a brow.

He shook his head and changed course. “Look, I’m not trying to fight. I just thought it might be good for you. New scenery.”

“I’m fine here,” she said. “And again… all the best in your match.”

He watched her for a moment, lips pressed together. Then he walked to be by her side and leaned in to kiss her cheek.

She turned her face away.

The gesture hung awkwardly in the air before falling flat between them.

He sighed, quietly. “Okay then.”

Bag over his shoulder, Ham turned and walked out the door, closing it gently behind him.

Mutale didn’t move. She just stood there, arms folded, watching the empty space where Ham had stood a moment ago. He hadn’t seen her since the night before, yet he assumed a peck on the cheek would solve everything, really? She’d turned away without even meaning to. Now he was gone, off to some hotel or wherever it was they stayed before matches.

She felt like a ghost in his life.

With a heavy sigh, she dropped into the chair in the corner of the living room, her eyes fixed on nothing. The silence in the house felt too loud, like it was screaming all the things she didn’t know how to say.

What’s wrong with me?

What’s wrong with us?

The ache in her chest was sharp, but not unfamiliar. It was the kind that built slowly, the weight of conversations not had, affection not returned, presence without connection.

She picked up her phone, scrolled aimlessly through Instagram, then closed it. For a second, her thumb hovered over Shem’s contact.

She quickly dropped the phone.

To what end?

What am I even doing here?

She stared at her reflection in the black screen of the phone.

Then it rang.

Glory.

Mutale hesitated. Then picked up.

“London wife!” Glory’s voice was bright, breezy, full of the kind of warmth Mutale didn’t know she needed. “Look at you, big girl. Married woman in Britain. How’s married life treating you?”

Mutale smiled, a tired smile. “Hey, Glory.”

“Don’t ‘hey’ me. Give me gist. How’s London? Have you seen Big Ben? Bought snow boots yet? Where’s Ham? You guys still on honeymoon or what?”

Mutale was quiet.

Too quiet.

Glory heard it. “Wait… you’re not saying anything. Are you okay?”

There was a pause. Then, softly: “I don’t know.”

Glory’s tone shifted instantly. “What happened?”

Mutale took a deep breath. “It’s just… weird. Since I got here, I feel like… like I’m in his world, but not part of it. Like he already has a routine, a rhythm, a life. And I’m… the interruption.”

“Ahn ahn,” Glory said gently. “Is he treating you badly?”

“No. Not exactly. He’s not mean. Just… distracted. Or maybe I’m just expecting too much, I don’t know. It just feels like… I came here to build something with him, but he’s already built, and I don’t fit into the furniture.”

Glory didn’t say anything immediately, taking it all in “Muts, I’m really sorry you feel that way.”

Mutale exhaled, surprised by the tears that sprang to her eyes. “I thought it would feel different, Glory. I thought maybe once I joined him here, we’d figure it out. But it’s like we don’t even know how to talk to each other. I said I wouldn’t complain. I said I’d give it time. But…”

She trailed off.

Glory’s voice was softer now. “Can I say something?”

“Of course.”

“You want Ham to behave like a husband, yeah? But… are you behaving like a wife?”

Mutale frowned slightly. “What do you mean?”

“I mean… I know things didn’t start the way you expected. You got married because of the baby. But the baby’s gone now. You’re still here. He’s still there. You both didn’t choose this. But now you have to build it.”

Mutale swallowed. “I don’t even know where to start.”

“Start with you. You’re waiting for him to create the warmth, but what if you are the thermostat?”

Mutale was quiet.

“I get it, Muts. You’re tired. You want him to see you. To choose you. But can I ask, how are you showing up? Are you gentle? Are you kind? Are you patient? Or are you walking around with locked up pain, hoping he guesses the password?”

Mutale’s chest tightened.

“You’re not wrong for wanting connection. But don’t let unspoken expectations turn into resentment. Talk to him. Love him even when you don’t feel like it. Don’t wait for the perfect moment. Create it. Sow the seed.”

“I feel like I’ve been carrying all the weight.”

“Then give it to God. This isn’t a battle of who’s trying harder. It’s an invitation to surrender. You can’t control Ham. But you can control how you show up. You can choose to be soft even when you feel cold inside. You can let God heal you first.”

Mutale leaned her head back, tears quietly falling.

Glory added, “You’re a Christian girl, Muts. I know you. You’ve walked with God long before this marriage came into the picture. Don’t stop now. This is the time to press in, not fold, not sulk, not escape.”

Mutale nodded slowly. “I hear you.”

“Then go and pray. And I don’t mean those 5-minute Lord-help-me prayers. I mean really pray. Ask God to show you what to do next, to teach you how to love him and to heal the parts of you that feel abandoned.”

“I thought I was doing okay.”

“You are. But even strong people need help, and that help begins in the secret place.”

There was silence between them.

“Thanks, Glory.”

“Anytime.”

“I needed this.”

“I know.”

They ended the call, and for the first time in days, Mutale didn’t feel like running. She stayed seated for a long time, breathing deeply. The ache was still there, but now, so was a flicker of hope.

She stood up slowly.

She would shower. She would light a candle, and she would pray.

And tomorrow?

She would try again.

HAM

The breakfast hall was quieter than usual, like everyone had something else on their minds besides toast and scrambled eggs.

Ham sat by the window, stirring a glass of orange juice he wasn’t drinking. Across the room, teammates murmured in pairs and threes, their routines seamless: hydration, briefing, stretching. The usual pre-match rhythms, but Ham’s eyes were on David.

The manager was tucked in a corner by himself, one hand cradling a coffee cup, the other scrolling slowly through his phone. His jaw was tight. Eyes slightly narrowed. Not the usual pre-match intensity, something else. Something heavier.

What now?

Ham reached for his phone and fired off a message to Mutale.

How are you? It’s Match day. Are you gonna watch?”

He hovered for a second, considering adding more, but what more was there to say when they barely could hold a conversation the last time he saw her?

Before the message was delivered, a movement caught his eye. David’s phone buzzed. He looked down, read something, and frowned.

That’s not from me, Ham thought.

Henry slid into the seat beside him, always too observant.

“Your manager looks like he’s just been served a death sentence.”

Ham smirked. “That’s his default face.”

They both laughed lightly.

Then Henry leaned closer. “But seriously, that’s a new kind of stress. You think it’s about the Madrid thing?”

Ham’s smile faltered.

“Maybe.”

Henry shrugged. “You’re the golden boy. If something’s happening, you’ll know soon enough.”

Ham nodded, already pushing his chair back.

“Where are you going?” Henry asked.

“To find out.” David didn’t look up as Ham approached. He stood there for a moment, unsure whether to speak, then cleared his throat.

“You okay?”

David looked up slowly. “You should be focusing on the match.”

“That’s your way of saying ‘mind your business’?”

David sighed. “I’m saying, this isn’t the time.”

Ham leaned in, lowering his voice. “Madrid?”

David gave him a long, unreadable look.

“Madrid’s on the table, two hundred and twenty grand a week, four years, plus a five-million signing bonus if you walk on a free.” He leaned back. “Chelsea doesn’t know the numbers… maybe they suspect, but they don’t know. Which means we can make them do more. Madrid is our bargaining chip, if you’d rather stay in London, but yeah, it’s official, Spain beckons. We need to make a decision.”

Ham blinked.

“You were going to wait after the match to drop that?”

“I still want to wait,” David snapped. “But clearly, you’d rather play with a storm in your head.”

“I have a right to know.”

“You have a right to play well today. That’s what keeps the deals sweet, you owe yourself that much.”

Ham folded his arms. “And my wife?”

David’s lips tightened. “Here we go.”

“Spain beckons, really. You expect me to just sign a contract or uproot without thinking about her? She moved countries for me.”

David stood, towering now. “Ham, listen to me. I’m saying this with love and as your manager, when Real Madrid calls, you answer. You don’t stall. You don’t say, ‘I’ll think about it.’ Because the moment you do, they question your hunger. And this club? They’ll start planning without you.”

Ham stared. “I’m not stalling. I’m just not rushing.”

“That’s what stalling is.”

Ham took a breath. “Tell them to wait.”

“They won’t, and Chelsea won’t either.”

“I’m not making a decision today.”

“You already are.” David’s voice sharpened. “And this is why I worry about this marriage. You’ve changed. You’re distracted. You’re thinking emotionally,”

“Don’t,” Ham snapped. “Don’t bring her into this.”

David paused. “Ham,”

“No. Don’t you ever say that again. Mutale is not a mistake. We’re figuring it out, yes, but don’t you dare judge that.”

Silence fell.

Ham’s heart was pounding. The weight of ambition, expectations, and emotion all knotted up in his chest.

David sat down again slowly, voice cooler now. “You’re a brilliant player, Ham, but brilliance fades fast in this world. Make the right call.”

Ham exhaled, sharp and bitter.

“You know what? You’re right. I can’t do this now.”

He turned and walked away, leaving David alone with his lukewarm coffee and unread messages.

————————————————————————————————————

Ham had promised himself he’d clear his mind from Madrid talks, the argument with Mutale, and David’s constant pressure. None of that could follow him onto the pitch.

Today was match day, and for ninety minutes, nothing else mattered.

The Emirates Stadium pulsed with energy. Arsenal fans filled the air with thunderous chants, red scarves waving like flags in battle. Chelsea’s blue strip stood in stark contrast against the fiery home crowd.

Pundits had predicted a 2–1 Chelsea win.

But nobody said Arsenal would score first.

10th minute.

Arsenal’s right-back, Milo Vance, sent a deep cross down the flank. Their attacking midfielder, Zayn Adu, darted past the Chelsea midfield like a bullet.

Quick touch. One-two with Darren Kola on the edge of the box.

And then, bam.

Kola curled it clean into the top left corner.

1–0.

Arsenal fans erupted. The stadium shook.

Ham froze for a second. He walked back to the centre circle, shaking his head.

It’s fine. Early goal. We recover. We always do.

But he was already drifting.

Madrid scouts are watching. They think I’m off my rhythm. Am I?

18th minute.

Chelsea tried to push back.

Marco Silva, their deep-lying playmaker, played a pass down the left. Ham sprinted to collect it, cutting in sharply.

Eli King was open on the right. Easy assist.

Ham misjudged the weight of the pass.

The ball rolled behind King and out of play.

A few Arsenal fans near the bench jeered. Ham muttered under his breath.

33rd minute.

Free kick. 24 yards out. Right side of the box.

Ham placed the ball. Took three steps back. Inhaled.

He curled it, hoping to find the top corner.

Not terrible, but not magic either. Arsenal’s goal keeper parried it cleanly.

Halftime.

Scoreline: Arsenal 1 – 0 Chelsea

In the locker room, the silence was louder than any speech.

Chelsea’s coach, Victor Lange, paced the length of the room, jaw clenched.

He finally stopped and faced the players.

“Do any of you actually know what we’re playing today? Because from the pitch, it looked like playground football.”

He turned to Ham.

“You’re not sharp. You’re distracted. What’s going on?”

Ham wiped sweat from his brow. “We’ll get them in the second half.”

Victor nodded slowly. “Make sure you mean that.”

Meaning it didn’t make a difference. At full-time, nothing changed. Arsenal 1 – 0 Chelsea

It was a tough, tactical game. But Chelsea had been flat. Disconnected. No spark. No edge.

Another three points lost.

The road to Champions League qualification just got rockier. They had to win their next match or it was over.