MUTALE

The bathroom still smelled of lavender steam when Mutale stepped into the bedroom, towel wrapped around her damp shoulders. Her skin was still warm from the shower, her mind cool and blank, not in a peaceful way, but in the way a person blanks when they don’t know what next to do with their life.

She stared at her reflection in the tall mirror. The woman staring back at her didn’t look like someone who belonged in this massive, curated house in West London. She looked like someone who’d stumbled into a life two sizes too big.

Then her phone rang. The screen lit up: Shem.

She smiled. Shem was everybody’s big brother. But to her, he was more than that, an unnamed mentor, who always knew when she needed him.

She picked up. “Hello?”

“Hmmm,” came Shem’s voice, playful and warm. “How is our Mutale doing?”

Mutale sat at the edge of the bed, towel slipping off her shoulder. “I don’t know, Shem. I am so alone.”

“You are not alone,” Shem said, “Japheth is on the call too. Surprise.”

A second voice chimed in, deep, steady, unmistakably Japheth’s. “I’m here.”

Mutale blinked, sitting up. “You? Really?”

“Yes. And yes, I know everything,” Japheth said gently. “And I’m sorry you’re going through all this.”

Mutale breathed in. “Well… if Shem told you everything, then you know I brought this upon myself.”

“No, you didn’t,” Japheth replied, quiet but certain. “I’ve been praying for you, Mutale. And even though this all started on shaky grounds, I believe God can still bring something beautiful from it. He’s a redeemer. He fixes things.”

Mutale’s voice cracked. “That’s if Ham lets Him. Ham’s not like you guys. He’s not… good. He has all these girlfriends, he—” Her voice trailed off, too much bitterness climbing up her throat.

“Hey. Calm down,” Japheth said gently. “Now you have a mission. You can’t fight this like he does. There has to be a difference in how you show up.”

Mutale wrapped the towel tighter around herself, her voice softening. “I don’t know how.”

“That’s a good place to start,” Shem said, chiming back in. “You don’t need to know how. You just need to know what God wants. Are you praying?”

Mutale hesitated. “I’m trying. I just feel so frustrated and alone.”

Japheth’s voice came like a balm. “Take your frustration to God. All of it. Don’t try to fix it in your head. Pour it out in prayer.”

Mutale’s eyes brimmed. “Why am I the one getting all the advice? Why not call your brother and advise him too?”

“Because sometimes,” Japheth said, “it’s not advice he needs. Sometimes it’s prayer. And that’s what we’re doing for him.”

Shem added, “And when the time is right, I’ll call him again. We’re not abandoning him.”

Mutale gave a small laugh through her tears. “You can call him too, Japheth.”

Japheth chuckled. “When the time is right, I will, but not right now. You are a virtuous woman. Get on your knees, pray for your husband.”

She nodded even though they couldn’t see her. “Thank you. I’m grateful. I don’t know what I would have done without you guys.”

“Anytime,” Shem said. “We love you.”

The call ended. The room was silent again, but not in the cold, empty way. It was soft now, like the pause between piano notes. Sacred.

Mutale placed her phone down, dropped to her knees, and rested her hands on the edge of the bed. “God,” she whispered. “Please help me. I don’t know what I’m doing. Teach me what to do. If I’m going to stay… show me how.”

Her tears fell quietly.

When she finally stood, she wiped her face, pulled her phone back out, and tapped open her browser.

“Bible-believing churches near me.”

Search results flooded in. Too many to choose from. She scrolled.

Redeemed Christian Church of God.

She stared at the name. A soft laugh escaped her lips. “This church is everywhere,” she murmured.

She tapped on the address, saved the location, and nodded to herself.

“Tomorrow is Sunday,” she said out loud. “And I’m going to church.”

Church had definitely been a good idea.

Mutale leaned against the window of the Uber, watching grey buildings and wet roads rush past, her finger resting on the cool glass. Her head throbbed faintly, not from any physical pain, but from too many emotions fighting for space in her chest.

She had been losing her mind all weekend.

After seeing Ham at breakfast yesterday, she hadn’t seen him again. She had loitered quietly near the corridor by his room later that afternoon, hoping, praying for the creak of a door, the sound of a voice. Nothing.

Only a message had come through hours later:

Going out. Don’t worry about me. I’ll be back.

But he hadn’t been back. Not last night. Not even this morning when she was leaving for church.

Her heart had broken a little more. 

But church… church had helped.

The Redeemed Christian Church of God near Lewisham had been filled with warmth. The sanctuary buzzed with familiar voices, mostly Nigerians, Ghanaians, a few Zimbabweans, people who smiled when they met her, women who hugged easily. Even the ushers reminded her of home.

But what really gripped her was the sermon.

“Let your light so shine before men,” the pastor had said, quoting Matthew 5:16. “You are not called to merely exist. You are called to be a light, to bring value, even when your heart is heavy.”

That line hit her hard. She realised how much she had shrunk since arriving in London. Since marrying Ham. She had become a woman constantly reacting to Ham’s silence, to his coldness, to his girlfriend(s), to her own guilt. Her life had narrowed. All she had thought about was him, fixing him, fixing them.

She had forgotten herself.

On her ride back home, her fingers trembled as she whispered under her breath:

“God… show me what I must become. Please. Not just for him. For me.”

She exhaled, unclenched her hands, and reached for her phone, a nervous habit.

Instagram loaded instantly.

Her heart stopped.

Everywhere, on her explore page, her timeline, her stories, it was Ham. Trending. Being reposted. Tagged. Club footage. Shots from the night before. Blurry angles. Different girls. Loud music.

And one video was recurring.

A girl she didn’t recognise, not Zainab, leaned into Ham, and kissed his cheek. He laughed.

Mutale watched his expression. He wasn’t pushing the girl away. He wasn’t even pretending to look guilty.

She put the phone back in her bag, sat up straight in the car, and blinked fast.

“Oh God, help me,” she whispered, “I know I messed up, but why must I suffer like this?”

The Uber pulled into the driveway and she alighted, slowing walking into the house. It was quiet.

Still no sign of Ham.

She walked into the living room, checked her messages. A single one from him, sent earlier:

Hope you’re fine. Hope you’re settling in. Just had to run some errands.

She scoffed, rolled her eyes, and typed:

Run what errands? Your face is all over Instagram. Why are you disrespecting me this way?

He responded quickly:

Don’t believe everything you see online. It’s not always as it seems. I’ll explain when I see you.

She didn’t even bother to ask when that would be.

Still, she typed:

Where are you?

No reply.

She sat on the sofa for a few minutes, then stood, pacing.

“I’m losing my mind,” she murmured, then she remembered the interior decorator she had met on the flight to London. Stylish, funny, friendly, and with kind eyes.

Ham’s voice still echoed in her head. 

“Don’t believe everything you see online”.

That was his response to her, as if it could erase the image of him laughing in someone else’s arms. She wanted to believe him. She really did.

But the house was too big for one person. Too quiet. Her own footsteps sounded foreign in the empty hallway. She wandered into the kitchen, stared at the clock, then reached for her phone again.

She opened her Whatsapp chat.

Hey, good afternoon.

She typed to Evan.

The reply came almost instantly. 

Hey hey! London newbie. How are you?

Bored. 

She wrote back before she could think better of it.

Bored? In London?? Impossible. Let me rescue you. I can take you out. Where are you? Let me show you the city. Let me take you out of your boredom.

Her thumb hovered. Meeting him would be harmless. She was married, yes, but she wasn’t doing anything wrong. Still, a pang of guilt pressed against her chest as she typed a response, stubborn and uninvited.

Let’s meet somewhere. Send an address.

Alright. Meet me at Coal Drops Yard, King’s Cross. Outdoor cafés, vintage shops, riverwalks, you’ll love it. Sundays are perfect for it.

Okay. Give me an hour 

She responded.

Deal. And don’t be late. I plan to dazzle you with overpriced coffee and moral support.

She smiled, really smiled, for the first time in days. Then her gaze swept the cavernous living room. The silence pressed in again. Still no Ham.

Her smile faltered, but she pushed the guilt aside. She would just go out, see the city, breathe. Nothing more.

She went upstairs to get dressed, telling herself she had nothing to apologise for.

HAM

Ham sat on the edge of the couch, head heavy, eyes dull. His hoodie was wrinkled, pulled halfway over his head like he was trying to disappear inside it.

The curtains were drawn, but sunlight still leaked in through the edges, exposing him. The faint scent of cologne, last night’s alcohol, and regret clung to the air.

David stood by the minibar, stirring a glass of sparkling water looking calm and polished. At just 11:30 am the man had already showered, dressed, answered five emails, and looked like he could walk into a boardroom.

Ham rubbed his temples. “As far as I’m concerned… the best and worst thing in my life starts and ends with you.”

David turned, arching a brow. “Well, good morning to you too.”

Ham exhaled through his nose. “You should’ve taken me home last night.”

“You were drunk,” David replied flatly. “I did you a favour. Mutale doesn’t need to see you that way.”

“And now it looks like I didn’t even come home,” Ham snapped. “You think that looks better?”

David took a sip, then shrugged. “Better than vomiting on her kitchen tiles.”

Ham scoffed, leaned forward, elbows on knees. “I messed up. Henry’s sister was all over me, I didn’t even want to be there. I was just… tired. And then those damn bloggers, making it look like it was more than just hanging with friends—”

“They got you dancing,” David said. “And a peck on the cheek? Yes it was harmless, but you know the internet. Everyone’s already calling you the Lusaka Neymar.”

Ham shook his head. “It’s blown out of proportion.”

David sat across from him, crossing one leg over the other. “Everything in your life is going to be blown out of proportion now. That’s the level you’re playing at.”

Silence fell. Ham glanced at his phone. Nothing from Mutale.

“Did you go by the house?” he asked, voice low.

David nodded. “Yeah. I drove by early to pick a change of clothes for you. I saw her leaving in an Uber.”

Ham blinked. “On a Sunday morning?”

“Exactly.”

Ham sat up straighter. “Then she’s probably going to church.”

David raised a brow. “You sure?”

“I know her.”

David poured himself another drink, something clear, citrusy, and took a slow sip. “You sure you still do?”

Ham didn’t answer.

David set the glass down. “Let’s talk about something that actually matters, football. Chelsea’s dragging their feet on the contract renewal. The offer they’re preparing? It’s not as flattering as we hoped. They’re watching your off-pitch antics too.”

“I know.”

“But Real Madrid,” David leaned forward, voice dropping. “They’re watching too. They want you. And they don’t care about last night. You’re gold to them. We play this right, that’s your big move.”

Ham slouched again, eyes drifting. “And Mutale?”

David straightened. “What about her?”

“She just moved to London. She’s trying to find her feet. I can’t drag her to Madrid in three months. That’s wild. She may not like Spain.”

David sighed. “Are you hearing yourself? You’re thinking about a girl, even your wife, over Real f**king Madrid?”

“She’s not just some girl,” Ham snapped. “She’s my wife. I need to think about what she wants. How she’ll adjust.”

David’s eyes narrowed. “You’re thinking like a man who wants a house, not a legacy.”

Ham stood up. “Why does it have to be either?”

“Because it has to be,” David said sharply. “You can’t play at this level and live like a man with a quiet life and matching pajamas.”

Ham ran a hand over his head. “You know what? I’m going home.”

David sighed, rising. “She’s not there. I told you.”

Ham walked toward the door. “If she left on a Sunday morning, I know where she went, and she would be back by now”

David followed. “Look. I know you’re emotional, but you’ve got a game this week with Arsenal. This is not the time to spiral. You need your head right.”

“I need a drink,” Ham muttered, reaching for his hoodie.

“You were drunk last night,” David warned. “You want to drink again this morning? That’s how you blow up your season. Alcohol is a trap and you know it.”

Ham paused at the door, then turned, voice flat. “Maybe I’ve already messed up. I just need to feel okay.”

David lowered his voice. “Alcohol won’t give you that and you know it. Think about Madrid. Think about what we’ve worked for. It’s all on the table. Don’t let drama, hers or yours, mess that up.”

Ham opened the door.

David added, “Let’s at least write them back. Madrid wants a signal. A nudge. I need to know what to tell them.”

Ham paused in the doorway, eyes tired. “Tell them… I’m thinking about it.”

And then he was gone.

David stood in the quiet room, shook his head, and whispered, “You better be.”