This time, he was the one initiating calls.
Japheth found himself keeping odd hours, staying awake long past midnight just so he could catch Kaweme during her afternoon breaks in America. He no longer cared about sleep. Her voice had become its own kind of rest.
Luyando had caught him more than once pacing the living room, laptop open, phone pressed to his ear, whispering into the night. He never said much, just gave him the side-eye and muttered things like, “And yet, you’re not in love.”
Japheth would laugh it off. But inwardly, he was beginning to tell himself the truth.
Feelings were happening. Slowly. Honestly. Gently.
And how could they not?
Kaweme was… sweet. Not just in a sugary, superficial way, but in that deeply thoughtful, deeply intentional way that leaves a mark.
She was always checking on him. Always caring.
He had never allowed a woman this close. Not emotionally. He didn’t even know what it felt like to be cared for, not like this, but she had made it feel natural.
One time, during a late-night conversation, he had casually mentioned skipping breakfast the previous day. The next morning, a hot meal showed up at his office.
Another time, he’d said something in passing about forgetting to drop off his clothes at the dry cleaner’s. The next day, a mobile laundry service arrived at his gate.
It wasn’t about the gestures themselves. It was about the heart behind them. The thoughtfulness. The presence.
She wasn’t here, but somehow, she was everywhere.
They had their routine now. Seven months in, and she still called him almost every day. Especially when she was frustrated with a business assignment. He’d stay up, helping her research, breaking things down over voice notes, even drawing diagrams on scrap paper and holding them up to the camera on Zoom, when he wasn’t sharing his screen..
Their conversations were full of laughter, little jabs, midnight reflections, and a kind of quiet safety he’d never known.
Today, he had just settled into the living room, about to call Kaweme, when Luyando strolled in, golf club slung over his shoulder.
“Bro, let’s go. The game’s already started.”
“I’ll pass,” Japheth replied, glancing at his phone. “I’m expecting a call.”
Luyando raised a brow and grinned. “Guy, just admit it. I can handle it.”
“She’s my sister,” Japheth said, though the words felt more like a defense than a fact.
Luyando scoffed. “Is that what they’re calling it now? Sister?”
“Please go,” Japheth said, laughing. “Don’t worry, I’ll cook for you. By the time you get back, there’ll be a hot pot of chikanda and nshima waiting.”
“Ah! Now you’re talking,” Luyando said, eyes lighting up. “But don’t forget the beef stew. I don’t want any of your plant-based nonsense.”
“Done,” Japheth smiled.
Just as Luyando turned to leave, Japheth’s phone buzzed with a new message.
From Shem.
He opened it casually, then froze.
Our father is dead.
Japheth stared at the screen for a long time. As if the words might rearrange themselves into something else. Something easier to read.
Luyando noticed the change in his face. “What is it?”
“My father…” Japheth whispered. “He’s… gone.”
“Oh God,” Luyando said, stepping back into the room. “I’m so sorry.”
Japheth’s body went stiff. His mind, blank.
“I need to go there,” he said, standing.
Luyando placed a hand on his shoulder. “I’ll take you.”
“No, it’s fine,” Japheth said automatically. “You should go for your game.”
“I said I’ll take you,” Luyando insisted, already heading to his room. “Go and wear jeans. Let’s go together.”
Japheth nodded numbly and walked toward his room. Everything inside him was silent.
Grief, when it comes suddenly, doesn’t always scream.
Sometimes, it just sits there. Quiet.
—————————————————————————————————————————-
Time blurred.
Japheth couldn’t remember when night fell. The compound was full, family members, distant cousins, uncles who hadn’t spoken in years, aunties who once cursed his father but now wore black lace and murmured “he was a good man.” Some of them came just to see the spectacle: the three sons of Noah, together again.
And yes, they were all here.
Ham had flown into Lusaka that morning on his private jet. He didn’t make an entrance, didn’t greet anyone, didn’t even look Japheth in the eye. He’d positioned himself in a far corner of the sitting room, fingers clasped tightly around a wine glass he wasn’t drinking from.
Shem, the orchestrator of the burial plans, was the only one speaking, gruff one-liners about “mortuary logistics,” “the graveside service,” and “Tombstone.” But even he seemed restrained, as if his tongue feared the ghosts in the room. The burial was going to happen today.
Japheth sat near the window, Luyando beside him, an immovable pillar of presence. He had told Luyando to go home. Luyando had refused.
“We’ll stand here together,” he’d said. “I’m not leaving you in this.”
That, too, seemed to irritate Shem.
“I see you came with your brother,” Shem had muttered when Japheth arrived.
Japheth had looked him in the eye. “Not today, Shem.”
And that was the end of it.
Until Ham rose, and faced Shem.
“Just tell me what you need me to pay for,” Ham said. “The casket, the land, the pastor, send the bills.”
Shem looked up slowly. “It’s not about money, Ham. We need you to be part of this. Dad wanted…”
Ham’s voice sliced through him. “I don’t care what he wanted. You know I don’t. I’m here for optics. I won’t have the vlogs saying I didn’t show up when my father died. That’s it. Fulfilled righteousness.”
Japheth stood. “That’s not who you are.”
Ham blinked at him, the faintest flicker of surprise in his face. “Oh, wow. He speaks. My big brother speaks.” He paused. “I swear I didn’t even see you in the room. Just like I didn’t see you my whole life.”
“I’ve been here from the beginning, I never left you alone. I made sure you were cared for.” Japheth said quietly. “Every step of the way, I was there, making sure you lacked nothing.”
Ham’s laugh was dry. “Oh, thank you. I’ll refund you.” Then he faced Luyando, “And thanks to the Chanda family. Thank you for feeding my brother. For housing him. For paying our school fees.” He turned to Shem. “Aren’t we grateful, Shem? Say thank you.”
Shem’s jaw twitched. “Ham, stop it. We’ll bury our father. Then we can all go back to our corners.”
“No,” Japheth said, louder this time. “That’s not what I want. We’ve been in exile long enough. It’s time to come home to each other.”
Ham’s eyes narrowed. “There’s no homecoming for me, Japheth. Not to this.”
Japheth didn’t get a chance to respond, because the door opened and Mutale entered.
Mutale. The girl whose tragedy chased Japheth away from here.
She wasn’t a girl anymore, but a woman, poised, modest, dignified. Every head turned. Conversations paused. The wind itself seemed to still, people clearly still remembered the story.
Ham looked at her and whispered, “Yeah. And that’s why we’ll never be whole again.”
Japheth’s throat tightened.
Shem stood frozen.
Mutale walked forward slowly, her eyes moving between the three men. “Wow,” she said softly. “The sons of Noah. All in one place.”
Ham chuckled bitterly. “More like the damaged sons of Noah.”
Mutale met his gaze. “Maybe. But damage doesn’t have to be final. You don’t have to carry pain when you can carry redemption.”
Ham looked at her. “And are you redeemed?”
“I am,” she said. “Fully.”
She turned to him. “Thank you, Ham. For every cheque you send to our NGO. It’s helping girls like I once was. My pain now has purpose. And that’s all that matters.”
Ham softened for the first time today, it was clear he had remained in touch with Mutale. There was a familiar exchange in their expressions, and Japheth felt guilty all over again, wishing he had reached out too. He could hardly breathe. He turned his eyes away. Luyando noticed, so he placed a hand on his shoulder, to steady him.
Shem saw the exchange, scowled and looked away.
Mutale looked around, as if reading the silence. “You don’t have to be best friends. But you can stop bleeding on each other. The man you are about to bury left you brothers. At least honour him with peace. I am going with you to bury him.”
She stepped farther into the room, and the floor might as well have cracked beneath them. The weight of memory. The ache of old guilt.
“I saw him,” she said. “Your father. A few weeks ago.”
Ham straightened. “You what?”
“Yes. He called for me. He was sick. Weak. I came to see him.”
“You came to him?” Ham’s voice dropped. “After what he did?”
“I forgave him,” she said, looking Ham directly in the eye. “Because Jesus forgave me. Because Christianity isn’t a performance. It’s obedience. I don’t obey my feelings. I obey my God.”
None of them spoke.
“He asked me to bring you together,” she continued. “His dying wish was to see his sons in the same room with him.”
“Well,” Ham said, standing slowly. “He’s dead now. So that solves it.”
“No,” she said gently. “We’re going to the mortuary, and from there to the burial ground.”
Ham turned his back. “I won’t.”
“Please,” she said, her voice trembling. “Ham, please.”
He turned to her, jaw tight, fists clenched. But when he looked into her eyes, he sighed.
“I guess it’s the least we can do for you,” he murmured.
Shem nodded. “We’ll take separate cars.”
As they filed out, she turned once more. “Don’t bleed on each other anymore. Let your father’s death be the end of that.”
And with that, they left.
————————————————————————————————————————-
The ride was quiet. Rain began to mist across the windshield. Japheth sat in the passenger seat while Luyando drove, eyes forward, saying nothing.
Japheth glanced at his phone. Fifty-two missed calls. A lump formed in his throat.
He tapped Kaweme.
She picked on the second ring.
“Japheth?” Her voice cracked with relief.
He closed his eyes and let her voice settle into him like warmth. “I just needed to hear you,” he said.
“What’s wrong?”
“I’m… on the way to the mortuary. My father’s dead.”
A beat of silence.
“Oh, Japheth. I’m so sorry.”
“I’ll be fine. I just..” he swallowed. “I just needed to hear your voice, you know?”
“I’m here,” she whispered.
And for the first time all day, he felt something uncoil in his chest. Not peace. Not yet. But something close to it.
“I will speak to you once the formalities are over,” he said, then ended the call.
The drive to the mortuary was painfully slow.
The convoy of three cars wound through Lusaka’s evening traffic like a funeral procession that hadn’t yet begun. Japheth stared out the window as the city blurred past, its lights flickering like half-formed memories. Luyando drove in silence, the only sound was the occasional hum of passing cars and the soft patter of rain.
Japheth’s heart thudded in his chest, not because of his father’s death, but because of everything it had unearthed. The way Mutale had looked at them. The grace in her words. The tension in Ham’s voice. The silence in Shem’s eyes.
He had barely spoken to Kaweme during the call, but hearing her voice had calmed him.
Now he would have to face his father again.
Not in anger.
Not in protest.
But in death.
They arrived at the gates of the private mortuary. Japheth stepped out first and Luyando remained in the car to give the brothers privacy. The others followed in their cars, Shem stepping out crisply in black, his expression unreadable, Ham with his hands in his pockets, his jaw tight, looking as though he might bolt at any moment.
Mutale was already there, waiting under the small canopy at the entrance. She said nothing as they approached, just gave a solemn nod. There was a quiet presence around her, something holy and heavy.
The matron recognized their name and led them wordlessly. The tiled hallways smelled of disinfectant and the subdued hush of loss. They passed a grieving family seated with bowed heads, a child curled into a blanket on a bench, a nurse wheeling an empty gurney down the corridor.
“This way,” the matron said gently, opening the door to a small, sterile room.
There, beneath the faint buzz of fluorescent lights, lay Noah Mwansa.
His face was thinner than any of them remembered, mouth slightly parted, brow drawn as though his last thought had not found peace. His chest and body were covered with a sheet, crisp, and white.
For a moment, no one moved.
Mutale stepped forward and placed a small wooden cross at the head of the bed. “He asked for this,” she said, barely above a whisper. “He said he wanted to die with Christ at his head.”
Japheth closed his eyes. Shem stood still beside him. Ham leaned on the far wall, arms folded, refusing to look.
The matron’s voice was gentle. “Would any of you like to say something?”
Silence.
Then Japheth stepped forward. He didn’t look at his brothers, just stared down at the man who had changed the course of all their lives.
“I left home because of you,” he began softly. “I carried bitterness in my chest like breath. But today… I’m laying it down. Not because you earned it, but because Christ forgave me, and I must do the same.”
He paused. His throat tightened.
“You were my father. And I honour that. I am grateful I came to see you to reconcile. Rest in peace, sir.”
Mutale’s head bowed slightly. Shem stepped forward next.
“I tried to hold this family together,” he said. “Tried to play peacemaker between brothers when I myself was falling apart. You left no inheritance, but maybe that’s for the best. Because the only thing I wanted from you was what you didn’t know how to give, a home where we could all live together happily. You took that away from me. Still… I choose not to hate you.”
He turned to Japheth and gave a short nod. “And thank you. For carrying us. For leaving, but still finding a way to never leave. I know I am hard on you a lot, but it’s mostly jealousy, and regret for all we lost that we could never gain back. ”
Japheth said nothing. But the look they exchanged held something deep, then he walked up to Shem and hugged him.
Ham remained by the wall, staring at them. Then he finally pushed forward.
He faced the body, and then Mutale.
“You were eight years old,” he said to her. “And we failed you. I failed you.”
Mutale’s eyes brimmed with tears, but she smiled. “But I didn’t stay broken.”
“No,” Ham said. “You became stronger than all of us.”
A beat of silence passed. Then she reached into her bag and pulled out a folded sheet.
“He left no wealth. But he left words. He asked me to tell you his last wish: that the three of you stand together once, united.”
Shem looked away. Ham laughed bitterly.
Japheth said nothing.
Mutale stepped back and whispered, “Please.”
For a moment, no one moved.
Then slowly, awkwardly, hesitantly, Ham reached out a hand.
Shem took it first.
Then Japheth.
The three of them, standing together over the man who had both wounded and shaped them, joined hands.
Mutale whispered a quiet “Thank You, Lord.”
Ham muttered, “Well… if ghosts are real, I hope he sees this.”
Japheth managed a smile. “I’m proud of you, Ham.”
Ham looked surprised. “Thank you. And… Thank you for sending us to school.”
Shem nodded. “Yes. You could’ve left, and not look back. But you didn’t.”
The weight shifted in the room. Not gone, but different.
Ham looked over at Mutale and cleared his throat. “So, um… dinner? After this?”
She raised an eyebrow. “Superstar footballer? You think your fans will let you eat dinner in public?”
Ham grinned. “Before the fans, there was you. Come on, console me. My father just died.”
She laughed. “You’re unbelievable.”
“Only a little.”
Shem looked down at his phone. “I need to check on the burial space we paid for. I’ll head out now.”
Japheth said, “I’ll stay back a bit.”
They all drifted, Ham and Mutale stepping out in quiet conversation, Shem heading the other way.
The burial had ended quietly, with fewer words and more silence. The crowd had thinned. The speeches had been spoken. Dirt had fallen on the casket. And just like that, the sons of Noah had drifted in separate directions, back into their lives, their wounds, their silence.
Japheth sat alone now in the front seat of Luyando’s car, parked beside a quiet corner shop just a few minutes from the cemetery. Rain had started again, soft and rhythmic against the windshield.
Luyando had stepped out briefly to grab them a bite. He hadn’t eaten all day, and neither had Japheth, but food was the last thing on Japheth’s mind.
His hand hovered over his phone for a moment. Then, without thinking twice, he dialed.
She picked up on the second ring.
“Japheth?” Kaweme’s voice was soft, concerned.
He exhaled. “Yeah. I just needed to hear your voice, you know?”
“You okay?”
“No,” he said. “But I will be. I think today… I finally got closure on my trauma, and maybe, for the first time, I’m ready to say hello to the life I’ve been running from.
I want you in my life, Kaweme.”
There was silence. Then her voice came, warm and sure.
“I’m here, I am yours Japheth, always and forever,” she said softly
He closed his eyes.
And just breathed.

———————————————————————————————————————

Author’s Note
This story is far from over and it will continue, but first, I hope Japheth’s story stirred something in your heart. At its core, this first part of The Damaged Sons of Noah is not just a story about broken homes or complex families, it’s a story about forgiveness.
Unforgiveness is a prison that keeps you locked in. When you forgive, you don’t free the other person, you free yourself. You make room for healing, for joy, for clarity. I pray that this story reminds you that no matter how deep the pain, you don’t have to stay broken. You can choose freedom. You can choose to heal.
As you may have sensed, this is far from the end. This is a trilogy and this first series is just Part One.
In the next story, we will focus on Shem’s journey, but there is still more to uncover in the lives of Japheth and Kaweme, so you will find their story interwoven. Unanswered questions remain:
Is someone truly trying to stop Kaweme from stepping into her father’s legacy?

Was the tragedy that killed Obadiah Muntanga really an accident, or was it orchestrated?

Will Shem play a pivotal role in exposing the truth behind Kaweme’s danger?
Has Japheth’s corrupt boss given up?

And after a year in America, will Kaweme finally rise as the CEO she was born to be?

What about Ham, will he show up for his family, or disappear into the world of Premier League fame once again?

And perhaps, most importantly, based on how we left things here. Can Japheth and Kaweme become a couple in the true sense of the word?

All this, and so much more, awaits in the next installment of The Damaged Sons of Noah, titled Shem. I can’t wait to share it with you next month.
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