C3 THE WEDDING
I had never worn white in my life. White is for people who don't have to sit in matatu dust.
The wedding dress was hanging in a room bigger than my whole bedsitter. Room in Runda mansion, with AC cold like supermarket. Dress was white, long, with stones that shone even without light. Price tag still on it — I saw when Carol turned — KSH 280,000. Two hundred eighty thousand. That's two years rent in Umoja.
"Wear it," Carol said, not looking. She was on phone with media.
I touched it. My hands rough, nails short, no polish. I was scared I would dirty it.
"Bathroom there. Quick. Boss waiting downstairs. Judge coming 7am."
I went to bathroom. Bathroom bigger than Umoja plot. Mirror everywhere. I saw myself — hair not combed, same birthday pajama I wore yesterday because I had no night dress, eyes swollen from crying. I removed pajama. My body thin, ribs showing because sometimes we skip dinner. No lotion, skin ashy. I looked like maid who entered wrong house.
Dress had zip at back. I couldn't zip. I shouted, "Carol, help."
She came, zipped, annoyed. She looked at my back, scars from when I carried heavy mitumba sack and sack fell.
"Boss said no stories about scars. Say it's childhood accident," she said.
I looked in mirror. Girl in white dress worth 280K, but face still Umoja girl scared.
"You look... okay," Carol said. "Better than Vanessa, she looked fake. You look real. Boss likes real? Maybe."
Downstairs, mansion sitting room was full. Not full like Umoja market. Full like newspaper. Ten people in suits, cameras, a judge in robe, Ethan's mother Margaret with face like she ate lemon, two lawyers with files.
And Ethan.
He was in black suit, white shirt, no tie. Hair combed. Grey eyes. He looked like those men on billboard for expensive watch. He looked at me coming downstairs in that dress and... stopped talking. Everyone stopped.
For one second, his eyes softened. Like he saw not Gikomba girl, but girl.
Then his mother coughed loud and he became cold again.
"Amara," he said, voice flat. "You are late. Judge has court at 8."
I walked down stairs slowly because heels Carol gave me were size 6, my size 5, too big, I was scared to fall. Heels worth 15K, my whole Gikomba stock.
Judge was old mzee, tired. He opened book.
"We are here to marry Ethan Blake King and Amara Wanjiku..."
"Wanjiku King," Ethan corrected fast. "Her name now is King."
I wanted to say my name is still Wanjiku, my father's name, but I kept quiet. Contract said I must accept new name.
Judge read fast, like he does 20 weddings before lunch. "Do you, Ethan, take Amara..."
"I do," Ethan said before judge finished, like he wanted to finish quickly and go to office.
Judge looked at me. "Do you, Amara, take Ethan..."
I looked at Ethan. Grey eyes, cold, but hands shaking small. He was also scared? Of what? He has everything.
I thought of Mama in Kenyatta, now moved to Aga Khan because I paid 200k deposit yesterday. I thought of Brian who needs school fees. I thought of 500k in my phone that will become 3M if I say yes.
"I do," I said, voice shaking but loud.
Not because I love him. Because my mother needs kidney.
Judge said, "You may kiss..."
Ethan froze. Contract says no kissing. No sex. No touching beyond holding hand for photos.
But cameras were clicking — Nairobi Star, Pulse, Tuko — they came because Carol called them. Headline tomorrow: "BILLIONAIRE WEDS MYSTERY GIRL IN SECRET RUPDA WEDDING." They expected kiss.
Ethan's mother smiled, waiting for me to embarrass.
Ethan leaned in, close, I smelled his cologne that smells like money and cold. He whispered in my ear, for only me, "Don't get ideas. This is for photo."
Then he kissed my cheek, not lips. Light kiss. But his lips were soft, warm. My heart beat _dundundun_ like drum. First time a man kissed me since high school boyfriend who left me when I became poor.
Cameras _click click click_. Flash.
Judge clapped. "Married! Sign here!"
We signed. My signature ugly, his signature like doctor. Lawyers stamped. Just like that, in 7 minutes, I was Amara King, wife of billionaire.
After judge left, media came close. Microphones.
"Mrs. King, how did you meet Ethan?"
Carol had taught me last night — say Sankara, say love at first sight, say Riara School.
I smiled, teeth showing, like Carol taught — "We met at Sankara, he... he bought me coffee."
Lie. We met on Facebook contract.
"What do you do, Mrs. King?"
"I... I run charity for East—" I almost said Eastlands. I corrected, "for girls education."
Ethan's mother laughed loud. "Charity! Yes, my daughter-in-law loves charity! She used to sell..."
"She used to sell hope," Ethan cut her, sharp. He put hand on my waist, owner hand. "My wife is from humble background and I'm proud."
His hand on my waist burned through dress. I was not used to man touching.
Photos done, media left after taking soda and 2k each from Carol — "transport."
Only family left. Ethan's mother walked to me, perfume choking, nails long red.
"Listen, Gikomba girl," she whispered, smiling so cameras outside still think we happy, "This marriage is one year. I know. Carol told me you are contract. So don't get comfortable in my son's house. Don't use his toothbrush. Don't cook in my kitchen with your Umoja hands. After one year, you go back to selling bras. And that 3M, my son will take back half for damages you cause. Understand?"
My eyes filled. Dress worth 280k but I felt naked.
Ethan saw and pulled me away.
"Leave her, Mother. She is my wife now."
"For one year!" she shouted, then smiled because driver was watching.
Ethan took me upstairs. His bedroom? No, guest room next to his. He opened.
"This is your room. My room is next, don't enter without knocking. Bathroom there. Closet has clothes Carol bought, size 10, I told her your size. Don't wear Gikomba clothes in this house, I said."
Room was big, bed big, four pillows. I had never slept on bed with four pillows.
I sat on bed in wedding dress, heels painful. I wanted to remove dress but zip stuck.
Ethan stood at door, not entering, like I have disease.
"Rule number three," he said. "We sleep separate. You don't come to my room at night. If grandfather or media comes, we pretend we share bed, but we don't. And don't cry loudly, sound travels in this house."
I nodded, tears coming because I was tired, hungry, no breakfast, wearing dress heavy.
He saw tears and sighed, less cold.
"Amara..."
He came, tried to unzip dress to help, fingers touching my back. His fingers warm, my skin cold. I shivered.
He unzipped slowly. Dress fell a bit, my back open. I quickly held it.
"Thanks," I whispered.
He looked at my back scar again. "How did you get that?"
"Mitumba sack fell in Gikomba last year, 30kg, metal hook cut me."
He was quiet. "Did you go to hospital?"
"No money. Njeri put black sugar on it. It healed."
Black sugar. He had never heard. Rich people use Dettol.
He nodded, went to door.
"Tomorrow we visit your mother in Aga Khan. I paid. And I enrolled Brian in Makini School, full boarding. He starts Monday. So you don't worry about them. Focus on being my wife. That's your job now."
He closed door.
I sat in wedding dress worth 280k, in room bigger than Umoja, wife of billionaire, mother saved, brother in Makini, 500k in phone...
And I cried. Loud cry, breaking rule number three. Because I got everything I wanted, but I felt more alone than when I was crying in rain outside Kenyatta Hospital.
I removed dress, wore my old Tuskys pajama under, because new silk pajama in closet felt like it would burn my skin.
At 9pm, I heard gate open again. Not Range Rover. Small Toyota Vitz, old. A girl came out, tall, light skin, weave long, wearing dress that cost like my wedding dress.
Vanessa. Ethan's ex. Real girlfriend. The one who was supposed to be wife.
She didn't knock. She had key to mansion.
She shouted from downstairs, voice drunk, broken.
"ETHAN! YOU MARRIED THAT GIKOMBA THIEF WHILE I WAS IN LONDON? COME OUT! I HAVE YOUR BABY PHOTO! I WILL SHOW NEWSPAPER YOU ARE NOT MAN!"
Baby? What baby?
I froze in my pajama, on four-pillow bed, wedding day night, listening to ex-girlfriend shouting she has Ethan's baby.
