C4 VANESSA COMES

Vanessa did not enter. She arrived.

At 6pm, gate opened and a red Range Rover with number plate VANESSA 1 entered, horn honking _pap pap pap_ like owner of compound. Driver in uniform opened door, and legs came first. Long legs, light skin, heels that could kill chicken. Stiletto red, 6 inches. Then hair, blonde braids that touched waist, shining like oil. Then perfume that entered house before she did, sweet strong, that kind that rich girls wear called Good Girl or something.

I was in kitchen. I had tried to help cook, because I felt useless whole day sitting in room big like church. Cook, Mama Njoroge, big woman, said "Madam don't touch sufuria, you will burn." So I was peeling potatoes like Umoja girl, sitting on small stool in corner, because I don't know how to sit idle.

She saw me from sitting room mirror. She stopped.

"Oh. You must be the new househelp. Where is Ethan? Tell him Vanessa is here." She had accent, like those Nairobi girls who studied in UK and come back with nose up.

I stood. Potato in hand, peel on floor, headscarf old, slippers from Bata 350 bob.

"I'm Amara," I said, voice small.

Her smile froze. She looked me from my headscarf to my slippers, slow, like I was kiosk she was inspecting for health inspection.

"You are... wife?" She laughed, but not nice laugh, laugh that makes you feel 2 inches tall. "Ethan! Come see what Carol picked from Toi market! Your wife is peeling potatoes in kitchen!"

Ethan came downstairs fast. Shirt white, sleeves rolled, watch shining. He saw Vanessa and for first time since I met him, his face changed. Not cold CEO face. Soft. Like boy.

"Vanessa. You said tomorrow, not today. I told you 10am."

"I couldn't wait, babe. I landed from Dubai at 4pm and came straight, I missed you." She kissed his cheek, lipstick left red mark. Big red mark, she didn't wipe. Then she looked at me again, still potato in hand, eyes mocking.

Ethan said, flat, "Vanessa, this is Amara, my wife."

Wife. He said it like he says "this is table."

Vanessa walked around me slowly, slowly, like I was car she wants to buy. She touched my headscarf, pulled small.

"Wife? Ethan, is this joke? Mom said contract wife, but I thought maybe at least... Karen girl, not... this. At least someone from Strathmore, not... Gikomba."

I held potato tighter until juice came.

Ethan said, voice tired, "It's one year. For company will. You know grandfather condition."

"I know, babe," Vanessa said, still circling me, perfume choking me. "But you could have told me to bring her some decent clothes from Dubai. This is embarrassing for King family. What will people say at Muthaiga Club? That Ethan King married his maid?"

I wanted to disappear into kitchen floor, into drainage.

Ethan looked at me, grey eyes, then away. "Amara, go change. Carol bought you dress yesterday, blue one, in your room. Wear it."

I ran upstairs, bare feet _pata pata_ because slippers left downstairs. My room had a bag from Westgate Mall I had not opened, scared to touch expensive things. Inside was blue dress, tight, with tag still — KSH 18,000. One dress cost more than my Umoja rent for 6 months, plus food.

I wore it. It was tight, showed stomach that is not flat because I eat ugali, showed hips wide, showed everything. I don't have Vanessa body that is gym body. My bra was old, straps showing. I tried to hide.

When I came downstairs slowly, holding rails because dress short, Vanessa was sitting on Ethan's lap on sofa. His lap. My husband's lap. On my wedding week. They were drinking wine from long glasses.

"Much better," Vanessa said, looking at my dress, eyes judging. "Though you need gym, dear. And your hair... you need Brazilian, not this... whatever. And your legs, you have dark knees, you need scrub."

Ethan removed her from his lap quickly when he saw me, like child caught stealing. He stood.

"Let's eat. Mama Njoroge, food."

Dinner was hell. Table long for 10 people, we three only, sitting far. Cook served fish I never saw, whole fish with head and eyes, with green things called asparagus. And wine I don't drink.

Vanessa talked non-stop about Dubai, about yacht in Dubai Marina, about people called "Becky from Tribe" and "Shiv from Village Market" and "Marcus from London" — people I don't know, brands I never heard. She laughed loud, touching Ethan's hand every minute.

She turned to me, smiling sweet poison smile.

"So Amara, what do you do? Besides... marrying billionaires for money?"

I put fork down. My hands sweating on expensive dress.

"I was... I sell second-hand clothes at Gikomba and I help Mama with..."

Ethan cut me fast, sharp. "Amara is doing Community Development degree at UoN, final year."

Lie. I dropped out second year because no fees.

"Oh, cute," Vanessa said, sipping wine, eyes on me. "Gikomba. Very... authentic. Very cultural. Ethan, you remember you said you hate Gikomba smell? You said those people smell like sweat and old clothes? You said you would never even drive through Eastlands?"

She said it smiling, but knife inside.

I put spoon down, sound loud.

Ethan's face red. "Vanessa, enough."

But Vanessa smiled at me, leaning forward, perfume and wine.

"Don't worry, I'm not jealous, dear. Ethan and I have history. Seven years. Since Strathmore. His mother loves me like daughter. I will be back as main wife after your... contract ends. So let's be friends, okay? You can be my maid after one year, I will pay you better than Gikomba, maybe 20k per month, plus uniform."

Something hot rose in my chest, from Umoja, from years of being told "know your place" by landlord, by county askari, by teachers who said Umoja girls become househelps.

I stood, chair falling behind.

"I am not maid," I said, voice shaking but loud, loud enough for cook to hear in kitchen. "I am wife. For one year, this is my house too. Contract or not, judge signed. And you are guest in my house. So respect me in my house. If you want lap, go sit on lap in Dubai, not in my sitting room."

Silence. Big silence. Even clock ticking stopped.

Vanessa's eyes opened big, shocked no one ever talked back. Ethan looked at me, shock, mouth open.

Vanessa then laughed, slow clap _clap clap clap_.

"Oh wow, ghetto girl has claws! I like it! Ethan, you married a fighter from Eastlands, with real claws! Maybe she will bite!"

She stood, walked to me, close, perfume choking, heels taller than me.

"Listen, fighter from Eastlands," she whispered, only me hearing, breath wine. "I have money, I have family in Karen, I have his mother Margaret who already called me to come back. You have nothing. One year ends, you go back to Umoja to sell bras. So don't fall in love with my man. He will never love you. He loves soft skin, not dark knees. He loves class, not Gikomba."

She pushed past me, bag hitting my hip hard.

"Ethan, call me when village girl sleeps. We have business to finish."

Gate _beep beep_, red Range Rover gone, leaving perfume and shame.

I stood shaking, potato juice still on my hands from kitchen, 18k dress now feeling cheap.

Ethan came to me, grey eyes angry, not soft now.

"You shouldn't have talked to her like that," he said, voice low, dangerous CEO voice. "Vanessa is important to my family business. Her father is investor. You embarrassed me."

"She sat on your lap!" I shouted, first time I ever shouted at billionaire. "I am your wife! Even if contract! You told me this is my house too! Or was that lie also?"

He stared, jaw tight.

"You are contract wife, Amara. Know your place. You are from Eastlands, she is from our world. Don't ever shout at me again in my house. My mother was right, you have no manners."

Know your place.

Those three words. Same words landlord told Mama when we delayed rent. Same words teacher told me when I asked for bursary.

I ran to my room, locked door with key, tore that 18k dress at shoulder trying to remove fast, and cried on floor like Umoja again, not Runda wife. I cried for Mama, for Brian, for me, for that potato I never finished peeling.

At 2am, knock on my door. Soft knock.

"Ethan. Voice soft, not angry."

"Amara, open. I need to talk. Please."

I didn't open. I was in my old Tuskys pajama, face swollen.

"Amara, it's about your mother. Aga Khan Hospital called me. Not Carol. Me directly."

My heart stopped. Cold.

I opened door fast. He stood there, phone in hand, hair messy, no shoes, face... not cold. Scared? Worried? He looked human first time.

"Your mother collapsed at 1am. Kidney failing faster. Doctor says they need to do transplant now, this week, not next month. Or she will go into coma. They need 1.5M balance tonight before they book theatre for tomorrow morning."

1.5M. Tonight. We had used all 500k for deposit, plus I sent 50k to Brian school. Left 0.

Where will we get 1.5M in one night? Even Ethan... his accounts frozen because grandfather hasn't signed will yet?

Ethan looked at me, at my tears, at my Tuskys pajama, and said something I never expected from cold billionaire.

"I will pay. All 1.5M. Right now. I will call Aga Khan and pay. Your mother will live. But you have to do something for me tonight. Something my grandfather wants. Something that will make this contract real."

My breath stopped.

"What... what thing?"

He looked at my bed, four pillows, then at me, grey eyes dark.

"Tonight, you have to sleep in my room. In my bed. As my real wife. Because my grandfather is coming tomorrow at 6am unannounced to check if our marriage is real. If he finds you sleeping alone in guest room, he will cancel will and your mother... will have no hospital. And Vanessa told him we sleep separate."

Sleep in his room? In his bed? As real wife?

What does real wife mean for contract that said no sex?