C5 MIDNIGHT LESSON

I looked at him. My wedding husband standing at my door at 2am saying "do something for me tonight" while my mother is dying at Aga Khan.

My first thought was dirty. That he wants my body. Contract said no sex unless I agree, but now he has me cornered. 1.5M for my mother's life. 1.5M is blood money. In Umoja, men do that — they say "I will pay rent if you..."

I held my door tight, knuckles white, Tuskys pajama torn at shoulder.

"What thing? What do you want me to do tonight, Ethan? Say it clear!"

He saw my face — fear, disgust, tears — and his face changed from cold CEO to... hurt? Like I insulted him.

"Not that, Amara. What do you think I am? Animal? You think I would force you for money?"

He entered my room without asking, sat on edge of my bed that had four pillows. He was still in suit trouser, white shirt open top two buttons, tie gone. He smelled whisky and car perfume and something else — tiredness. Real tiredness, not rich people tired.

"My grandfather is coming tomorrow morning from London. He landed tonight, 11pm. He is old, 89, he is the one who wrote that stupid will that says I must marry before 30. He wants to see my wife is real, not contract girl from Eastlands. If he thinks you are fake, he will cancel everything. Company, money, your 3M, all. He will give everything to my cousin Jeff."

"So? Let him cancel, your mother will still—"

"No," he cut. "If he cancels, my mother will also cancel your mother's hospital payment. My mother controls Aga Khan account. You understand? If grandfather says this marriage is fake, my mother will take back that 500k advance and your mother will be thrown out of Aga Khan back to Kenyatta queue."

My legs finished. I sat on floor, not bed. Cold floor felt familiar, like Umoja floor.

"So? What you need tonight?"

"So you need to act like you love me. Really love me. Tomorrow for two hours when he comes at 6am. Hold my hand, kiss my cheek, laugh at my jokes even if they are not funny, call me babe like Vanessa does. My grandfather is not stupid like my mother or Vanessa, he will know fake in one second. He was married 50 years."

"That's all?" I said, breath coming back. "Just acting?"

"Yes. But you can't act rich wife if you walk like you are carrying sack of potatoes on head and talk sheng loudly."

I wanted to slap him. My mother is dying in ICU and he is teaching me catwalk.

"My mother is dying and you are teaching me how to walk?" I shouted, voice cracking. "You think I care about walking? My mother is in machine!"

He stood, angry too, grey eyes storm. "I am paying 1.5M for your mother! That is not small money, Amara! Even for me! My mother will kill me when she sees transaction! The least you can do is learn how to be my wife for two hours!"

He took out phone, black iPhone, M-Pesa Business. Beep beep.

My small Tecno phone beeped same time, loud in quiet room.

*KSH 1,500,000 received from Ethan Blake King. Transaction code: QJ... New balance: 1,504,200.*

Just like that. 1.5M in middle of night while I am in pajama that says "HAPPY BIRTHDAY" from Tuskys Supermarket 2019, 250 bob.

I sat down. Legs finished completely. 1.5M. I had never seen 1M in one place except on Citizen TV news about corruption.

He had already called hospital. He put phone on speaker — Aga Khan doctor, Indian accent.

"Mr. King, deposit received 1.5M. We schedule transplant tomorrow 8am. Mother stable now, we have donor, your friend from King Group donated? Very good."

Friend? What friend? Ethan never told me.

He cut call. Room silent.

I started crying. Again. I am tired of crying in this mansion, I cried more in Runda 2 days than I cried in Umoja 2 years.

"Why are you doing this?" I whispered, snot coming. "You hate Gikomba girls. You said you will never love me. Why pay?"

He was quiet long time, looking at window where Runda night is dark and quiet, no gengetone, no dogs.

Then he said low, "Because when you told Vanessa 'this is my house too', I... I respected that. No girl ever talked to Vanessa like that. Not even me. You have... guts. My grandfather likes guts."

He sat near me on floor, not on bed, so we same level. His trouser will get dust, but he didn't care.

"Now, lesson one. Rich women don't walk like you are carrying sack of potatoes on head. Straight back. Like you have book."

He stood, showed. Walked in my room, back straight, like model. I watched.

I stood too, in my cheap pajama, walking in big bedroom while he watches, trying straight. My knees dark, he saw but didn't say.

"Better," he said. "Lesson two. When I hold your hand tomorrow, don't hold like you are holding matatu rail at Outer Ring Road. Soft. Like you want to be held."

He took my hand. His hand was warm, big, rough with small callus — not soft like rich boys who only type. Working hands, maybe gym? I held soft, like he said. He didn't leave my hand fast. He held 5 seconds more.

"Lesson three," he said low, voice suddenly hoarse. "When you kiss my cheek for grandfather, don't be scared and run. Kiss like you mean it. Grandfather will check."

My heart beating like drum at Umoja, _dundundun_, loud I thought he heard.

He brought his face near. I could see his eyelashes long for a man, his small scar near left eye I never saw, his lips. He smelled whisky but good whisky, not chang'aa.

I kissed his cheek. Light kiss, lips trembling. His skin warm, shaved smooth morning but rough now at night.

He closed eyes for one second, long second. His hand tightened on mine.

Then his phone rang. Loud, breaking magic. Screen lit — VANESSA calling. 2:13am, photo of her in bikini in Dubai.

He let my hand go fast, like burned by jiko.

"Vanessa," he answered, walking to window, voice cold again.

I heard her shouting from phone, drunk, slurred English. "Ethan! That village girl insulted me! You let her? Tell her I will beat her! I am coming with my brothers!"

He said, "It's late, Vanessa. Sleep. We talk tomorrow."

"Don't tell me sleep! You married her for real? My father said—"

He cut, switched off phone completely, threw it on my bed.

He turned to me, face tired again.

"Continue lesson tomorrow 6am. Wear that happy birthday pajama grandfather loves humble girls. Sleep now. Your mother will live tomorrow."

He left. Door closed soft.

I lay on big bed with four pillows, touching my cheek that had touched his cheek, and my phone with 1.5M and message from Aga Khan: "Your mother scheduled for transplant 8am tomorrow. Donor confirmed. Deposit received - Thank you Mr. King."

I should be happy. My mother will live. Brian will have school. I have money.

But I was thinking about his hand, rough and warm, and how he closed eyes when I kissed him, like he felt something, and how fast he threw phone when Vanessa called.

At 6am, alarm I didn't set woke me. No, not alarm. Screaming downstairs. Not Vanessa voice. Old mzee voice, shouting in English mixed with Kikuyu, stick hitting floor _tok tok tok_.

"WHERE IS THAT GIRL? THAT EASTLANDS GIRL WHO TRAPPED MY GRANDSON? BRING HER! I HAVE PROOF!"

Grandfather had arrived early. Four hours early. And he had newspaper.

I jumped from bed, didn't comb hair, no bra, same happy birthday pajama because I didn't have time, ran downstairs with heart in mouth.

And that's where your Chapter 6 starts — exactly same line:

_Old mzee was in sitting room, walking stick hitting floor. He was small, but eyes like Ethan's, grey and angry...