C6 GRANDFATHER

I ran downstairs in my happy birthday pajama, no bra, hair not combed. The Tuskys writing on the front was faded, one leg had a hole. I forgot Ethan's family was coming at 8 AM. Mama's surgery was at 7 AM and I was thinking only about hospital, not about old mzee.

Old mzee was in sitting room, walking stick hitting floor — _tok tok tok_. He was small, smaller than I thought a billionaire grandfather would be, but eyes like Ethan's, grey and angry. Suit that looked like 1970 but clean and ironed. Behind him, two bodyguards in black and Ethan's mother, smiling like she won jackpot.

"That's her!" Ethan's mother shouted, pointing at me, her diamond ring shining. "That's the Gikomba girl! I told you Dad, Ethan married a hawker!"

Mzee threw newspaper on the glass table. THE NAIROBI STAR - front page small corner but big photo:

"BILLIONAIRE HEIR MARRIES GIKOMBA HAWKER - Is King Group now selling mitumba?"

Photo was me at Gikomba last year, wearing yellow apron, holding second-hand bra size 42, mouth open shouting "CHUKUA TATU MIA MBILI! CHUKUA!"

My hair was sweaty, my apron dirty, my face tired. It was when my mother was in Kenyatta Hospital queue and I needed to sell 20 bras that day to buy her medicine.

I wanted floor to open and swallow me whole. My birthday pajama had no bra, my nipples showing because it was cold morning. And here I am in front of billionaire grandfather with Gikomba bra photo.

Ethan came from upstairs, tie half done, white shirt. He saw newspaper, picked it, his face went white. His jaw tight.

"Who did this?" he said quiet, but voice dangerous. That voice he uses in boardroom when someone steals money.

His mother said, "Vanessa sent it to newspaper, she was angry last night after you left her at Sankara. She said if she can't have you, no one will. But it's truth, right? She is Gikomba girl. You hid this from us, Ethan!"

Mzee looked at me, up and down, from my uncombed hair to my torn pajama. "Are you Gikomba girl?"

I wanted to lie. I looked at Ethan, he looked at floor. He was ashamed of me. I saw it. His cheeks red. He didn't want to be husband of Gikomba girl in newspaper.

My eyes filled. But I remembered what my mother told me when I was selling bras in rain at Gikomba — "Amara, never be ashamed of honest work. Those rich people have never sold even mandazi."

So I said truth. My voice shaking but loud enough for sitting room.

"Yes. I am Gikomba girl. I sold mitumba bras at Gikomba for two years to feed my mother and my brother when my father died. And I'm proud. That bra photo paid my brother school fees at Eastlands Primary. That yellow apron paid my mother dialysis for one year. What did you ever sell, madam?" I looked at Ethan's mother. "What did you ever sell except your daughter's marriage?"

Silence. Big silence. Even bodyguards stopped breathing.

Ethan's eyes widened. He didn't expect me to talk back.

Mzee stared. Then... he laughed. Loud, coughing laugh that turned into real laugh. _Hahaha!_

"Haha! Finally! A King wife with real work, not these salon girls who only know how to do nails!"

Ethan's mother mouth opened big. "Dad! She insulted me! She is rude! Vanessa is better, she studied in London!"

Mzee hit stick hard on floor. _TOK!_ "Shut up, Margaret. You married my son for money too, you were from Kinoo selling vegetables, don't forget. You think I forgot? You were Gikomba too, but you pretend now."

Margaret went quiet, face red.

He came to me, slowly, stick tok tok. He smelled old soap and Vicks. He was not tall, my height.

"You, Gikomba girl. What is your name? Real name."

"Amara, Mzee. Amara Wanjiku."

"Wanjiku. Like my wife." His eyes softened. "Amara, do you love my grandson?"

I looked at Ethan. He was giving me eyes — please say yes, remember lesson I taught you last night, act love.

My heart beat fast. Should I lie? One lie and I keep 3M contract.

But I was in birthday pajama, no bra, photo of me shouting about bras in newspaper, my mother in theatre right now having kidney removed — I was tired. So tired of lying for money.

I said, "No."

Everyone froze. Even clock froze.

"I don't love him," I said, voice cracking. "I married him for money for my mother transplant. Contract. One year. He pays me 3M. That's truth. He needed wife to get your company, I needed money for hospital. I'm not going to lie to you, Mzee. I'm tired of lying to everyone. I'm Gikomba girl, not actress."

Ethan closed eyes. Like I killed his company, his grandfather, his everything. His hands became fists.

His mother shouted, "You see! Gold digger! I told you Dad! She is con! Arrest her! She confessed!"

Mzee looked at me long, long, like he was looking inside me. Then looked at Ethan.

"Is it true? Contract? One year for money?"

Ethan swallowed, voice low. "Yes, Grandfather. It is true. I... I made contract because you said I must marry before 30 or lose company. And Amara needed money. So we..."

Mzee nodded slowly, slowly. Then did something nobody expected. He sat down on our expensive sofa, tired, like all energy left him. Stick fell.

"Good," he said, looking at ceiling. "At least one honest person in this house of liars. Margaret, you lie you love my son but you love his money. Vanessa lies she loves Ethan but she loves London shops and Instagram. My son lies he is sick but he is just lazy. And you..." he pointed at me, "you tell truth that you need money. I respect that more than fake love."

He took my hand. His hand shaking, cold, old skin.

"My wife, Wanjiku, she sold mandazi at Gikariukor market when I married her in 1965. People said I married low, I married dust. But she built me. She made King Group because she woke me 4 AM daily. So you remind me of her. Same eyes. Same fire."

He looked at Ethan, grey eyes now strict.

"You will keep this girl. Not one year. Forever. And you will learn to be husband, not boss. You hear me, Ethan King?"

Ethan: "Grandfather, contract says—"

"I don't care what contract says! I write contracts! I change will now!" He shouted and bodyguard brought paper fast. "If you divorce this girl in one year, you get zero. Zero shillings, zero company, zero land. If you stay married three years and give me great-grandchild, you get whole company plus my land in Nyeri 100 acres plus my house in Muthaiga. That's new will. I call lawyer today."

What?

Great-grandchild? With Ethan? Child?

My stomach dropped to floor. Child with man who is ashamed of me? In birthday pajama?

Ethan shouted, "Grandfather you can't do that! You can't force child!"

"I can. My company. My money. I am still alive and my brain still works. You want company? Give me great-grandchild. Simple."

He stood, with bodyguard help, looked at me last time.

"Gikomba girl, can you give me great-grandchild? Can you give this family real blood, not London fake?"

I was in birthday pajama, no bra, Gikomba photo in newspaper looking at me, and old mzee asking me to get pregnant for billionaire who hates me and thinks I'm mitumba.

I said nothing. What could I say? My mother was in theatre, I needed 3M, and now he says 3 years plus baby for 100 acres?

Mzee walked to door, bodyguards following, stick tok tok.

"Ethan, teach your wife how to be King, not how to be fake. And you," he pointed at me, "teach my grandson how to be human. He forgot how to be human since he went to Harvard."

Door closed. Car engine, Range Rover V8 left.

Ethan's mother ran after mzee, shouting "Dad! Dad! Think about Vanessa!"

Left me and Ethan alone in sitting room, newspaper on floor, my bra photo looking at us, my birthday pajama cold.

Ethan walked to me, close, angry, grey eyes storm.

"You ruined everything, Amara. I told you to act love, simple acting, you told truth. Now I'm stuck with you for three years and child? Are you happy now, Gikomba girl? Are you happy you trapped me?"

I was crying but not from sadness, from pressure.

"My mother is in theatre now," I whispered. "They are removing her kidney right now at Nairobi Hospital. I told truth because I'm tired. If you want to divorce, divorce and take your company. But don't shout at me in my birthday pajama. It's my birthday today."

He looked at my pajama, saw Tuskys writing, hole, and for first time since wedding, he laughed. Real laugh, not cold CEO laugh.

"Happy birthday pajama? On wedding week? You wear this?"

"Yes," I said, wiping nose with hand. "My mother bought it 2019. It's my lucky."

He sighed, sat on sofa, head in hands, tie finally loose.

"My grandfather never liked Vanessa. Now he likes you. We are in deep trouble, Amara from Eastlands."

I sat opposite, far, covering chest with arms because no bra.

"So what now? Three years? Child? How?"

He looked at me, grey eyes tired, not angry now.

"Now we need to make real marriage. Not contract. Because if we don't, I lose everything. And your mother hospital bill... I paid 2.5M already, so you owe me. You can't run."

He stood, came to me, knelt so we same level. Too close. I smelled his perfume, expensive.

"Amara from Eastlands, will you try to be my real wife? For three years? Try?"

My heart beat fast, loud. Real wife to Ethan King, who has grey eyes and hates Gikomba?

Before I answer, gate opened again, loud screech. Red Range Rover, faster. Vanessa back. And this time she had police, two in blue uniform.

"That's her!" Vanessa screamed from gate, with two policemen, finger pointing at me through window. "That girl stole my husband and my ring worth 800K! Arrest her! She is thief!"

Police entered our sitting room, boots loud.