A Time to Ask

A story by MWILA AGATHA ZAZA

His forehead touched the cool quartz of the kitchen island. He rested. Exhausted with the exertion of trying to remain sane.

In this awkward pose, his head between his forearms, as if he were about to unfurl into a yoga headstand on the stone countertop, he breathed slowly, counting as he exhaled – one, two, three – slowly, returning to one again and again. He pulled the air in as deep into his lungs as he could.

This was supposed to calm him, to slow his racing pulse, ease the knot that his intestines had formed, and dry the sweat that beaded around his hairline. It didn’t. It couldn’t. 

He’d arrived only minutes ago, having battled the usual after-work traffic. It was still light outdoors, though obscured by thick rain clouds. He’d walked slowly and deliberately from his car, stopping to look at his manicured hedges, only quickly ducking inside at the sight of a neighbour’s electric car purring into its driveway.

A bang jolted the near silence. The slam of a door, girls’ laughter. Nalu with a friend upstairs.

“Oh hell!” He swore as he felt his chest tighten, but he remained as he was, breathing a little faster.

He turned his head to one side, seeking the cold that seemed to dissipate each time he found it. He had walked through the rain from his car, yet he could feel heat rising from him like a fever. Then, after a moment, he smiled at the sight of the kitchen TV; a thick scratch cut across its black screen. It was, what, a month old?

Joshua had caused the scratch earlier that week. A ten-year-old boy’s stunt gone awry. He’d been high kicking, something he’d learned in his martial arts class, and was eager to show his parents, parents that unequivocally loved him and praised his clumsy attempts at imitating his favourite TV programmes. This was a large kitchen, even for the neighbourhood they lived in, with a dining table and seating area. This was what they’d bought the house for, for their children to grow up safe and free to high kick, tap dance, briefly attempt the piano, and at the end of the day throw themselves onto the large sofa and watch TV while he or Leya cooked or reheated takeaways.

Nalu and Leya had screamed as Adam had bellowed, “Watch out!” The screen had fallen from its perch onto the floor. After the crash came a brief silence followed by the whole family laughing. The TV had been righted, Joshua had been reassured that it was just an accident and that there were no consequences.

“See.” Adam had flicked it on using the remote. “It’s fine.”

He searched that brief vignette for clues. Joshua, Nalu, Leya and himself. Nothing about that scene hinted that either of his children could be unhappy, that either of them was hiding a secret. Though both were in the house somewhere, he rummaged through his memory for their faces, asking if their smiles had been sincere, if their laughter had been real.

Let’s leave it, he told himself. We’ll just assume… they would have told us, wouldn’t they?

He rose immediately when he heard Leya enter. He straightened his shirt and sniffed hard in an attempt to compose himself. He heard her footsteps; was she checking their lounge for him? Yes. He heard her footsteps in the corridor, and then she entered the kitchen.

When she saw him, she hurried across the room to him and buried her face in his chest. She coughed with the effort of trying to restrain herself. It had been an awful conversation with her. He’d had to convince her to leave a meeting and find somewhere quiet because he had something important to tell her.

“Has something happened to the kids?” had been her first question. He’d heard her making her excuses to her colleagues, he guessed, in the gleaming, impersonal meeting room that he’d once visited.

He’d had to pause and shut his eyes before responding, “No, they’re fine.”

“Is it mummy?” When he said no, she began with a list of those back home because it had to be death, or at least a serious injury, why else would he call her at work?

“This can’t be true,” she said, her voice muffled in his shirt.

“It’s true. He told me himself.” He savoured the feeling of her body against his, a momentary comfort. 

Lyandu had told the police he wanted Adam there. He valued his friendship, he wanted Adam to hear his confession before the coercion, before the courts, lawyers, media and trials. 

Adam had marched into the station, certain that it was all a mistake. Then, his step less confident, a slight discomfort in his stomach, he’d decided it wasn’t a mistake – it was corrupt, racist police. Lyandu, a successful Black immigrant, was their target. It was a rouse, a lie against a man he’d known since they were two young university students with common friends and experiences in their home country. Could any of these policemen, he’d sneered silently, find Zambia on a map? Do they think we live in trees? 

Didn’t they know that Lyandu was the son of one of the finest families in Zambia? Didn’t they realise that Lyandu’s father had been a lawyer clad in his official vestments while their own fathers had been kicking tin cans in the streets of decrepit mining towns?

As he’d waited, his anger had dissipated into silent reassurance. “As soon as they realise that he’s not just some asylum seeker or illegal, that he’s not a toilet cleaner, they’ll let him go. Money matters.” he said to himself.

Still, his tension refused to settle. He tapped the armrest, crossed and uncrossed his legs, and leaned back and forward again in stiff waiting chairs. What? Hadn’t they seen Lyandu’s clothes? How could they imagine that a man with such discerning taste could be any kind of criminal? When they arrested him, he would have been most likely clad in a dark blue fitted linen suit and handmade Spanish leather shoes. Both would have borne discreet labels that attested to their quality - and price. Criminals didn’t drive family estate cars, the boots of which held field hockey sticks and damp swimming clothes.

“Please take care of my family,” Lyandu had sobbed after a long, stammered declaration of his crimes. Adam had been dazed, almost oblivious to where he was: a dim room with police officers in plain clothes, the linoleum floors, and the persistent drone of the ventilation system. He felt paralysed, as if the scale of his disbelief had turned him to stone.

When he’d finally emerged into the reception area, Mercy, Lyandu’s wife, had been waiting outside. She’d looked confused, probably unsure what she, a financial specialist with clients that ensured she earned more than any police officer could hope to, a woman commended by politicians and media alike, was doing in a police station’s waiting room. Mercy was an athletic, lithe woman. Her hair was braided into shoulder-length waves, and her light brown eyes were bright with tears. Lyandu and Mercy ran together, they were physically matched, both in good health, good looking, and intelligent.

When he’d recounted Lyandu’s confession, Mercy hadn’t screamed or cursed in disbelief. Instead, she’d wailed. A sound that cut through the station not just in its volume but in its alienness. It was a sound he hadn’t heard for years, the unmoderated signal of mourning – the sound made upon hearing of a death. A sound heard in the corridors of hospitals, at funerals, and occasionally in an office after someone received a call during working hours.

But that sound was from elsewhere. It was from the place they left decades earlier, in their youth. It was a sound that now grated, that was now offensive to his ears. It was unbecoming, as if she was a village woman - he stopped himself and noticed that others in the waiting room were looking at them. With momentary embarrassment, he’d pulled away from Mercy.

Now, in the kitchen, Leya had abruptly stepped back from him. She was massaging her face and pacing between the island and the fridge, and tapping her lips with her fingers.

He wondered how Leya could say nothing. This was the woman that he was accustomed to shushing in cinemas, the one whose children groaned at her ill-timed jokes and persistent observations of strangers. This was a woman who, at a funeral, had recounted humorous anecdotes that had the people around her laughing inappropriately.

“We have to ask them,” he said to Leya, his chin nodding towards the ceiling, upstairs where Nalu and Joshua were. “No, I have to ask them. Lyandu was my friend. This is my responsibility.”

A scuffling sound came as two teenagers came down. Nalu and friend. Aha! It was Rosa, the surgeon’s daughter. He’d been pleased when Rosa was first introduced. He liked this friendship. Nalu, his child, the daughter of a successful entrepreneur lauded in magazines, and Rosa, daughter of a renowned surgeon whose practice was known among the wealthy.

Not that she or Joshua had the opportunity to make any other kind of friends; their school and neighbourhood were bereft of the poor unless they were there to work. Lyandu had lived in the same world, his children went to the same school, and their clothes were bought in the same shops. 

“Can we have a snack?” Rosa and Nalu spoke, both standing beside the fridge, Rosa’s hand on the fridge, and when neither parent responded, she opened it.

On a normal day, they would have tried to stop them, dinner is soon, it will ruin your appetite. He and Leya would often discuss how badly behaved the two girls seemed, if taken from the perspective of his and Leya’s upbringing. More than a few times, they’d talked about these little differences, like how, as children, they would never have dreamed of opening someone else’s fridge and helping themselves to what was inside.

“I want some, too,” yelled Joshua, flying across the room and slamming a door behind him.

He would sit them down separately. Yes. It was important that they were separate. There was no way Nalu would discuss something so personal in Joshua’s presence. And as for Joshua, would he even know what all this was about?

What would he say? His heartbeat began to flutter again, and he felt a warmth in his armpits. Something’s happened to Uncle Lyandu, or was it Lyandu? 

They didn’t call him uncle - this was the way they’d chosen to live. There were no titles that created distance between the generations. Joshua, Nalu, Lyandu, Adam, Mercy. There was no distinction between adult and child. Wasn’t that meant to be a good thing? One day, he’d arrived to find Rosa and Nalu in his and Leya’s bedroom going through Leya’s makeup. No barriers, they’d agreed. This wasn’t Zambia. Here, children talked to adults as if they were their peers. That afternoon Nalu and Rosa had asked Leya to put makeup on them, and while she’d worked, Nalu had told them stories of being smacked by her grandmother for wearing lipstick and being admonished for her poor culinary skills. When she had finished, the girls had come downstairs and showed themselves off to Adam, Lyandu and Mercy, dipping into curtsies and pretending to be models. Within the hour, the two girls had forgotten about it, and all that had been left of Leya’s work were smudges on the furniture, their clothes, and toys.

He was prevaricating. In these days, when every child had a mobile phone, they had to act fast. He had little idea of when the information would be out in public.

Leya didn’t look as if she was acting. She emerged from the fridge with a shop-bought chocolate cake. She, who was always on a quest to stay as slender as the day they met, with a whole chocolate cake was unthinkable. But today, she opened the pack without ceremony, without taking out the cake knife and a plate and spoon. She broke off a piece with her bare hands and bit into it, chewing with a dazed glint in her eyes.

He felt his mobile vibrate in his pocket and then heard it ring.

Bo Paul, Lyandu’s brother. Dread crept up his spine. Paul was thousands of kilometres away; they barely knew each other.

He opened his mouth to greet him, but Paul spoke first, fast, in disbelief, loud on the cusp of a shout. “Bo ma Larissa just called, what is this – she can barely talk. I don’t understand.”

He let him rant, then he said with a calm he did not feel, “I’ve been asked by the police not to give out any information for now. You know, for the victims.”

“Victims – you believe this? These accusations.”

“What I believe is irrelevant. But I can’t say any more. Sorry.” He deflected more questions until Paul conceded and abruptly cancelled the call.

As he opened the dishwasher, unthinkingly, he realised that he would have to tell them something. Lyandu had confessed to him, there was no room for doubt or speculation. His family had been against him moving here, preferring for him to return with his degree from a prestigious university and to follow the path of success that his family had paved. Here, there had been no kith or kin or nepotism to call upon. 

Leya was halfway through the cake, and he thought of stopping her. Rosa was now calling across the landing upstairs to Nalu, who responded at the top of her voice as well. Joshua’s plaintive objections echoed his objection to whatever the girls were saying, as they would on any normal day.

They’d gone out the previous weekend, him, Lyandu, Leya and Mercy. They’d had dinner and drinks at one of those places recommended in leading newspapers and magazines, a place where a drink cost distinctly more than in a local, ordinary pub. They’d reminisced. Lyandu had been to visit family. His parents were now elderly, accustomed to the distance of their youngest son. But Lyandu always made it a point to visit at least twice a year, returning with nothing significant except a few local magazines and economic intelligence, gossip, and a litany of complaints about politicians and their politics. Mercy chose to go only every other year, saving her holidays for trips to European and Asian destinations and bringing back items that made their already chic home even more sophisticated. 

Now he could conclude why––home must have been paradise for someone like him.

“We have to get rid of Rosa,” Adam said quietly to Leya, who had stopped eating of her own accord and was now staring into space. Both he and Leya agreed that Rosa made a perfect playmate for Nalu. Together, they remained little girls, unafraid to play with dolls, cackle at cartoons, and sing along to old musicals. They had yet to discover boys and songs with suggestive lyrics. They had yet to begin questioning their identity and belonging, asking if the world was ready for them. For now, they were happy enough with the explanation; their parents came from elsewhere, they were first-generation citizens, girls with affluent lives and expectations of academic and professional success like their parents and grandparents, aunts and uncles. They were girls.

What had he been doing for the past hour? He looked around, he’d tidied the cutlery drawers and put away the clean dishes.

“I’ll do that,” she offered. “I’ll call her mum and just––”

There was a knock on the back door, and when he answered Mercy entered, distress evident on her face, her jacket spotted with rain and an umbrella unopened in one hand.

“He’s leaving me,” she said in a flat voice and sat on one of the bar stools at the kitchen peninsula; she was familiar with this house. The four of them had discussed the merits of quartz over granite as he and Leya wrestled with the decision to buy this house or another. They’d been in it countless times since with their two daughters, entire afternoons spent in conversation, over braais, or simply watching TV.

Both he and Leya watched Mercy as she arranged herself on the chair. “Apparently, you can do that in jail.”

“He says he can’t forgive,” she sobbed and then took a deep breath. “Me? I told him it would never happen again, no matter how long he was away.”

Adam felt a mild disgust at her declaration of love.

Yes, he’d kissed her. The kind of kiss that is a prelude to sex. Yes, he’d wanted it. But somewhere in that kiss, he’d felt the hardness of her body and all the clues that told him in the near darkness that she was not Leya. He’d apologised profusely and gone home to Leya.

Today, when Leya had held him, had been the first time she’d touched him since. It had been over a year. And he had to admit he had savoured that moment even with the task they were facing.

Days earlier, he’d tried to broach the subject, his desire for her building with each passing day, and his loneliness. Leya had said how she missed his skin, his breath, the proximity, and intimacy – the twenty years they’d had together.

“But, nothing happened,” he’d explained again, his knuckles against his front teeth, lost as to what he could do or say to make her change her mind. 

She said she felt sick when he touched her. The imagery of another mouth with his, the exchange of body fluid. Such an intimate act had been cheapened, something that could be had for the price of a few drinks and laughs at a party. 

That she was his best friend’s wife wasn’t mentioned even once.

“What makes it worse,” Leya had said, “is that Mercy’s the neighbourhood slut. The one whose business everyone knows.” Mercy was a woman who skulked through their friends and acquaintances who was seen in public with men other than her husband. 

But still, they were friends. How well they play acted – that’s what he’d call it. When the four of them were together, the indiscretion was never mentioned. 

They listened to her as the clock chimed a second hour since he’d returned. Still, he was no closer to speaking to Joshua and Nalu.

Leya made Mercy a cup of tea and nodded as she spoke but said nothing of significance, just “Oh no,” “awful,” and “my goodness,” with barely an inflection in her voice when Mercy said she would move away from the neighbourhood. 

He was glad. Their encounter had never made it into the neighbourhood gossip, but he knew his friendship with Lyandu would raise many questions and cause many tongues to wag.

Leaving would allow her children a new start – that was good, wasn’t it? Lyandu and Mercy’s daughters would lose the emotional and financial security of a two-parent family. They would be forced to move from what had been their home for as long as they could remember. There would be press, social media, accusations and revelations. Those back home would demand answers of Mercy, probably even accuse her of some responsibility – if she’d kept her husband happy, then he wouldn’t have strayed. 

It was inconceivable that they could remain at the same school once the truth came out. And if one day Mercy decided to carry on with her life, they would be forced to meet new lovers new partners, and to live new lives.

He wondered how Joshua and Nalu would ever interact with Lyandu’s daughters again once they knew. 

They’d have to talk about it. What did it say in the Bible? “The wickedness of the wicked shall be upon himself.” The children were blameless, even if Mercy had her own crimes.

“Oh god, I have to go. The kids are at my cousin’s. I was just supposed to pick up a few more things.” She stopped. “We’ve lied to them,” she said, standing. “It will have to do for now.”

“This is going to be over soon,” Mercy said as they walked her to the door, and she placed her hands on the doorknob. “I know it.” She didn’t explain what made her so certain.

Both he and Leya murmured in what could have been agreement.

“We should get together, brunch maybe.” Her eyes flickered at him as if Leya wasn’t there. 

“No,” declared Leya as he opened his mouth to say the expected, to reassure her that their friendship would not change.

Mercy’s jaw dropped. It was not the done thing to be so direct.

“I’d rather we never see you again,” said Leya, steering herself between him and Mercy. His wife’s gaze was locked on Mercy, her jaw was set, and her eyes narrowed to slits. 

“But Lyandu’s inno—” she began.

“It has nothing to do with Lyandu,” replied Leya, and he saw in Mercy’s eyes that she understood.

“But he wanted to. I didn’t force myself.” She glanced at him as if hoping for support.

“There’s nothing to discuss,” Leya replied. She placed a hand on Mercy’s arm just above her shoulder and gave her a firm push. “I’m not going to have you near my husband, especially without Lyandu.”

Mercy’s chest heaved, and she bit her lower lip. Her eyelids fluttered. Adam was sure he saw a tear. Mercy opened her mouth, but Leya slowly closed the door, forcing her to step back. When the door was shut, there was no way to tell what Mercy had done next.

“Lyandu had asked me to look after his family,” he said after a breath. Remembering the look of absolute misery on Lyandu’s face just before he was led away by uniformed officers.

“Lyandu’s a paedophile. I don’t care what he wants.” Leya turned to glare at him. “And Mercy’s a bitch.”

They stood facing each other, the only noise was their breathing. Leya was absolutely still while he, discomforted by her gaze, scratched first the back of his neck, then his arm, then his thigh. He caught sight of the clock on the thermostat beside the door. It had been over two hours since he’d arrived, he still hadn’t been able to muster the balls to ask his children if his best friend had, he searched for the word - “interfered” with them.

A thud, followed by a scream, came from upstairs. Then, “Mummy, come quick,” Nalu called from above. 

He raced upstairs, Leya behind him, to a landing strewn with dolls, Lego, and tween magazines. Joshua and Nalu were beside Rosa, who was on the floor clutching her ankle.

“I think I broke it,” she whimpered, as tears began to roll down her cheeks.

“I’ll call an ambulance,” Leya said reassuringly as she sat beside her, took the girl’s hands away from the injury, and examined it. Rosa shrieked when she touched it. Leya made more reassuring noises, and as she dialled, she said to him, “Call Stefan.”

He took a few steps downstairs, out of reach of the tearful girls and increasingly excited boy, and dialled. It took a few rings before Stefan answered. That was understandable; he was a busy man, like they all were. Adam was about to try Stefan’s wife when Stefan answered.

“Hi, Stefan. How are things?” When Stefan didn’t reply he immediately began explaining, “Rosa’s hurt her leg, she seems ok, but we’re calling an ambulance. It could be broken.”

Stefan cleared his throat. “Does she seem ok? She’s conscious, no blood?”

“Yes, the ambulance is more of a precaution,” he replied.

“That’s a relief,” Stefan replied, and, in that instant, Adam thought he heard a sob. “I can trust you, can’t I?”

On instinct, Adam descended to the bottom of the stairs.

“Please say I can trust you,” Stefan repeated. “We have no one else, our families are so far away. God, I’ve never needed them like I need them now.”

“What’s going on?” Adam stammered.

“We can’t come right now. Julia needs us.”

A tremor ran through Adam’s spine. “What do you mean?”

“That bastard, Lyandu.” Now he could hear Stefan crying. “The police are here. He––did things to Julia. She’s only just told us now.” His sobs grew louder. “How did I not see? I thought he was our friend.”

“Stefan,” he replied as Stefan cried. “She’s safe here.”

Stefan rang off. 

He looked up the stairs to where he had to go. Instead, he leaned against the wall, shut his eyes, and clenched his fists. His shoulders heaved with suppressed sobs. Pressing his fingers against his eyes to stop his tears, he gulped quickly, like a fish, desperate to breathe. 

He groaned quietly. How dare he claim that Rosa would be safe here? Lyandu would have walked up and down these steps countless times, like a predator on the prowl, knowing that its owners were oblivious to his perversion.

Or maybe, he thought, maybe it mattered that we were friends. Perhaps for that reason his kids were spared, he had to know.

Adam slowly walked up the stairs again. His heart thudded in his chest with such violence that he could barely hear, but he fought to appear calm. His eyes settled on the scene before him. 

Leya was straightening Rosa’s hair and clothes and speaking in a low, reassuring voice of ambulances and how they’d know exactly what to do. Joshua, now bouncing on an armchair, repeated that it was so cool that he was going to see inside an ambulance and Nalu, who, through tears, was telling him over and over that he wouldn’t.