"Grief was the celebration of love, those who could feel real grief were lucky to have loved."
— Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie
As we drove up to the ranch, there were dozens of people at the gate.
News of the minister's death has reached the media and, as expected, their grief is palpable.
The movement restriction is still on, with nobody allowed into or out of the premises. Getting to the house, I am surprised that the number of policemen there seems to have doubled.
I'd thought that with the chief officer in the station, there would be none of them at the ranch, but there they still are, pretty much everywhere you turn.
I ask for my lunch to be delivered to my room, and I am asleep very shortly after eating it, mentally and physically exhausted.
With the mystery of the minister's murder still rife, whether we like it or not, we are all prisoners in the house, even the prospective groom.
I feel saddened that the reason for Yusuf's trip back home has been botched.
With all that is happening, it is very unlikely that any ceremony will be able to take place anytime soon.
The next morning, the movement restriction was lifted, and I was forced to remain in the living room all day, receiving visitors.
I sit there, clad in dark coloured clothes, forcing myself to wear the sullen and melancholy look of a widow.
Thankfully, all I have to do is nod in acknowledgement to their greetings and expressions of sympathy.
As a widow, I do not have to say anything. I have Kamsir and Yusuf for that.
I know it is only a matter of time before the other ministers and politicians will descend on the house, telling me what to do and not to do.
I don't know if it is a coincidence or just bad luck that my mother died the same age.
As the police walked about the house, dragging different people into questioning, I am forced to wonder if they even know what they are doing.
It seems to me like plenty of motion but with no movement.
With all the bombshells dropped at the police station the previous day, not one of us, not kamsir, Ibrahim, Yusuf, nor myself have been
questioned any further.
On the contrary, we have all been allowed to roam freely, Ibrahim especially.
He has been coming and going as he pleases. If he is indeed the killer, he could have made a run for it a long time ago.
It occurs to me that, at this rate, we might never find the minister's killer. Either that or we transfer the case to another police jurisdiction, Washington maybe.
I go through the motions that day and the next, and all I can do is wonder why Jacobi hasn't come to visit yet.
Surely, by now he would have heard about what happened. I start to fear that he has taken on board my admonition to forget about me, realising he is better off not being associated with me.
With madam maria still walking around the house like a ghost, Yusuf has been the closest to a friend I have had in the house since this unfortunate incident. Kamsir has been withdrawn and uncharacteristically quiet, and Ibrahim…well Ibrahim has been Ibrahim. I would do anything to see Jacobi again.
I am asleep the next time I hear his voice.
I am drained after receiving a large contingent from the mosque and church.
Apparently the minister donated a lot , and I'm lying on the couch, catching a short nap. As I hear the comforting timbre of his voice, I almost don't want to wake up from the dream. I want to reach out for him, and never, ever let go.
But it isn't a dream.
My eyes open, and I see Jacobi and Yusuf talking with a lot of familiarity, almost like they know each other or are, worse, friends.
"It was a real shock, my brother," Yusuf is saying.
"One minute, we were making plans for how we would go to see our prospective in-laws, and the next minute," he gestures around, "we wake up to this."
"Accept my condolences. It's never easy to lose a parent," Jacobi answers. "And your dad was in such great health the last time I saw him."
"That's what makes it more painful," Yusuf answers. He catches sight of me sitting up and smiles. "Zeynep, you're awake."
"zeynep," Jacobi says, before he can catch himself. "How are you? I've been worried."
"I'm fine," is all I can answer, even though I really want to add 'Better now you're here'.
Yusuf looks from Jacobi to me, and a smile of understanding forms on his lips. "Let me go grab a bite from the kitchen," he says. "Jacobi, we'll catch up later."
"You're friends with Yusuf ?" I ask, as Jacobi sits beside me.
"We all grew up together. We are Children to wealthy parents on the same estate," he answers. "I'm so sorry about what happened to the minister. So, you guys just woke up and found him dead?"
I nod. "It's a mystery."
He moves closer. "Zeynep, being without you is killing me. I can't even function. I miss you so much."
I look around cautiously. "Not here, love. Anyone can come in."
True to my words, we hear voices in the hallway, and kamsir soon leads another group of sympathisers into the living room.
He and Jacobi exchange pleasantries, as he rises to make room on the sofa for the 'important dignitaries'.
I watch helplessly as he takes a seat on the other end of the living room and wish I could order everyone there out, so we can finally have some time alone.
But instead, I sit and nod through yet another visit, while kamsir answers the myriad of questions our sympathisers always have about the circumstances surrounding his death.
I am further dismayed when, just as they rise to leave, another group arrives, and then another. It is an endless flow of visitors, but Jacobi sits through it all, waiting patiently for time alone with me.
Eventually, the last of the sympathisers leave, and Jacobi takes advantage of kamsir and Yusuf seeing off the important dignitaries to move closer to me.
This time, we do embrace. I hold. him, comforted by the feel of his arms and his signature mint and ocean smell.
"I've missed you so much, zeynep. But I'm glad. I'm glad that we can finally plan for our future. As soon as your mourning period is over, I'm going to take you away from here," he says, kissing me on my forehead.
I nod, happy that our hearts are still in sync and that we are thinking the very same thing. If it weren't for the 22 years I have spent as the minister's wife, I wouldn't even bother hanging around after the funeral.
But out of respect for him, I will observe my widowhood rites, after which I will walk out of the gate with my head held high.
Jacobi and I pull apart, and his brows are furrowed.
"Are you okay, my love? You seem tense. Your fists have been clenched since I got here. I noticed it while I was sitting on the other side."
"Clenched?" I look at my hands! and see that, truly, they are clenched.
I release them, but they involuntarily form balls again. "I didn't even notice. It's been a stressful time, so maybe my body is just reacting."
He takes my hands in his, and I am surprised by how painful this feels.
The look of concern on his face shows that he can also feel it.
The deep wound on my right palm.
"zeynep , what happened?" Jacobi asks, his voice a whisper. "How did you get this?"
I look at it, the wound, bewildered.
I, too, haven't noticed the deep cut, but as my sleepwalking over time has led me to more than a few injuries, I haven't thought much of it.
"I don't know. I must have injured myself the night I…you know…" I answered, ashamed to say what is now a curse word to me. "Can't you remember the time I almost drowned? I usually end up with all sorts of injuries after most episodes."
He looks at the wound again and rubs his hand across the other small angry red lines that criss-cross the rest of that palm, with even a few on the other.
"Jacobi , thanks so much for coming," comes kamsir's voice from the door, making him quickly drop my hands. "And also for staying this long. I can't wait for us to quickly bury the man so we can have some peace in this house."
"Erm, how…how soon is the burial?" Jacobi asks, but I can see that he is distracted.
Kamsir launches into a long diatribe about how the police have to give approval before funeral planning can start and how difficult their relatives are being, but I can see that he is barely listening.
Yusuf walks into the room, and he takes the opportunity to announce his departure.
"Let me leave you guys to rest," he says, before looking at me. "I'll see you tomorrow. Make sure you get enough sleep."
He walks away, and kamsir turns to me. "Is it my imagination, or did you both seem very familiar?"
"I didn't want to say anything, but I also noticed some kind of energy between you two," Yusuf chimes in, a mischievous glint in his eye.
I am tempted to lie to them, to tell them that he is just my doctor and that we grew close when I was admitted in the hospital for so long. But, instead, I decide to damn the consequences and say the truth.
"Jacobi and I are seeing each other," I announce. "As soon as my mourning is over, I'm leaving to be with him."
Kasmir's mouth drops open, but Yusuf steps forward to embrace me.
"I'm happy to hear that, zeynep. I'm happy to hear you're happy. It'll make me less worried about you when I leave," he says. "Jacobi is a great guy. You couldn't have picked a better man."
His acceptance brings tears to my eyes, and just as I am about to respond, we are all startled by noise from outside.
We rush out only to realise that the commotion is coming from my garden.
The police and domestic staff have crowded the area, and we have to push our way through to see what is going on.
But the sight that greets me sends my heart crashing to the floor.
Jacobi standing there, holding a bloodied knife.
I gasp, covering my mouth with my hands.
"I saw him with my own two eyes!" one of the policemen is recounting. "I saw him walk out of the house, and instead of heading to the gate, he turned left and started walking to where the flowers are. So, I followed him," he pauses and shakes his head for emphasis. "Only for me to see him bend down and pick up a knife. A knife with blood!"
There is a collective gasp, with various exclamations of "who would have guessed"
By now, my whole body is shaking, and my tongue is tied. I look from the man I love to what is obviously the murder weapon in his hand, not understanding what I am seeing, not able to connect the dots.
When our eyes connect, he gives an almost indecipherable shake of the head.
And then I knew.