The "restaurant" Mwansa Tembo chose wasn't a restaurant. It was a private terrace at the top of a glass building in Rhodes Park that overlooked the city like a throne room.
Down there, Lusaka was a chaotic symphony of minibus horns and street vendors. Up here, it was silent, smelling of expensive jasmine and filtered air.
I arrived exactly seven minutes late.
In Zambia, "Seven minutes" is technically early, but in the world of Mwansa Tembo, I could see it was an irritant. He was already seated, a single glass of sparkling water in front of him. No phone. No laptop. Just him, looking like he owned the sunset.
I sat down, my K150 handbag thumping onto the white linen tablecloth like a brick.
"You're late, Ms. Banda," he said. His voice was smoother than it had been at the podium. Up close, he had a small scar just above his left eyebrow—the only thing about him that looked human.
"I'm actually early," I replied, smoothing my skirt. "In Chelstone, the bus driver decided to have a ten-minute debate with a passenger over a K2 change. I'm lucky I didn't have to walk."
Mwansa didn't smile. "The fact that your life is governed by a K2 dispute is exactly why we are here."
He pushed a thick, cream-colored folder toward me. It didn't say "Marriage Contract." It said **STRATEGIC DOMESTIC PARTNERSHIP AGREEMENT**.
"I don't do 'Strategic Domestic Partnerships,'" I said, not touching it. "I do Economics. And the economics of this don't make sense. Why me? You could marry a minister's daughter. You could marry a Miss Zambia. You could marry a woman who knows which fork to use for fish."
Mwansa leaned back, his dark eyes tracking a plane landing at Kenneth Kaunda International in the distance.
"The ministers' daughters want my soul. Miss Zambia wants my PR team. I don't need a partner who wants what I have, Chileshe. I need a partner who hates what I represent just enough to keep me honest, but loves her family enough to play the part."
He tapped the folder.
"My board thinks I'm a 'cold exploiter.' The government thinks I'm a flight risk. I need a wife who smells like the streets of Lusaka and talks like a PhD student. I need the 'Banda' brand. In exchange, I fix your life."
I finally opened the folder. My eyes skipped the legal jargon and went straight to the numbers.
* **Clause 4.1:** An immediate settlement of all outstanding medical and utility debts for the Banda household.
* **Clause 4.2:** Monthly 'stipend' of K50,000.
* **Clause 4.3:** A trust fund for her father's 'retirement'—totaling K2,000,000 upon successful completion of the two-year term.
My heart did a backflip. Two million Kwacha. My father could buy a farm. He could buy a whole street in Chelstone. He could stop looking at that mango tree like it was his last friend on earth.
"And Clause 5?" I asked, my voice slightly tight. "The... 'marital' expectations?"
"Separate wings in the Leopards Hill house," Mwansa said firmly. "Public affection is mandatory. Private interaction is optional. No children. No scandals. And most importantly, Ms. Banda—no falling in love. I don't have the budget for a broken heart."
I let out a short, sharp laugh. "Don't worry, Mr. Tembo. I've seen your balance sheets. You aren't nearly rich enough for me to catch feelings."
I picked up the heavy gold pen sitting on the table. It felt like a weapon.
"One condition," I said, pausing.
"Which is?"
"My mother. She's going to want a kitchen party. She's going to want 400 people, three different outfits, and a choir. If we're doing this, we're doing it the Zambian way. If I'm selling my soul, I want my mother to be the happiest woman in the Copperbelt."
For the first time, the corner of Mwansa's mouth twitched. It wasn't a smile, but it was close.
"Deal. I'll tell my people to buy enough nshima to feed a province."
I signed my name. *Chileshe Banda.* The ink was black, but as I looked at Mwansa, I felt like I'd just stepped into a deep, dark pool of water. I had saved my family, but as I looked at the 'Copper King,' I realized I had just signed up for the hardest job in Zambia: pretending not to care about the man who was currently buying my life.
"Welcome to the firm, Chileshe," he said, standing up. He didn't offer a kiss. He offered a handshake.
His hand was warm. Mine was cold.
As I walked out, my phone buzzed. A text from my cousin: *'Chileshe, are you coming home? We are using a candle, the power is still out.'*
I looked at the black Benz waiting for me at the curb.
"Tell them to turn the lights on," I whispered to the empty air. "The Queen of Chelstone is coming home."
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