Chapter Five #2
‘Mrs Rockson-Biney, thanks for taking the call. I’ve been trying to reach your husband but I’ve been unsuccessful.’
‘What’s this about?’
‘The land at Nkyinkyim. We’ve been asked to delay finalising the transfer until Mr Ashon Biney confirms his authorisation. I’m afraid we can’t proceed until then. Do you know when that will be?’
I stand straighter, the long bougainvillea stem in my hand snapping.
‘I’m sorry, what do you mean delay? Wasn’t everything submitted and signed?
’ I have no idea what I’m talking about but I’ll bluff my way to the truth if necessary.
Because that continued lurching in my heart?
It’s a warning system I can’t deny. It reeks of the same dread I felt in the pit of my stomach that day when I heard my father pleading with Nana Biney’s lawyers. Dread that came to pass.
Surely Ashon wouldn’t—
‘Yes, ma’am. But the authorisation for release has been put on hold. Just temporarily, I’m sure. These things happen all the time but we wanted to confirm that this was indeed authorised by your husband and for how long.’
‘Thank you,’ I say, managing, barely, to keep my voice even. Calm. ‘Before you go, can you tell me, is there any reason the delay will be necessary? Any problems with the transfer?’
He clears his throat, hesitates for a moment. ‘Not on our side, madam. We’ve dealt with the Bineys in the past. He likes a smooth and swift transaction and we’ve ensured this is in place this time too. I suppose that’s why I was surprised when we got the message about the pause.’
My heart thuds, dull and heavy, as if it doesn’t want to believe the words ringing their warning.
That I was foolish to take his promise and a mere signed paper on face value.
That somewhere deep inside I’d hoped beyond even the land that should be first and foremost in my thought, that the father of the child I’m carrying wouldn’t revert to family type.
‘I see. We…we’ll get back to you on that. ’
These things happen all the time…
Of course they do.
Just not to me.
Not when I’ve already paid in flesh and vow and blood.
I hang up and hand the phone to the hovering butler.
I don’t scream. Not until he’s gone and I’ve abandoned the flowers and gone up the stairs and shut my bedroom door behind me.
Not until I enter my dressing room and I sink to my knees on the carpeted floor, press my forehead into the row of folded linen and muslin, and scream into the silence until my throat burns and my ribs ache.
He agreed.
I…trusted him, perhaps not wholeheartedly—because my heart wasn’t quite that foolish an organ—but in the belief that he would let this thing that means far more to me than it would ever mean to him, form the foundation of…something.
And as I blink back hot tears, I know that’s what sears the most. I’d unwittingly lowered the ramparts of my guard.
And, he…what? He’s turning it into a leash. A golden chain he can display like a prize and like counter-leverage?
When I finally pull myself together, I find him in the east wing office, shirt rolled up to the elbows, his desk strewn with script notes and architectural plans for the new studio.
The one thing he’s unwavering about, everything else be damned, right?
He looks up, surprised but not a shade of guilt in sight. That hurts more than I expect.
‘Cilla,’ he says my name with that bite of authority he does with everything, but his gaze is already dropping to my belly as if my existence only matters in the seed growing in my womb. Another thing he’s taken to doing lately. Another thing he’s unwaveringly possessive about.
That shouldn’t count or hurt, especially not since the phone call. And yet…
‘Is everything all right?’
I force a nod. ‘Got a call from the land registrar.’
Ashon nods absently, but I catch the hint of stiffening in his shoulders as he flips a page. ‘Probably just bureaucracy. They move slower than a funeral procession.’
I step forward. ‘They said the process was delayed until you confirm. Is that true?’
That gets his attention. He sets the paper down. ‘It’s a few more checks, Cilla. I just need to sign off. Haven’t had the time.’
‘You’ve had weeks.’ Weeks during which I’m ashamed to say have been filled with planning for motherhood, wondering about what kind of mother I’ll be and a slow burning hope of rekindling my freelance documentary career than in thinking about the reparations I should’ve been pushing for my family.
His gaze narrows slightly. ‘I’ve had a studio to build and projects that need my attention.
An unexpected marriage to plan.’ His eyes drop to my belly again.
‘And now a new legacy to protect.’ He shrugs his broad shoulders.
‘I’m all-powerful, I admit, but even the Almighty took a breather.
’ There’s an attempt at humour, but it emerges tight, his eyes far too watchful.
Too calculating. ‘Besides, what’s the hurry? ’
I take a breath. Swallow the sting. ‘You wouldn’t happen to be playing me, would you? Stringing me along now you’ve got your ring on my finger?’
Something flickers in his eyes—guilt or affront, I can’t tell. ‘I said I’d take care of it.’
‘That’s not the same. But, know this, if you do intend to play me, you’ll spend a very long time regretting it.’
‘And you should know, I don’t react very well to threats. So put your claws away, dear wife, before I call your bluff just to see how effective your fireworks truly are.’
I hold my ground, even though my pulse betrays me with a reckless leap. ‘You think this is a game? Some extended noir scene you get to cut to suit the ending you want?’
‘Not quite. Because unlike you, I’m still enjoying the opening scenes of this epic. While you seem to want to race to the credits. Why is that?’ Dark brown eyes pierce me.
And my breath catches.
Because his words shouldn’t matter. But they do far too much. And it terrifies me how easily he slices through my practiced detachment, how deeply that line lands.
I came here angry. I should still be angry. But beneath that, I think I was hoping—naively, stupidly—that he might soothe some of the hurt from the phone call. That he might say one thing to make me believe this isn’t all just calculation.
I square my shoulders. Lie with my spine if I have to. ‘I’m not racing anywhere. But maybe I’ve seen enough of your “epic” to know how it ends.’
He doesn’t reply. Just watches me, his lips pursed and narrows his eyes in silent condemnation. But that too, isn’t an answer.
And that silence plants the first real crack in the ground beneath us.
I nod slowly, like I’ve heard what I needed to, even though I haven’t.
Then I leave before I say something I can’t take back.
Before I confess how much my chest hurts when my heart should absolutely not be in this dangerous game.
Ashon
She doesn’t speak to me at dinner.
She greets Nana with sweet, composed courtesy, folds herself gracefully into her seat, and smiles like she’s starring in a political campaign, not sitting next to the man she married out of necessity.
Not the man who decided to pump the brakes on simply handing over the means by which his new wife could leave him, despite their year’s agreement.
A man who isn’t even entirely sure why he made that decision when he had a veritable army of attorneys both here and in the US to ensure nothing is done against his wishes.
But… I’d meant it when I asked what the hurry was. And I’d waited with more than an alarming knot of tension inside me.
Now the silence between us ticks like a deliberate time bomb. Chilly.
I try to ignore it, digging into the fufu and palm nut soup like it’s a distraction instead of punishment. But I feel her. Every shift of her body. Every breath she doesn’t aim in my direction. Every inch of skin under that soft burgundy dress that refuses to even brush against me.
Nana eyes us both with sharp, unrelenting interest.
‘So,’ he says, settling deeper into his chair. ‘Have we settled on names yet? Something strong. Ancestral. The press will want to know. I want to know.’
I stare into my soup like it might offer an escape route. Cilla, poised as ever, lifts her water glass and smiles without warmth.
‘We plan to discuss it,’ she says. ‘I have a few options I’m considering.’
I glance sideways at her, inwardly grimacing at the single loosened knot, knowing it’s because of her. Her grudging attention. We?
Nana frowns. ‘It’s a joint decision, child.’
‘Of course,’ she replies sweetly, ‘but the child is in my body, so I reserve the right to veto any name that makes it sound like I gave birth to an oil tycoon or a dead coloniser.’
That earns a huff of laughter from Nana and a tightening in my chest.
Because even angry, she’s luminous. The rest of the meeting progresses, Nana probably satisfied with the blood-stirring skirmish.
I let their conversation flow over me as I try not to ponder the true motives behind my action.
Try not to consider that there might be a hint of desperation lurking in there somewhere.
After dessert—mango and pineapple compote—Cilla rises without a word.
I stand, instinctively, ready to offer her my arm.
She doesn’t look at me. Doesn’t wait. Just sweeps out of the room like a queen leaving a court that no longer amuses her.
A minute later, I hear the door down the east wing close.
Then the silence.
I rake a hand through my hair. The chair creaks under my weight when I slump back into it.
‘She’s angry,’ Nana says casually, sipping his after-dinner brandy. ‘Care to share why?’
‘She’s tired,’ I mutter. ‘And no I won’t be discussing my wife with you.’
‘Hmm. Beware of a woman’s silences. Those are more lethal than a screaming shrew.’
I clench my jaw. ‘I don’t need your advice, paapa. Especially on a topic that’s none of your business.’
Nana leans forward, voice low and sharp. ‘You brought her here. You married her. You put my family name in her womb and made her the centre of a very public circus. So don’t talk to me about what isn’t my business.’