CHAPTER ONE

ANGIE

Nothing had prepared Angie for Ndola. Not the glossy textbooks she read to her students at the

church mission, not Luka’s endless daydreams at the riverbank, not even stories from the men at the nsaka who returned to their wives in Chinsali during the planting season. Outside the municipal hall, they waited their turn to marry, while she absorbed the throbbing city around her.

Ndola town was impeccable: its straight roads shimmered jet-black, its arched avenues shielded lovers’ whispers in cool shades of grey. Purple promenades led the way to the town centre where people moved excitably towards rows of gleaming motor cars, ladies holding each other at the elbow, kissing the air with their rouge lips and set curls. Men in fancy suits mumbled good mornings from behind dark glasses smooth as river stones.

But as charming as it was, policemen glided along the pavements, fishing for permits and passes, leaves crunching beneath their boots. Tall dogs with pointed ears, controlled by thin leashes, walked alert at their sides. Yesterday, when she crossed the road with Luka, her hand in his, he’d had to let go because a white man walked right through them. Luka’s eyes turned dark and small, like they were ready to light up the city, set it on fire until it burned to ashes. The white man didn’t notice.

Ndola made Angie feel monitored and invisible at once, but home was with Luka.

She breathed in deeply beneath the flicker of the Union Jack.

The hall was emptied but still contained remnants from the last union: fluttering ribbon, limp daisy heads, and bruised lilies. Mixed odours hung in the room, and Angie couldn’t help but think of a common market – with couples coming in and couples going out. She began to hum their favourite hymn, ‘Abide with Me’.

The netting on her hat was teased over her face. As she floated down the aisle, portraits of old white men in ceremonial dress drifted past. Even if she could turn to peer closely, she’d know none of them. Dizzy-obscurity. Maybe loneliness. If Luka’s parents had been more reasonable, she and Luka wouldn’t have to wed like untethered, parentless people. Her parents, on the other hand—she smiled—imagined Papa on his carved wooden stool outside their little hut, reading her letter about today to Ba Mayo, ending with something Latin like caritas, caritas. The red soil would be rich and soft from the rain around this time. They would probably be having mushrooms or pumpkin for lunch.

Angie came to a stop at the front of the hall where a newly inaugurated Queen Elizabeth II watched her from the centre of the wall.

Her chitenge suit was cool against her skin, her bump pushed gently at the hem of her blouse. She gripped white roses bound by a blush ribbon, because it was the best way to quiet her rattling bangles. Through her short veil, she could see his hands, mostly held together, though sometimes his long fingers moved nervously, lacing and unlacing. He slid a copper band onto her wedding finger, and she onto his, and they promised to love one another till death did them part. He leaned over to sign:

African Male, Lucas Bwembya, Age 25

African Female, Angie Rain Mfula, Age 23

The pen squiggled, knowing that if either of them had a choice they’d be registered as Mr and Mrs Bwembya, not African Male and African Female.

Toby and his sister signed next to their names as witnesses, and at last her veil was lifted.

Luka’s glossy hair was cut low and wavy, and a shaved parting slanted leftward; his moustache was lustred too. He smelled both soft and sharp, Palmolive pomade and tonic. His eyes danced like they did when he knew he’d written a winning speech, or when he was about to do something he knew he shouldn’t, which was often. He pressed his lips together; the ridge that dipped at the centre of his square chin deepened. And there he was. The same handsome boy she’d met at fourteen.

Outside, they stood at the foot of the entrance where fistfuls of rice rained. Angie brushed the corners of his grey suit, and he leaned down to kiss her. His friends clapped and she heard the click of a camera. Looking around, the wind blowing through her veil, her hand in Luka’s, she couldn’t help but smile.

Luka’s friend Toby jumped in between them and the camera clicked again. He was as rough as the suit he wore, and when she looked closer, she was certain she saw wrinkles in his blazer.

He had with him young boys who wore T-shirts bearing strange announcements like MEN’S GYMNASTICS. Toby gave her the sense of someone too shrewd for his own good. She found his eyes calculating, assessing, dividing – always preparing to take. His boys followed him, waving goodbye as he issued instructions: “Don’t forget to collect the money. Bring it to the HQ as soon as you can.” He hooted and they jumped into a borrowed bus for the wedding party.