Another kind of love

Chapter One Alice Mwansa had always been good at following other people’s rules. She’d earned a degree in Business Administration from the University of Zambia, just like her parents wanted — a serious degree, her mother always insisted. But no matter how many jobs she tried, she could never stay. Marketing. Insurance. Banking. She quit each one within months, bored or overwhelmed. It didn’t matter that she failed, because money had never been a problem. Her parents had built a comfortable life in Lusaka’s Rhodes Park, and Alice still lived at home, in her childhood bedroom, safe under their roof. But safety had a price. Two younger siblings, both already married. A mother who reminded her every chance she got: “Your sisters are building families. What about you, Alice? When will you give us good news?” That guilt had become a drumbeat in Alice’s mind, pushing her toward Ben, her boyfriend of three years. He was older, polished, easy to introduce to her parents, and he’d made promises about one day. Tonight those promises had burned to ash. Alice sat hunched on the living room couch, shaking, phone clutched in sweaty hands. Her medium-brown skin felt tight and hot from crying, her large dark brown eyes blurred with fresh tears. She scrolled through Ben’s phone again, unable to look away. Ben: Miss you baby. Can’t wait to see you again. Ben: She’ll never know. Ben: Same place tomorrow? Dozens of messages. Photos too — women in half-naked selfies, sprawled on unfamiliar bedsheets. It felt like her lungs had collapsed. She tried to stand but her knees gave way, dropping her back onto the couch. A sob tore through her, sharp and jagged. The apartment door slammed open. “Alice?!” Frida’s voice cut through the air like a blade. Frida Mulenga — tall at 5'7", with deep brown glowing skin, a short-cropped natural afro shaped perfectly around her head. Her bold purple lipstick looked fierce against her confident grin, but now her sharp brown eyes burned with worry. Alice couldn’t answer, only let another sob rip free. Frida strode over, crouching down so her strong jawline was level with Alice’s. “Talk to me. What did that i***t do?” Alice held out the phone with a trembling hand. Frida’s face darkened as she scrolled. “Oh, Alice. That bastard.” Alice gasped for air, her slim shoulders trembling. “I waited, Frida. For years, I waited for him to love me enough. And all this time—” Frida gathered her up in a tight hug. “He is not worth one of your tears.” But the tears kept coming anyway. “I feel so stupid,” Alice whispered against Frida’s shoulder, the faint scent of Frida’s vanilla perfume cutting through the sour panic. “You’re not stupid,” Frida snapped. “You’re kind. That’s all.” Alice tried to believe it, but her mind replayed every dinner with her parents, every conversation about Ben’s supposed plans. Frida stood abruptly, her athletic build taut with energy. “Get up.” “What?” “Get up, Alice. We are not staying here. You are not going to cry in this apartment while that waste of a man is out there having fun. We’re going out.” Alice flinched. “Frida, no, I can’t—” “Yes, you can.” Frida’s voice softened, but stayed iron-strong. “We’re going to Indigo Lounge. You need to breathe, even if it’s just for one night.” “Frida, I don’t belong there tonight—” “Too bad. Get up.” Frida all but shoved Alice toward the bathroom. Ten minutes later, Alice was blinking at herself in the mirror. Her shoulder-length straight black hair hung limp around her face, and her normally expressive dark eyes were still swollen from crying. Frida pushed a navy-blue wrap dress into her hands. “Wear this.” “Frida, it’s too—” “Perfect,” Frida insisted. “It hugs you in the right places.” Alice sighed and slipped it on. It fit snug against her gentle curves, highlighting a body she usually tried to hide under blouses and slacks. Frida, meanwhile, pulled on dark jeans and a lilac off-shoulder top, the color popping against her deep brown skin. When they stepped out into the night, the city lights seemed painfully bright. Great East Road was alive with minibuses flashing hazards, young men calling for passengers, the occasional pothole causing a car to swerve. Frida drove them through Kabulonga, past a strip of restaurants and boutique shops until they reached Indigo Lounge — a neon-glowing club popular with young professionals and expats. Outside, the line was thick with partygoers in sequins, bright suits, block heels, and crop tops. The bass from inside was so heavy Alice could feel it in her bones. She hesitated. “Frida, I really can’t—” “Yes. You can,” Frida repeated, her voice slicing through any resistance. Inside, Indigo Lounge smelled of sweet perfumes and sweat, tinged with the rich hops of Mosi beer. The walls pulsed with pink and green neon, and a DJ layered Nigerian Afrobeats over local Zambian dancehall, making the entire room bounce. Frida steered Alice to a high table near the bar. “Stay here. I’m getting drinks.” Alice gripped the edge of the table, trying to keep her balance. Breathe, Alice. She was staring at her phone, fighting off a fresh wave of tears, when a gentle, confident voice interrupted. “First time here?” Alice looked up and froze. A woman stood beside her, impossibly graceful and calm. Her honey-brown skin glowed under the neon, and her long, straight hair, dyed a rich dark auburn, brushed softly against her shoulders. High cheekbones and almond-shaped brown eyes gave her an elegant, almost regal look. Gold hoop earrings glinted in the flashing lights, and her red lipstick made her full lips impossible to miss. She wore a fitted black jumpsuit with a deep neckline that should have been intimidating, but somehow looked warm and welcoming on her. “You look like you’d rather be in church than here,” the woman teased, dimples flashing with a mischievous smile. Alice let out a ragged laugh. “Is it that obvious?” “A little,” she said, offering a hand. “Sandra Phiri.” Alice shook it cautiously. Sandra’s hand was warm, steady, and reassuring. “Alice.” “Nice to meet you, Alice. Even on a bad night.” Alice let out a humorless chuckle. “My friend dragged me here. I wasn’t… in the mood.” Sandra tilted her head, studying her. “Heartbreak?” Alice sighed, her full lips trembling. “Yeah. You could say that.” “Zambian men,” Sandra said with an eyeroll, “they’re a whole project.” That startled a grin out of Alice, despite the tears still brimming. “You want to talk about it?” Sandra offered gently. “My boyfriend…” Alice trailed off, voice breaking. “I found out he was cheating. For years. While I was waiting for him to propose.” Sandra’s brows rose in sympathy. “Ouch. That’s… heavy.” “Feels like my whole life just… ended,” Alice admitted. Sandra touched her arm, soft and steady. “I promise you, it hasn’t. It might even be starting.” Alice blinked, surprised. “What makes you say that?” Sandra smiled kindly. “Because the second you stop living for someone else is when things actually begin.” Just then Frida returned, carrying two shots and a fluorescent green cocktail. Frida eyed Sandra cautiously. “Who’s this?” Alice quickly explained. “This is Sandra. She was just talking to me.” Frida nodded, half-suspicious but willing to trust Alice’s judgement. “Okay. Good.” Frida pushed a shot toward Alice. “Drink.” “Frida, I—” “No excuses. Drink.” Alice downed the tequila, coughing as it seared her throat. Sandra chuckled softly. “Celebrating or mourning?” “Both,” Frida answered. “Mostly mourning.” Alice blinked through the burn. “I still feel… worthless.” Sandra shook her head firmly. “No. You feel loyal. That’s not worthless.” Something about her tone — calm, confident, a warmth that cut through the club’s chaos — reached Alice. Frida clapped her hands dramatically. “Enough. We dance!” “Frida—” “Alice, please.” Sandra smiled, extending a hand with gold hoops flashing. “Come with us?” Alice hesitated, then let Sandra pull her toward the dance floor. The lights throbbed around them, Afrobeats and local club mixes shaking the walls. Sandra’s hips moved with an easy grace, her black jumpsuit hugging every curve, her presence almost hypnotic. Alice couldn’t help but sway along, drawn by Sandra’s warmth. “There,” Sandra teased, “you’re moving!” Alice laughed, breathless, a tear catching in her lashes. Frida beamed. “That’s my girl!” As the beat slowed, Sandra’s hands came to rest at Alice’s waist, soft but sure. “Okay?” she asked, checking her eyes. Alice nodded. They swayed closer, Sandra’s red lips only inches away. Her almond eyes looked impossibly gentle in the neon. “You really are beautiful,” Sandra murmured. Alice flushed so deeply she felt it in her toes. “Sandra—” Sandra leaned in, giving Alice a second to pull away. She didn’t. Their lips met, tentative, soft, warm. Nothing like Ben. Nothing like a lie. It felt…right. But then Alice’s mind screamed. What are you doing? She jerked back, nearly stumbling. “Alice?” Sandra asked, alarmed. “I’m sorry,” Alice gasped, voice cracking. “I can’t— I’m sorry!” She spun away, bolting through the crowd, ignoring Frida’s surprised shout, crashing out into the night air. Lusaka’s cool breeze smacked her cheeks. The street outside Indigo Lounge was still crowded, but felt suddenly too quiet. You kissed a woman. Her heart thundered. And then another horrible realization: she’d left her handbag inside. Her phone. Her bank cards. That important contract for her father’s lawyer. She had to go back. Back to Sandra.