Binta

Chapter Fifteen — Home

"The one he wrote before he died."

I stared at James through the phone.

"What does it say?"

He was silent.

"James."

"Issa, you need to come here."

"Where?"

"Your father's old house."

"Why?"

"Because Binta needs to hear this too."

I looked at my wife.

She had heard every word.

"I'll be there."

I ended the call.

Binta stood quietly.

"What do you think it says?"

"I don't know."

"You're afraid."

"Yes."

I reached for her hand.

She let me hold it.

Whatever happened next, I knew one thing.

I didn't want to lose her.

Not anymore.

---

The old house looked different at night.

The windows were dark.

The garden had become overgrown.

This was where my father had spent his final years before disappearing.

James was waiting at the door.

He looked at Binta.

Then at me.

"You both came."

"What does the letter say?"

James stepped aside.

"Come in."

We entered.

On the table was an old wooden box.

My father's handwriting was carved into the lid.

For Issa.

My heart tightened.

James opened it.

Inside was a letter.

A long one.

He handed it to me.

I unfolded it.

My son,

If you are reading this, then everything I tried to prevent has already happened.

I swallowed.

I wanted you to have a normal life.

I wanted you to fall in love without knowing what your family had done.

I wanted you to marry for love, not obligation.

My eyes moved down the page.

But I knew you.

I knew your heart.

You have always chased what was difficult to have.

I looked at Binta.

She was crying.

When you were young, you believed love meant wanting someone so badly that you couldn't breathe without them.

I tried to teach you otherwise.

I failed.

I continued.

Binta was never chosen because she was poor.

She was chosen because she was good.

Because she had strength.

Because when everything around us was falling apart, her family gave me a place to hide.

Because her mother once saved your life.

I stopped.

I looked at Binta.

"What does he mean?"

Her face was confused.

James spoke quietly.

"Keep reading."

I did.

The night you were born, there were people looking for me.

I knew they would use my son to get to me.

Binta's mother helped me hide you for three days.

She risked her life for you.

That is the debt I could never repay.

My hands trembled.

Years later, when I realized that my enemies were returning, I asked myself one question.

Who would I trust with my son?

The answer was Binta.

I couldn't continue.

I closed my eyes.

Binta placed her hand on my shoulder.

"Read it."

I opened the letter again.

I knew you loved Tracy.

I knew you would probably hate me for trying to separate you from her.

But I also knew something you did not.

Tracy loved you.

Her father loved her.

And when forced to choose, she would always be torn.

I could not build your future on someone else's uncertainty.

The next words destroyed me.

I wanted you to choose Binta.

Not because she needed you.

Because I believed one day you would realize you needed her.

I looked at Binta.

She was crying silently.

Then I read the final paragraph.

If you ever reach the day when Binta has stopped fighting for you, don't blame her.

Blame yourself.

Because the greatest tragedy in life is not losing someone.

It is losing them after finally understanding their value.

The letter ended:

Love her while she is still there.

Don't wait until she becomes a memory.

—Dad.

I lowered the letter.

Nobody spoke.

Then Binta whispered:

"He knew."

"What?"

"He knew you would hurt me."

I looked at her.

"And he still trusted me."

She shook her head.

"No."

She wiped her tears.

"He trusted that you would eventually become better."

---

We went home separately that night.

Binta wanted to walk.

I followed her from a distance.

She didn't speak.

When we reached the house, she went directly to the bedroom.

I waited.

Then knocked.

"Binta."

No answer.

I knocked again.

"Please."

The door opened.

She stood there.

"What?"

"I'm sorry."

She looked at me.

"I know."

"No, you don't."

I stepped closer.

"I've spent so long thinking about what I wanted."

I swallowed.

"And I never stopped to think about what I was doing to you."

She looked down.

"Issa..."

"I loved Tracy."

"I know."

"I cared about Trina."

"I know."

"I kept telling myself that because my feelings were complicated, I couldn't control them."

She remained silent.

"But I could."

I looked into her eyes.

"I could have chosen you every day."

A tear rolled down her cheek.

"I didn't."

"No."

"I made you feel like second choice."

"Yes."

"I made you question whether your husband wanted you."

"Yes."

"I hurt you."

"Yes."

The word came quietly.

But it hurt more than anything else.

"I don't want to do that anymore."

She looked at me.

"What changed?"

"My father."

She smiled sadly.

"Your father tried to tell you."

"No."

I shook my head.

"You did."

She looked surprised.

"You stayed."

I reached for her hand.

"You stayed when I didn't deserve you."

She slowly closed her fingers around mine.

"I don't want you to stay because you feel guilty."

"I don't."

"Then why?"

I looked at her.

"Because when everything else disappears, you're the person I look for."

Her eyes filled with tears.

"Issa."

"I don't want another woman."

She stared at me.

"I want my wife."

She began crying.

I pulled her into my arms.

She resisted for a second.

Then she held me.

We stood there for a long time.

No promises.

No explanations.

Just two people who had hurt each other trying to find their way back.

---

For a while, it worked.

We became better.

Not perfect.

But better.

I stopped speaking to Tracy.

Trina left Liberia.

James remained close to Binta's family, but he respected our marriage.

Gold Creek's scandal eventually became public.

Daniel Cole was forced to answer questions about the company's past.

My father finally came home permanently.

And Binta and I began rebuilding our life.

We moved into a smaller house.

She started helping her father expand the tea business.

I reopened my father's clinic.

For the first time, I was building something of my own.

Sometimes, at night, Binta would fall asleep with her head on my shoulder.

I would watch her.

And wonder how I had almost lost her.

I thought the worst was behind us.

I was wrong.

---

Six months later, Tracy returned.

I saw her outside the clinic.

She looked different.

Older.

Calmer.

She stood across the street.

I walked toward her.

"You came back."

"Yes."

"Why?"

"I wanted to see you."

"You shouldn't have."

"I know."

She smiled faintly.

"How is Binta?"

"Happy."

"Are you?"

I looked at my wedding ring.

"Yes."

She nodded.

"I'm glad."

We stood silently.

Then she said:

"I came to apologize properly."

"You already did."

"No."

She shook her head.

"I apologized for loving you."

She looked at me.

"But I never apologized for what I did to you."

I said nothing.

"I was selfish."

"You were afraid."

"I was both."

She looked toward the clinic.

"Does she know I'm here?"

"Yes."

Tracy nodded.

"Good."

Then she handed me a letter.

"What is this?"

"Something I should have given you years ago."

I didn't open it.

"What does it say?"

"The truth."

"I know enough."

"No."

She looked into my eyes.

"You don't."

My heart tightened.

"Then tell me."

She took a breath.

"My father never wanted me to marry you."

"I know."

"He wanted me to destroy you."

I froze.

"What?"

"Gold Creek was losing money."

She continued.

"Your father had evidence. He was going to expose everything."

"So you were sent to me."

"Yes."

I closed my eyes.

"I knew."

"But there's something you don't know."

"What?"

"I refused."

I looked at her.

"I couldn't do it."

She began crying.

"I fell in love with you before I understood what was happening."

"Then why did you leave?"

"Because my father threatened Binta."

I looked at her.

"He said if I didn't disappear, she would die."

Silence.

"That's why I left."

"Why didn't you tell me?"

"Because I was afraid you'd come after me."

She wiped her face.

"I thought if you hated me, you'd survive."

I looked at her.

"You hurt me anyway."

"I know."

She handed me the letter.

"I don't want anything from you."

"Then why?"

"Because you deserve to know that at least one part of what we had was real."

She walked away.

I watched her disappear.

Then I opened the letter.

It contained only one sentence.

I loved you, Issa. I just wasn't brave enough to love you more than I feared losing my family.

I folded it.

And for the first time, I let Tracy go.

Completely.

---

That evening, I went home.

Binta was sitting outside.

She looked up.

"Did you see her?"

"Yes."

"What did she want?"

"To say goodbye."

Binta nodded.

"Are you okay?"

I sat beside her.

"Yes."

She rested her head against my shoulder.

"Good."

I kissed her forehead.

"Binta?"

"Hmm?"

"Thank you."

"For what?"

"For choosing me."

She looked at me.

"You were my husband."

"I didn't deserve you."

"No."

She smiled.

"But you finally became the man I hoped you would become."

I held her.

The sunset spread across the sky.

For once, I wasn't thinking about the past.

I wasn't thinking about Tracy.

Or Trina.

Or James.

I was thinking about the woman beside me.

My wife.

My home.

And I thought perhaps my father had been right.

Perhaps love wasn't the person who made your heart beat fastest.

Perhaps it was the person who made you want to become better.

---

But happiness is fragile.

A few weeks later, Binta received a proposal.

Not from James.

From another man.

She laughed when she told me.

I laughed too.

Then she became serious.

"James has left."

"Where?"

"Abroad."

"Why?"

"He said he finally understood."

"Understood what?"

"That loving someone doesn't mean waiting forever."

I looked at her.

"Do you miss him?"

She thought about it.

"I miss the person I used to be."

"What do you mean?"

"The girl who thought love was supposed to be easy."

She took my hand.

"Now I know better."

I kissed her.

And for several months, we were happy.

Truly happy.

Until one night, I found Binta crying.

"What happened?"

She handed me a medical report.

I read it.

My heart stopped.

She was pregnant.

I looked at her.

"We're going to have a baby."

She nodded through her tears.

I pulled her into my arms.

I cried.

She cried.

And for the first time, I felt completely certain.

I wanted this.

I wanted her.

I wanted our child.

I wanted the future.

I promised her that nothing would take me away from them.

But life has a cruel way of reminding us that promises are not guarantees.

---

The pregnancy was difficult.

Binta became sick often.

I stayed beside her.

I cooked.

I drove her to appointments.

I read every book I could find.

My mother cried when she learned she would become a grandmother.

My father laughed for the first time in months.

Everything seemed to be healing.

Then one afternoon, my father collapsed.

We rushed him to the hospital.

The doctors tried everything.

But this time, there was no miracle.

He died holding my hand.

His last words were:

"Don't lose her."

I knew exactly who he meant.

Binta.

I cried like a child.

Binta stood beside me.

She held me.

And I realized my father had been right.

She was my home.

---

Months passed.

Our daughter was born.

I held her for the first time and felt something inside me change.

She had Binta's eyes.

I laughed through my tears.

"We're going to be okay."

Binta smiled.

"Yes."

I kissed her forehead.

"We're going to be okay."

For the first time, I believed it.

But somewhere deep inside me, the old darkness remained.

The part of me that had spent years chasing what I couldn't have.

The part of me that still struggled with guilt.

The part of me that wondered whether I deserved the happiness I had finally found.

I didn't tell Binta.

I thought I could handle it.

I was wrong.

---

One year later, Binta left me.

Not because she stopped loving me.

Because I had begun disappearing into myself.

I stopped talking.

Stopped sleeping properly.

Stopped enjoying the things I once loved.

I became distant.

Then angry.

Then silent.

I started pushing her away again.

She tried.

God knew she tried.

One night, she stood in front of me with tears in her eyes.

"Issa, I can't keep saving you from yourself."

I looked away.

"I don't need saving."

"You do."

"I'm fine."

"No."

She shook her head.

"You aren't."

I said nothing.

"I love you."

"I know."

"But love isn't enough when one person refuses to fight for themselves."

She packed a bag.

I watched her.

"Where are you going?"

"To my father's."

"For how long?"

"I don't know."

"Are you leaving me?"

She cried.

"I don't want to."

"Then stay."

"Issa..."

"Stay."

She looked at me.

"I need you to choose yourself."

Then she left.

I didn't stop her.

That was my final mistake.

---

Weeks passed.

Then months.

I tried to contact her.

Sometimes she answered.

Sometimes she didn't.

Our daughter stayed with her.

I visited whenever I could.

I became a ghost of the man I had once been.

Then one afternoon, I heard something that destroyed whatever remained of me.

Binta was getting married.

To James.

I didn't believe it.

I went to her father's house.

James was there.

Binta was standing beside him.

She looked happy.

Not the nervous smile she had worn at our wedding.

Not the sad smile she had given me when I hurt her.

A peaceful smile.

The kind of smile I had spent years trying to earn.

I looked at her.

"Is this true?"

She nodded.

"I'm sorry."

I laughed.

"Don't apologize."

"Issa..."

"No."

I shook my head.

"You deserve happiness."

She began crying.

"I never stopped loving you."

I looked at her.

"Then why?"

"Because loving you almost destroyed me."

The words broke me.

She stepped closer.

"I waited for you."

"I know."

"I forgave you."

"I know."

"I chose you."

"I know."

She cried.

"But I cannot spend the rest of my life waiting for you to choose yourself."

I looked at James.

He didn't look triumphant.

He looked sad.

And somehow, that hurt more.

I turned back to Binta.

"Do you love him?"

She hesitated.

Then nodded.

"I love the way he loves me."

I closed my eyes.

That was the answer.

James had chosen her.

Every time.

I had chosen her only after losing everything else.

I walked away.

Binta called my name.

I didn't turn around.

---

That night, I returned to my father's old house.

The place was silent.

Dust covered the furniture.

My father's photograph sat on the desk.

I looked at it.

"You were right."

I whispered.

"I waited too long."

I sat down.

For the first time, I understood what my father had meant.

The greatest tragedy wasn't losing someone.

It was losing them after finally understanding their value.

I thought about Tracy.

She had loved me but couldn't choose me.

I thought about Trina.

She had loved me but eventually chose herself.

I thought about Binta.

She had loved me when I gave her every reason not to.

She had stayed.

She had forgiven.

She had chosen me.

And I had spent years wondering whether she was enough.

Now I would give anything to hear her call my name.

But she was gone.

I took out a sheet of paper.

I began writing.

Not because I expected forgiveness.

Not because I expected anyone to understand.

I wrote because there were words I had never been brave enough to say while I was alive.

---

The next morning, Binta received a letter.

Her hands trembled when she opened it.

It was addressed simply:

To Binta.

She sat down.

And began reading.

Binta,

I don't know whether you will ever forgive me.

Maybe you shouldn't.

I spent too many years asking what love was supposed to feel like.

I thought it was the woman who made my heart race.

I thought it was the woman whose absence made me desperate.

I thought it was desire.

I was wrong.

Love was you.

Binta covered her mouth.

Tears fell onto the page.

You were there when I didn't know how to be a man.

You stayed when I gave you every reason to leave.

You loved me when loving me wasn't easy.

And I repaid you with doubt.

I made you compete with ghosts.

I made you question your beauty.

I made you question your worth.

You were never the problem.

I was.

She stopped reading.

James sat beside her.

She continued.

Tracy was the love I thought I couldn't live without.

Trina was the temptation I mistook for freedom.

But you were home.

And I spent my whole life running away from home.

Her tears fell faster.

If I could live again, I wouldn't ask you to love me.

I would simply love you properly.

I would choose you before you had to beg me to.

I would hold your hand when things became difficult.

I would tell you when I was hurting instead of hurting you.

I would be the husband you deserved.

But I learned too late.

There was a long pause in the letter.

Then:

Please don't spend your life blaming yourself.

You didn't fail me.

You saved me more times than I deserved.

And if you ever remember me, don't remember the man I became at the end.

Remember the boy who first met you and didn't understand why his heart felt different around you.

Remember the man who finally understood.

I loved you.

I love you.

And I will always regret that I learned how to say it only after losing you.

Forgive me if you can.

Live if you cannot.

—Issa.

Binta lowered the letter.

She couldn't breathe.

She pressed it against her chest.

"No."

James held her.

She pushed him away.

"No."

She stood.

"Issa..."

She ran.

---

She arrived at the old house too late.

The door was open.

The room was silent.

His father's photograph was still on the desk.

Issa was gone.

Binta stood in the doorway.

For several seconds, she couldn't move.

Then she saw the letter she was holding.

She fell to her knees.

A sound escaped her that didn't resemble crying.

It was grief.

Pure grief.

James stood behind her.

He said nothing.

There was nothing to say.

Binta looked toward the photograph of Issa's father.

Then toward the empty chair where Issa had once sat.

She whispered:

"You finally chose me."

Her voice broke.

"But you didn't have to leave for me to know."

She held the letter against her chest.

Outside, Monrovia continued moving.

Cars passed.

People walked.

Children laughed somewhere in the distance.

Life continued.

Just as it always had.

But for Binta, the world would never be the same.

She had spent years believing that the hardest thing was getting Issa to love her.

She finally learned the truth.

The hardest thing was loving someone who didn't know how to love himself.

And somewhere between the beginning and the end, Issa had finally understood what his father had tried to teach him.

Love was never about who made your heart beat the fastest.

It was about who remained when your heart was breaking.

Binta had remained.

Until she couldn't anymore.

And by the time Issa finally understood that she had always been home...

Home had already closed its door.