Binta

Chapter Two — The Promise

By the time we reached home, the rain had stopped.

Monrovia had that strange smell it always carried after a heavy downpour—the smell of wet earth, stagnant water, charcoal smoke, and the sea.

I loved it.

My father didn't.

He parked beneath the small zinc shelter beside our house and switched off the engine.

For a moment, neither of us moved.

I was still looking at the message from Tracy.

I miss you.

Three words.

They were enough to make the entire evening feel lighter.

I typed a reply.

I miss you too.

Then I added:

I'll see you tomorrow.

I stared at the message before sending it.

My father cleared his throat.

I looked up.

"What?"

"You smiled at your phone for five minutes."

"So?"

"So nothing."

He opened his door.

"Your mother is waiting."

I frowned.

"My mother?"

"Yes."

"Why?"

He stepped out.

"How should I know?"

I followed him.

"You always know."

"Today I don't."

That was the first warning.

I didn't recognize it then.

I should have.

My mother was sitting in the living room when we entered.

She was dressed differently from how she usually dressed in the evenings. Her hair was neatly wrapped, and she had put on the gold earrings my aunt had given her years ago.

There were three cups of tea on the table.

Three.

My father sat down.

I remained standing.

"What happened?"

My mother smiled.

"Come and sit."

Whenever my mother told me to sit without first telling me why, something was wrong.

I sat opposite them.

She pushed a cup of tea toward me.

I didn't touch it.

"What's going on?"

My father looked at my mother.

My mother looked at my father.

I looked at both of them.

"Are you two going to communicate through your eyes all night?"

My mother laughed softly.

My father didn't.

That was when I knew it was serious.

My mother reached across the table and placed her hand over mine.

"Issa."

"Yes?"

"There is something we want to talk to you about."

I pulled my hand away.

"That sounds dangerous."

She smiled again.

"You know we love you."

"Yes."

"And everything your father and I have done has been for you."

"Yes."

"And now that you are becoming a man—"

I stood.

"No."

My mother blinked.

"You don't even know what I'm going to say."

"I know."

My father sighed.

"Sit down."

"I don't like this conversation."

"You haven't heard it."

"I don't need to."

My mother looked at me.

"Why are you behaving like this?"

"Because every time parents say 'we love you' before a conversation, somebody is about to ruin somebody else's life."

My father almost smiled.

Almost.

My mother shook her head.

"Sit."

I sat.

She took a breath.

"We have spoken to the family."

"What family?"

Silence.

My stomach tightened.

"What family?"

My father finally answered.

"The Kamara family."

I stared at him.

I knew the name.

Everyone in our neighborhood knew the name.

But there were hundreds of Kamaras.

"Which Kamara family?"

My mother looked at me.

"Old Man Kamara."

My eyes narrowed.

"The tea seller?"

She nodded.

"Yes."

I laughed.

Not because it was funny.

Because I didn't understand.

"Why are we discussing a tea seller?"

My mother's expression changed.

"Mind your words."

"I'm not insulting him."

"You called him a tea seller."

"Because that's what he does."

My father leaned forward.

"His name is Musa Kamara."

"I know."

"And he has a daughter."

I stared at him.

Something inside me sank.

"No."

My mother looked away.

I stood again.

"No."

"Issa—"

"No."

My father spoke firmly.

"Sit down."

"I'm not sitting."

"Issa."

"I am not marrying anyone."

My mother's eyes widened.

"You haven't even heard us."

"You said there was a daughter."

"Yes."

"And now you're looking at me like I'm supposed to marry her."

Silence.

That was the answer.

I laughed again.

"You've got to be kidding me."

My father remained calm.

"Her name is Binta."

I felt as though the room had become smaller.

"Binta."

My mother nodded.

"She is a good girl."

"I don't know her."

"That is why you should meet her."

"I don't want to meet her."

"How can you say that?"

"Because I don't want to marry a stranger."

My mother leaned back.

"You think marriage is always about love?"

"I do."

She smiled sadly.

"You're young."

"And you're telling me to marry someone I don't know."

"People marry for many reasons."

"Then let those people marry."

My father rubbed his forehead.

"This isn't something we decided today."

I stared at him.

"What?"

"We have discussed this with the Kamara family for some time."

My heart began beating faster.

"You discussed my marriage without me?"

"We are your parents."

"That doesn't answer the question."

My father looked at me.

"We wanted to make sure you had a good woman."

I laughed bitterly.

"You don't even know what kind of woman I want."

"We know enough."

"No, you don't."

My mother became quiet.

I knew I had hurt her.

But I was angry.

"Does Tracy know about this?"

Neither answered.

That silence hurt more than anything they had said.

I looked from one parent to the other.

"Does she?"

My father shook his head.

"This has nothing to do with Tracy."

"It has everything to do with Tracy."

"You have been seeing that girl for three years."

"Yes."

"Where has it gotten you?"

I stared at him.

"What does that mean?"

"It means you are talking about marriage when you don't even have the means to support a family."

My chest tightened.

"So this is about money."

"It is about reality."

"Tracy doesn't care about money."

"Her family might."

"You don't know them."

"I know families like theirs."

I stepped closer.

"Then maybe that's the problem."

My father's eyes hardened.

"Don't speak to me like that."

"I am not trying to disrespect you."

"You are."

"I'm trying to understand why you are choosing my wife for me."

He stood.

The room became silent.

My father was not a tall man, but when he was angry, he seemed larger.

"You think because you are twenty-something, you understand life."

"I understand enough to know I don't want this."

"You think love is enough?"

"I think it matters."

"And when the love disappears?"

"It won't."

"You cannot know that."

"I know Tracy."

My father laughed once.

"Do you?"

I stared at him.

"What does that mean?"

"Nothing."

"No. Say it."

He walked away.

I followed.

"You said you know something. What do you know about Tracy?"

"Nothing that concerns you."

"Then don't bring her into this."

My mother stood between us.

"Enough."

I stopped.

She looked at me with tears in her eyes.

"You think we are trying to punish you."

I said nothing.

"We are not."

"Then why?"

"Because your father and I want to know that when we are gone, you will have someone who understands the kind of life you came from."

I looked at her.

"And Binta does?"

"Yes."

"How?"

My mother smiled faintly.

"Because she understands struggle."

I shook my head.

"That's not enough."

"No," she said softly. "But it is something."

I walked toward the door.

"Issa."

I stopped.

"You will meet her."

I turned around.

"I won't."

My father answered this time.

"You will."

I looked at him.

"I can't believe you."

"You don't have to marry her tomorrow."

"Good."

"But you will meet her."

I stared at him.

Then I walked outside.

The night air hit my face.

I needed somewhere to breathe.

My phone vibrated.

Tracy.

Are you okay?

I stared at the message.

How did she always know?

I called her.

She answered on the second ring.

"Hey."

Her voice immediately softened something inside me.

"Hey."

"You sound upset."

"I'm fine."

"You never say 'I'm fine' unless you're not."

I smiled despite myself.

"You're learning me too well."

"I've had three years."

I leaned against the wall.

"I need to see you."

"Tonight?"

"Yes."

There was a pause.

"My parents are home."

"I don't care."

She laughed.

"You sound serious."

"I am."

"Then come."

I ended the call.

Twenty minutes later, I was on the road.

Tracy lived in a different world.

I knew that.

Every time I entered her family's compound, I felt it.

The security.

The polished cars.

The enormous house.

The people who spoke quietly because they had never needed to shout to be heard.

Her family owned Gold Creek.

That name carried weight in Liberia.

People knew it.

Businesses knew it.

Politicians knew it.

And I knew exactly what people would say if they found out I was in love with Tracy.

They would say I wanted her money.

They would say I was ambitious.

They would say I had found myself a wealthy girl.

They would say I didn't belong.

But Tracy had never said any of those things.

She was waiting for me near the garden when I arrived.

She wore a simple blue dress.

Nothing extravagant.

Her hair was tied behind her head.

When she saw me, she smiled.

That smile.

It had ruined me years ago.

"Come here."

I walked toward her.

She wrapped her arms around me.

For several seconds, I forgot about Binta.

Forgot about my parents.

Forgot about everything.

I held her tightly.

"I missed you," she whispered.

"I missed you too."

She pulled back.

"What's wrong?"

I looked at her.

How could I tell her?

How could I say:

My parents want me to marry another woman.

I opened my mouth.

Nothing came out.

Tracy touched my face.

"Issa?"

"I'm fine."

She frowned.

"There it is again."

"What?"

"That lie."

I laughed quietly.

She didn't.

"Tell me."

I looked away.

"My parents want me to marry someone."

She went completely still.

"Someone?"

I nodded.

"Who?"

I swallowed.

"Binta."

She repeated the name quietly.

"Binta."

"Yes."

"Who is she?"

"Her father sells tea."

Tracy looked confused.

"Tea?"

"From a pushcart."

She stared at me.

Then she laughed.

I didn't.

"You are serious."

"Very."

"Why?"

"My family knows hers."

"And?"

"They think she's a good girl."

"Do you?"

"I don't know her."

Tracy's expression changed.

"Have you met her?"

"No."

"Then what exactly are you supposed to do?"

"Meet her."

"And then?"

I looked at her.

"I don't know."

She turned away.

I reached for her hand.

"Tracy."

She didn't move.

"Look at me."

She finally did.

Her eyes were shining.

"Do you want her?"

"No."

"Do you love her?"

"No."

"Do you love me?"

"Yes."

"Then why are you afraid?"

I didn't have an answer.

She stepped closer.

"Look at me, Issa."

I did.

"You're not marrying her."

"I don't plan to."

"Good."

She smiled.

Then she kissed me.

For a moment, everything disappeared.

But when she pulled away, I noticed something strange in her expression.

Fear.

"What's wrong?"

"Nothing."

"You're lying."

She looked toward the house.

"My father knows about us."

My stomach dropped.

"What?"

"He knows."

"How?"

"I don't know."

"What did he say?"

"Nothing."

"Tracy."

She took my hand.

"He asked me yesterday if I was serious about you."

"What did you say?"

"I said yes."

My heart pounded.

"And?"

She looked at me.

"He laughed."

I felt anger rising.

"Why?"

"Because he thinks our relationship is temporary."

I looked away.

"Of course."

"He said you will eventually realize that we come from different worlds."

"We don't."

"You know what I mean."

"No."

"Issa."

"I don't care about his money."

"I know."

"I don't care about Gold Creek."

"I know."

"Then why are we having this conversation?"

"Because my father cares."

Silence.

The garden suddenly felt colder.

Tracy squeezed my hand.

"Promise me something."

"What?"

"Don't let your family convince you that I am wrong for you."

I looked at her.

"I won't."

"Promise."

"I promise."

She smiled.

I kissed her forehead.

At that moment, I believed the promise.

I believed I could fight my family.

I believed I could fight her family.

I believed love could survive anything.

I was young enough to believe that.

The next morning, my father woke me before sunrise.

I was still half asleep when he opened my bedroom door.

"Get dressed."

I pulled the blanket over my head.

"For what?"

"We're going somewhere."

"Where?"

"To meet Binta."

I sat up.

"No."

"Yes."

"Father."

"Get dressed."

"I have plans."

"What plans?"

I paused.

"Personal plans."

"Cancel them."

"I can't."

"You can."

He walked out.

I stared at the door.

My phone was beside me.

I checked it.

No message from Tracy.

I typed:

Good morning.

I waited.

Nothing.

I told myself she was sleeping.

I got dressed.

Not because I wanted to meet Binta.

Because I knew my father well enough to understand that arguing would only make the morning worse.

An hour later, we were driving through Monrovia.

This time, we weren't going toward Sinkor.

We were heading toward a busier part of the city.

The streets were already alive.

Vendors shouted.

Keke drivers called passengers.

Women arranged vegetables beside roadside tables.

Motorbikes moved between cars.

A man pushed a cart filled with bread.

Another sold cold water.

And somewhere ahead, I could smell tea.

My father turned into a narrow road.

I looked at him.

"Where exactly are we going?"

"You'll see."

"I already hate this."

"You haven't met her."

"That's why I hate it."

He smiled.

I couldn't understand how he was so calm.

Then I saw the cart.

It was old.

Wooden.

Paint peeling from the sides.

A large metal kettle sat on top, steaming in the morning air.

Beside it stood an old man.

Thin.

Grey beard.

Worn sandals.

He was pouring tea into a small plastic cup for a customer.

My father stopped the car.

The old man looked up.

His eyes brightened.

"Doctor!"

My father smiled.

"Musa."

They shook hands.

The old man looked into the car.

Then at me.

His expression softened.

"So this is Issa."

I stepped out.

"Good morning."

He nodded.

"Good morning, my son."

I looked around.

"So..."

My father cleared his throat.

I knew what was coming.

Musa smiled.

"My daughter is inside."

I froze.

My father placed a hand on my shoulder.

"Go and greet her."

I stared at the small building beside the roadside.

"Alone?"

"Yes."

"I don't want to."

"Go."

I looked at Musa.

Then my father.

Then the building.

I walked toward it.

Every step felt like I was walking toward a future I hadn't chosen.

I reached the doorway.

Before I could knock, I heard a woman's voice.

"Papa, did you bring the doctor?"

I stopped.

Musa laughed.

"No."

There was a pause.

Then the woman asked:

"Then who?"

My father answered from behind me.

"Issa."

Silence.

Then footsteps.

The door opened.

And I saw her.

She wasn't wearing an expensive dress.

She wasn't standing beneath a chandelier.

There was no security guard.

No fountain.

No polished marble floor.

She wore a simple yellow blouse and a long skirt.

Her hair was tied back.

Her hands carried the faint scent of tea and smoke.

She looked at me.

I looked at her.

For several seconds, neither of us spoke.

Then she smiled.

Not the nervous smile of someone meeting a stranger.

A knowing smile.

"You must be Issa."

I nodded.

"Yes."

She looked past me toward my father.

Then back at me.

"My name is Binta."

I swallowed.

"I know."

Her smile disappeared slightly.

"You know me?"

"No."

She tilted her head.

"Then how do you know my name?"

I almost laughed.

The question sounded strangely familiar.

I remembered Trina standing at the top of that staircase.

Then how do you know my name?

I looked at Binta.

"Your father told me."

She nodded.

"Right."

There was something calm about her.

Something I couldn't understand.

She stepped aside.

"Come in."

I didn't move.

"Why?"

She looked confused.

"Because my father told me you were coming."

I looked at my father.

He smiled.

I entered.

The room was small.

Clean.

Simple.

A wooden chair.

A small table.

Two cups.

A Quran resting carefully on a shelf.

Nothing else.

Binta sat down.

I remained standing.

"You can sit."

I sat opposite her.

She studied me.

Not like Trina had.

Not with suspicion.

Not like Tracy did when she was trying to understand what I wasn't saying.

Binta simply looked at me.

Then she asked:

"Do you want to marry me?"

I nearly choked.

"What?"

She smiled.

"My father said our families have been discussing it."

I looked toward the door.

"Yes."

"And?"

"And what?"

"Do you want to?"

"No."

She nodded.

"Good."

I stared at her.

"Good?"

"Yes."

"Why?"

"Because neither do I."

For the first time that morning, I smiled.

She noticed.

"You thought I would be begging you?"

"No."

"You did."

"Maybe."

She laughed.

It was a quiet laugh.

Nothing like Trina's sharp little laugh.

Nothing like Tracy's soft laughter.

It was simply hers.

"I don't want to marry a man who doesn't want me."

I looked at her.

"Then why are we here?"

She became quiet.

"Because our parents think they know what's best."

"Do yours?"

"No."

"Mine either."

She smiled.

"Then we agree on something."

I laughed.

"Apparently."

For the first time since my father woke me, I didn't feel trapped.

Binta poured tea into a cup and pushed it toward me.

"Drink."

I looked at it.

"What is it?"

"Tea."

"I know it's tea."

She smiled.

"Then why did you ask?"

I picked up the cup.

"You're annoying."

She laughed.

And for some strange reason, I thought of Trina.

I immediately hated myself for it.

I had known Binta for less than ten minutes.

Yet something about her felt familiar.

Not romantic.

Not yet.

Just familiar.

Like someone I had somehow known before meeting.

She watched me take a sip.

"Too much sugar?"

I shook my head.

"It's good."

"You're lying."

"How do you know?"

"Your face."

I smiled.

"Maybe I just have a strange face."

"You do."

I laughed.

She laughed too.

Outside, my father and Musa were talking.

I could hear their voices through the thin wall.

Then I heard my father's words.

"We'll make arrangements soon."

My smile disappeared.

Binta heard it too.

She looked at me.

Neither of us spoke.

The room suddenly felt smaller.

"Arrangements for what?" I asked.

She looked down at her hands.

"I don't know."

I knew she was lying.

"Binta."

She looked up.

"My father told me something last night."

"What?"

She hesitated.

Then she whispered:

"He said your family isn't the only family interested in this marriage."

My heart stopped.

"What do you mean?"

She looked toward the door.

"I don't know if I should tell you."

"Tell me."

She shook her head.

"Binta."

She finally met my eyes.

"Your father asked my father for this marriage."

I frowned.

"What?"

"He said your family needed something."

My blood ran cold.

"Needed what?"

She shook her head.

"I don't know."

"You're lying."

"I'm not."

"Then what did he say?"

She stood.

"Issa, please."

"What did he say?"

Her eyes filled with something I couldn't identify.

Fear.

Perhaps pity.

"Your father said that if you marry me, something will be settled between our families."

I stared at her.

"What?"

She stepped back.

"I don't know what."

I stood.

"Binta."

She looked at me.

"Maybe you should ask your father."

I left the room.

My father was standing beside the tea cart.

The moment he saw my face, his smile disappeared.

"What happened?"

I looked at him.

"What do you need from their family?"

He said nothing.

My heart began pounding.

"What did you promise them?"

"Issa."

"What did you promise them?"

Musa looked between us.

My father lowered his voice.

"Not here."

"Then where?"

He opened the car door.

"Get in."

I didn't move.

"Tell me."

He stared at me.

For the first time in my life, I saw something in my father's eyes I had never seen before.

Fear.

Not anger.

Not disappointment.

Fear.

And suddenly, Binta's words returned to me.

Your family needed something.

I looked at the old tea cart.

At Musa.

At the small house.

Then at my father.

"Who is Binta to you?"

My father didn't answer.

"Father."

He finally spoke.

"She's the daughter of a man who once saved my life."

I frowned.

"What?"

My father looked away.

"And now I owe him."

I waited.

He opened the car door again.

"Get in."

I still didn't move.

"What does this have to do with me?"

My father looked directly at me.

"Everything."

My stomach tightened.

Before I could ask another question, his phone rang.

He answered.

"Hello?"

His expression changed.

He turned away from me.

"What?"

A pause.

Then:

"You're certain?"

Another pause.

He looked at me.

And whatever he heard next drained the color from his face.

"Don't tell anyone."

He ended the call.

I stared at him.

"Who was that?"

He slipped the phone into his pocket.

"Nobody."

I laughed bitterly.

"You're a terrible liar."

He opened the driver's door.

I got in.

Neither of us spoke as we drove away.

But I couldn't stop thinking about Binta.

About Tracy.

About Trina.

Three names.

Three women.

And somehow, without understanding how, they were already becoming connected to the same future.

A future I had never chosen.

My phone vibrated.

I looked down.

It was Tracy.

We need to talk.

Before I could respond, another message appeared.

Unknown number.

Just four words.

Stay away from Trina.

I stared at the screen.

My father glanced at me.

"Who is it?"

I locked the phone.

"Nobody."

He looked at me.

I looked out the window.

For the first time, I understood something.

The life I thought belonged to me...

might never have been mine at all.