Binta

Chapter Five — Between Three Hearts

“Is this some kind of joke?”

My voice came out weaker than I expected.

The room remained dark.

Binta's fingers were still wrapped around my arm.

Outside, the three knocks came again.

Knock.

Knock.

Knock.

Then silence.

I stared toward the door.

My father's voice had come from the other side.

I knew that voice.

I had heard it every morning of my life.

I had heard it calling my name when I was a child.

I had heard it telling me to study.

I had heard it praying.

I had heard it comforting patients.

And I had heard it for the last time in that hospital room.

My father was dead.

He had been buried days ago.

So how could his voice be standing outside Binta's door?

“Issa,” Binta whispered.

I looked at her.

“What?”

“Don't open it.”

“But that was my father.”

“No.”

Her voice trembled.

“That wasn't your father.”

Another knock.

This time, slower.

I moved toward the door.

Binta grabbed my shirt.

“Issa, please.”

I stopped.

“What do you know?”

She shook her head.

“Nothing.”

“You just told me not to open the door.”

“Because I don't trust whoever is outside.”

I stared at her.

“Then who is it?”

“I don't know.”

The voice came again.

“Issa...”

My blood ran cold.

It was unmistakably my father's voice.

“Open the door.”

I reached for the handle.

Binta pulled me back.

“No!”

The lights suddenly came back on.

The room filled with yellow light.

I turned toward the door.

Nothing.

I opened it.

The corridor was empty.

I stepped outside.

There was nobody.

No footsteps.

No car.

Nothing.

I looked down.

A small white envelope lay on the ground.

I picked it up.

There was no name on it.

I opened it.

Inside was a photograph.

My father.

Musa.

Binta's mother.

And another man.

The same man from the old photograph.

Daniel Cole.

But this photograph was different.

It showed the four of them standing outside what looked like a clinic.

On the back, someone had written:

“Ask Binta why her mother died.”

I turned around.

Binta was standing in the doorway.

Her face had gone pale.

“You've seen it,” I said.

She looked at the photograph.

Then she looked at me.

“Yes.”

“When?”

“Years ago.”

“Who gave it to you?”

She didn't answer.

“Binta.”

She closed her eyes.

“My father.”

“Why?”

“He said it was the only thing he had left of my mother.”

I looked at the photograph again.

“Why didn't you tell me?”

“Because your father begged me not to.”

I felt anger rise inside me.

“My father is dead.”

“I know.”

“So why are you still protecting him?”

“Because he was protecting you.”

“From what?”

She looked at me.

“From me.”

I didn't understand.

“What does that mean?”

She looked down.

“Issa, you need to go home.”

“No.”

“Please.”

“I've spent my entire life being told what I can and cannot know.”

I stepped closer.

“I'm done.”

She looked at me.

For a moment, neither of us spoke.

Then she whispered:

“Your father believed that if you married me, the people who wanted to hurt you would leave you alone.”

I stared at her.

“And you agreed?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“Because he asked me.”

“That isn't a reason.”

“It was enough for me.”

“Why?”

She looked away.

“Because I loved him.”

I froze.

“You loved my father?”

Binta shook her head.

“No.”

She looked directly at me.

“I loved you.”

The words hit me harder than anything else that night.

I didn't know what to say.

Binta's eyes filled with tears.

“I loved you before you ever met me.”

I swallowed.

“How?”

“Your father used to talk about you.”

“When?”

“Before you knew about me.”

She smiled sadly.

“He told me you were stubborn.”

I almost laughed.

“He was right.”

“He said you were kind.”

I looked away.

“He exaggerated.”

“He said you cared too much about people.”

I shook my head.

“That's not me.”

“It is.”

“Binta.”

She stepped closer.

“Issa, I knew about you long before you knew my name.”

Something inside me shifted.

All this time, I had thought Binta was simply a stranger my parents had chosen.

But she had known me.

She had heard stories about me.

She had been waiting for me.

And I had walked into her life already carrying someone else's love.

Tracy.

The thought immediately returned.

I hated myself for it.

Binta noticed.

She always noticed.

“You're thinking about her.”

I didn't deny it.

She nodded.

“That's what I mean.”

“What?”

“You can stand here with me and still be somewhere else.”

I lowered my eyes.

“I'm sorry.”

She laughed softly.

“You always say that.”

“Because I keep hurting you.”

“You haven't married me yet.”

“That doesn't mean I haven't hurt you.”

She looked at me.

“Issa, I don't want your pity.”

“It's not pity.”

“Then what is it?”

I didn't know.

That was the problem.

I didn't know what I felt for Binta.

I knew I cared about her.

I knew I was attracted to her.

I knew I felt guilty.

But was that love?

I couldn't answer.

And while I struggled with the question, Binta was standing in front of me, waiting for an answer I wasn't capable of giving.

“I should go,” I said.

She nodded.

“Yes.”

I walked toward the door.

“Issa.”

I turned.

She looked at me for a long moment.

“Whatever happens between us, don't marry me because you feel sorry for me.”

I stared at her.

“Then why should I marry you?”

She smiled sadly.

“You shouldn't.”

I left.

But her words followed me all the way home.

You shouldn't.

For some reason, they hurt more than if she had begged me to stay.

The next morning, Tracy came to see me.

She didn't call first.

She simply appeared at our house.

I found her sitting in the living room with my mother.

She stood when I entered.

“Hi.”

I stared at her.

“Why are you here?”

She looked surprised.

“I wanted to see you.”

“You could have called.”

“I did.”

I checked my phone.

There were three missed calls.

I hadn't noticed.

“Sorry.”

She came closer.

“I heard about your father.”

I nodded.

“Thank you.”

She reached for my hand.

I let her take it.

My mother stood.

“I'll give you two some privacy.”

She left.

Tracy sat beside me.

For a while, neither of us spoke.

Then she leaned against my shoulder.

“I wish I could take the pain away.”

I closed my eyes.

“I wish you could.”

She kissed my cheek.

“I love you.”

I looked at her.

“Do you?”

She frowned.

“What kind of question is that?”

“I don't know.”

“Why are you asking?”

“Because everything feels strange.”

She took my hand.

“You've just lost your father.”

“That's not what I mean.”

She became quiet.

I looked at her.

“Why didn't you tell me you knew my father?”

Her face changed.

“What?”

“Daniel.”

She pulled her hand away.

“Who told you?”

“Why does that matter?”

“Because I don't understand what you're talking about.”

“My father knew your father.”

“Yes.”

“And Binta's mother.”

She looked away.

“Issa, there are things about our families that happened before we were born.”

“Then tell me.”

“I don't know everything.”

“You know something.”

She sighed.

“My father doesn't talk about the past.”

“That's convenient.”

Her eyes narrowed.

“Why are you accusing me?”

“I'm not.”

“You are.”

I stood.

“Tracy, I'm trying to understand.”

“So am I.”

“Then help me.”

She stood too.

“I can't.”

“Why?”

“Because my father warned me not to get involved.”

“With what?”

She hesitated.

“You.”

I stared at her.

“Me?”

“He said your family would eventually cause problems for ours.”

I laughed.

“My family?”

“Yes.”

“My father was a doctor.”

“That doesn't mean he was innocent.”

The words hung between us.

I looked at her.

“What did you just say?”

She looked frightened.

“I didn't mean it that way.”

“No. You did.”

“Issa—”

“What did my father do?”

“I don't know.”

“Then why did you say he wasn't innocent?”

“I heard things.”

“From your father?”

She nodded.

“What things?”

She shook her head.

“I don't want to talk about this.”

“You have to.”

“No.”

“Tracy.”

She walked toward the door.

I caught her wrist.

She turned.

“Let me go.”

I released her.

She looked at me with tears in her eyes.

“Issa, I'm sorry.”

Then she walked out.

I stood there wondering whether I had just watched the woman I loved become a stranger.

Two days later, I saw Trina.

I hadn't planned to.

I was leaving the clinic after collecting some of my father's belongings when her car pulled up.

She stepped out.

“You look terrible.”

I smiled faintly.

“Good to see you too.”

She studied me.

“When did you last sleep?”

“I don't know.”

She came closer.

“You need to eat.”

“I'll survive.”

She rolled her eyes.

“You're impossible.”

I looked at her.

She looked different.

Less spoiled.

Less arrogant.

More human.

Maybe grief had made me see things differently.

Or maybe I was simply vulnerable.

“Why are you here?”

“I heard about your father.”

“Everyone has.”

She looked down.

“I wanted to check on you.”

“Thank you.”

She didn't leave.

“Are you okay?”

“No.”

The answer surprised both of us.

She stepped closer.

“You don't have to pretend with me.”

I looked at her.

“Why do you care?”

“Because I do.”

“Why?”

She smiled.

“You really need people to explain everything.”

“I do.”

“Then let me make it simple.”

She touched my face.

“I like you.”

My heart beat faster.

“I know.”

“No.”

She moved closer.

“You don't.”

I should have stopped her.

Instead, I stayed.

Her lips brushed mine.

I pulled away.

“This isn't right.”

“Why?”

“Because I'm with Tracy.”

“You're always with Tracy.”

“I love her.”

“I know.”

“Then why?”

She looked into my eyes.

“Because sometimes loving someone doesn't stop you from wanting someone else.”

I had no answer.

She smiled.

“That scares you, doesn't it?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“Because I don't want to become someone I hate.”

Her expression softened.

“Then don't.”

She walked away.

I watched her go.

And I hated myself because a part of me wanted her to turn around.

That evening, Tracy called.

“Where are you?”

“Home.”

“Can I come?”

“Yes.”

She arrived an hour later.

We sat in my father's old study.

She looked around.

“Everything feels different.”

“It is.”

She reached for my hand.

“Issa.”

“What?”

“Your father wanted you to marry Binta.”

I looked at her.

“Yes.”

“Do you love her?”

The question came unexpectedly.

I didn't answer.

Tracy waited.

“I don't know.”

Her face fell.

“You don't know?”

“I care about her.”

“That isn't what I asked.”

“I don't know.”

She stood.

“You've never said that before.”

“I've never been asked.”

She walked toward the window.

“You're falling for her.”

“No.”

“You are.”

“I'm not.”

“Then why can't you say you don't love her?”

I stood.

“Because I don't want to lie to you.”

She turned.

“So you're choosing her?”

“No.”

“Then choose me.”

I stared at her.

“It's not that simple.”

“It is.”

“No.”

“You love me.”

“Yes.”

“Then that's your answer.”

I looked away.

She came closer.

“Tell me you choose me.”

I opened my mouth.

Nothing came out.

Tracy's eyes filled with tears.

“You can't.”

“Tracy—”

“You can't even say it.”

“Because everything is complicated.”

“No.”

She shook her head.

“It's only complicated because you're allowing it to be.”

I didn't answer.

She walked toward the door.

“Where are you going?”

“Home.”

“Tracy.”

She stopped.

“Do you want me?”

I stared at her.

“Yes.”

“Do you love me?”

“Yes.”

“Then why are you hesitating?”

I didn't know.

She came back.

Her face was wet with tears.

“Issa, I'm not asking you to marry me tonight.”

She touched my chest.

“I'm asking you to remember who loved you before everyone else started making decisions for you.”

Then she kissed me.

I kissed her back.

And for those few seconds, I stopped thinking.

I stopped questioning.

I stopped caring about Binta.

When Tracy pulled away, she whispered:

“Come with me.”

I knew what she meant.

I also knew I shouldn't.

But I followed her.

The next morning, I woke with regret.

Tracy was asleep beside me.

I stared at the ceiling.

What had I done?

I quietly got dressed.

She woke.

“Leaving?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“I shouldn't have stayed.”

She sat up.

“You wanted to.”

“That doesn't make it right.”

She looked at me.

“Do you regret it?”

I didn't answer.

She smiled sadly.

“That is all I needed to know.”

I left.

On the drive home, I received a message.

From Binta.

Your mother asked me to come over.

I stared at it.

Then another appeared.

She wants to talk about the marriage.

My stomach tightened.

I hadn't told Binta about Tracy.

I hadn't told anyone.

I drove home.

My mother was waiting.

“You need to sit down.”

“What happened?”

She looked exhausted.

“The Kamara family has agreed.”

“Agreed to what?”

“The marriage.”

I stared at her.

“I already told you—”

“Your father left instructions.”

My heart stopped.

“What instructions?”

She handed me an envelope.

It had my father's handwriting.

I opened it.

One sentence.

Issa must marry Binta before the end of the month.

I looked at my mother.

“Why?”

She began crying.

“I don't know.”

“Then why are you agreeing?”

“Because your father believed it was the only way to protect you.”

“From what?”

She shook her head.

“Issa, please.”

“No.”

I threw the letter onto the table.

“I'm not marrying her.”

My mother looked at me.

“You may not have a choice.”

I laughed bitterly.

“Of course I have a choice.”

“No.”

Her voice was quiet.

“You don't.”

I stared at her.

“What does that mean?”

She wiped her tears.

“Your father left one more instruction.”

“What?”

She looked toward the hallway.

Binta was standing there.

She had heard everything.

My heart dropped.

My mother looked at her.

Then back at me.

“He left the house to Binta.”

I couldn't speak.

“What?”

My mother nodded.

“The clinic too.”

I stared at Binta.

She looked as shocked as I was.

“That can't be true.”

“It is.”

My mother handed me another document.

I opened it.

My father's signature was at the bottom.

But there was something else.

A second signature.

Musa Kamara.

And beneath both signatures were the words:

In exchange for the truth being kept until Issa marries Binta.

I looked at Binta.

“What truth?”

She was crying.

“I don't know.”

“Then why is your name on this?”

“It isn't.”

I looked again.

Her name wasn't there.

Only her father's.

I turned toward my mother.

“What happens if I refuse?”

She didn't answer.

“Mother.”

She finally looked at me.

“You lose everything your father left you.”

I laughed.

“So that's it?”

“No.”

She shook her head.

“You also lose the protection he arranged.”

“What protection?”

She looked toward Binta.

Then whispered:

“Because the people who killed your father are still looking for you.”

My blood ran cold.

Before I could respond, my phone rang.

Unknown number.

I answered.

No one spoke.

Then a voice whispered:

“Marry Binta, Issa.”

I froze.

“Who is this?”

The caller laughed.

“If you don't, the next funeral won't be your father's.”

The call ended.

I stared at the phone.

Then I looked at Binta.

She was crying.

My mother was shaking.

And somewhere outside the house, a car engine started.

I moved toward the window.

A black SUV was parked across the street.

Its headlights came on.

Then it slowly drove away.

My phone vibrated one final time.

A photograph appeared on the screen.

It was Tracy.

Standing beside Daniel Cole.

Both of them were smiling.

And beneath the photograph was a message:

Ask your girlfriend what she promised us before she ever met you.