24

RULE 1:NO EMOTIONS

I packed my life into two suitcases.

It took less than an hour. Twenty-seven years reduced to jeans, three work dresses, my mother’s old kente cloth, and a photo of my father and me at my university graduation. I left everything else. The apartment wasn’t mine anyway. The bank would take it next week along with Addo & Sons.

At 7:58am, a black Range Rover idled outside my compound in Dansoman. The driver didn’t speak. He just took my suitcases, loaded them into the trunk, and opened the back door for me.

No one hugged me goodbye. There was no one left to.

The drive to East Legon took 40 minutes. Accra traffic was merciful for once. I spent the whole ride staring out the window, trying not to throw up. I had signed a contract yesterday. Today, I was moving in with my husband.

Husband. The word tasted like poison.

Kofi’s house was not a house. It was a fortress.

Three stories of white concrete and glass, hidden behind 12-foot walls and black gates. CCTV cameras on every corner. Two security guards at the entrance who checked my face against a photo on an iPad before letting us in.

The compound was huge. Manicured lawn. Pool. A separate boys’ quarters. Three cars in the driveway — the Range Rover, a Tesla, and a matte black G-Wagon.

This was what ten million cedis couldn’t buy. This was old money plus new tech money. This was Kofi Mensah’s world.

The driver stopped at the front steps. “Madam, we have arrived.”

Madam. I flinched.

The front door opened before I could knock. A woman in her fifties stood there. White uniform, kind eyes, hair pulled into a neat bun.

“You must be Miss Addo,” she said. Her smile was warm. Real. “I am Auntie Mercy. I’ve worked for Master Kofi’s family for fifteen years. Welcome home, my daughter.”

Home. The word made my throat close.

“Thank you,” I managed. “But it’s… it’s just Nana.”

“Eh heh,” she clucked, taking one of my suitcases before the driver could. “Come, come. Let me show you to your room. Master Kofi said to make sure you are comfortable.”

My room. Not _our_ room. Good. He remembered the contract.

Auntie Mercy led me through a living room that could fit my entire Dansoman apartment twice. Everything was white, grey, or black. No photos. No color. It looked like a hotel lobby. Expensive and empty.

We went up a floating staircase. The second floor had four doors. She stopped at the last one and pushed it open.

“This is the guest wing,” she said. “Master Kofi’s room is on the third floor. He likes his privacy.”

The guest room was bigger than my father’s master bedroom. King-sized bed. Sitting area. Balcony overlooking the pool. Attached bathroom with a tub I could swim in.

On the bed was a stack of shopping bags. Gucci. Zara. Louis Vuitton.

“Master Kofi said you should have new clothes,” Auntie Mercy explained. “For the wedding. And for meeting Nana Yaa. She will inspect you, my daughter. She inspects everyone.”

I walked to the bags like they might bite me. Pulled out a dress. Silk. Emerald green. The tag said $2,400.

I had never touched anything that cost $2,400 in my life.

“I can’t wear this,” I said. My voice came out small.

Auntie Mercy’s face softened. “My daughter, when a man is buying you, let him buy you properly. At least the clothes will be yours after six months, eh?”

When a man is buying you.

I dropped the dress back into the bag. “Where is he?”

“Master Kofi left for the office at 5am,” she said. “He said to tell you this.”

She handed me a folded note. His handwriting was sharp. Angled. No wasted strokes.

_Nana —_

_Read the contract again. All 12 pages. Memorize the rules._

_Wedding is Friday. Traditional. Akosombo. My family compound._

_We leave Thursday at 3pm. Be ready._

_Do not contact anyone about this arrangement._

_K.M._

No “hello.” No “how are you.” Just orders.

I crumpled the note in my fist.

Rule #1: No emotions.

I was already failing.

---

I spent the day reading the contract.

It was worse than I remembered.

_Clause 4.2: The Wife agrees to engage in public displays of affection when in the presence of Nana Yaa Mensah, including but not limited to: holding hands, embracing, and kissing on the cheek. All such acts shall be performed convincingly._

Kissing. I had to kiss Kofi Mensah.

_Clause 6.1: The Wife shall not engage in romantic or s****l relationships with any third party for the duration of this agreement. Violation constitutes breach of contract._

So I couldn’t even date. For six months, I was his. On paper.

_Clause 9.4: In the event that Nana Yaa Mensah requests a grandchild, the Husband and Wife shall provide reasonable assurance that they are “trying,” without engaging in actual conception._

My face burned. Did Kofi read this when he drafted it? Did he imagine me, telling his grandmother we were “trying” for a baby?

I threw the contract across the room. It hit the wall and slid to the floor.

At 6pm, Auntie Mercy knocked. “Dinner is ready, my daughter. Master Kofi is home.”

My stomach dropped to my feet.

The dining room was on the first floor. Long table. Twelve chairs. Kofi sat at the head, laptop open, typing. He didn’t look up when I entered. He was still in his suit, but his tie was loosened and his sleeves were rolled up.

I could see the veins in his forearms. I forced my eyes away.

“Sit,” he said. Not a question. An order.

I sat three chairs away from him. As far as I could without being obvious.

Auntie Mercy served us. Jollof. Grilled tilapia. Kelewele. Salad. It smelled amazing, but my appetite was dead.

Kofi closed his laptop. Finally looked at me. “Did you read the contract?”

“Yes.”

“Do you have questions?”

A hundred. But I only asked one. “Why Akosombo? For the wedding.”

“Nana Yaa moved there after my grandfather died,” he said. He picked up his fork. Didn’t eat. “She says Accra is too noisy for dying. The family compound is there. She wants a traditional wedding before she goes. Her last wish.”

His voice didn’t change when he said “dying.” Like he was discussing the weather.

“Does she know… about us? That it’s not real?”

“No,” he said. His eyes were sharp. “And she will never know. If she finds out, you breach the contract. You pay back the two million advance, plus damages. You understand?”

Two million cedis. I didn’t have 200 cedis.

“I understand,” I whispered.

“Good.” He finally took a bite of food. Chewed. Swallowed. “We will tell her we met again three months ago. You came to MensahTech for a contract. We reconnected. Fell in love. Keep it simple. Nana Yaa is smart. She survived three coups and raised five children. She will know if you’re lying.”

My heart was pounding. “Kofi, I can’t do this. I can’t lie to a dying woman.”

He set his fork down. Slowly. Deliberately.

“You signed the contract, Nana,” he said. His voice was quiet. Dangerous. “You took the two million cedis. It’s in your account already. I checked. You paid your father’s hospital bill at 4:32pm today.”

I froze. How did he—

“I told you,” he said. “I know everything. You’re in this now. There is no exit until six months.”

I stood up so fast my chair scraped the floor. “You can’t just buy people!”

“I didn’t buy you,” he said. He stood too. He was taller than me. Much taller. I had to tilt my head to look at him. “I bought your cooperation. There’s a difference.”

“Not to me!”

We were breathing hard. Both of us. The dining room was silent except for Auntie Mercy, who had disappeared into the kitchen.

For a second, I thought he was going to yell. I thought University Kofi was going to come back — the one who argued in class until his voice was hoarse, the one who felt everything too much.

But he didn’t. This Kofi just exhaled. Once. Controlled.

“Rule #1,” he said. “No emotions, Nana. Not here. Not with me. Not ever.”

He picked up his laptop. “We leave for Akosombo Thursday at 3pm. Traditional marriage is Friday at 10am. Be ready. Wear the emerald dress. Nana Yaa likes green.”

Then he walked out. Left me standing there, shaking, with a plate of cold jollof.

---

I didn’t sleep that night.

At 2am, I was on the balcony, watching the pool lights reflect on the water. The house was silent. Too silent. No cars honking. No neighbors arguing. No life.

This wasn’t a home. It was a mausoleum.

My phone buzzed. A text from an unknown number.

_Korle-Bu Hospital: Payment received for E. Addo. Thank you. Treatment resumes 6am tomorrow._

I covered my mouth with my hand. The tears came fast. Ugly. Relief and shame and grief all mixed together.

My father would live. Because I sold myself.

Was it worth it?

A light turned on. Third floor. His bedroom.

I looked up. Kofi was standing at his window. Silhouetted. He wasn’t looking at me. He was looking at the sky.

For one crazy moment, I wanted to shout his name. Ask him if he was happy. Ask him if he ever regretted anything. Ask him why he picked me.

But Rule #1: No emotions.

So I went inside. Closed the balcony door. Got into a bed that wasn’t mine, in a house that wasn’t home, and married to a man who wasn’t my husband.

And I cried until the sun came up.

Thursday. Akosombo.

I was going to become Mrs. Kofi Mensah.

God help me.