The Debt Bride

Chapter 13 - Lagos

By Sunday morning The Debt Bride was the talk of Lagos society.

Not the story. The real life version of it.

Three separate i********: blogs had posted photos from the gala. Emeka Okafor arriving with an unknown woman. Emeka Okafor whose relationship status had been a source of speculation for years. Emeka Okafor who had never once been photographed holding a woman's hand.

Holding a woman's hand.

Adaeze found out at 7am when Chioma sent her seventeen messages in a row.

The first one said: *ADAEZE.*

The second one said: *ADAEZE.*

The third through seventh ones were just screenshots.

She sat up in bed and looked at them.

There they were. Clear as anything. Walking into Eko Hotel. His hand holding hers. Her midnight blue dress catching the light. His face in profile looking straight ahead. Her face slightly turned toward the camera looking composed and completely unbothered.

She looked good. She would not pretend she did not look good.

The captions were what got her.

*Billionaire Emeka Okafor spotted at Okafor Foundation gala with mystery woman. Sources confirm they arrived together and left together. Who is she???*

Another one: *E. Okafor has been hiding a whole wife. Lagos we need answers immediately.*

And the comments. Hundreds of them already.

*She is beautiful oh.

*Where did he find her?*

*Lucky girl.*

*He looks happy. Has anyone ever seen this man look happy before?*

She put her phone face down on the bed.

Did he look happy.

She picked the phone back up and looked at the photo again.

He did not look happy exactly. He looked like himself. Controlled. Composed. But there was something in the set of his shoulders that was different from the cold stillness of their first meeting. Something less armored.

She put the phone down again.

Her own phone rang. Her mother.

"Ada." Her mother's voice was three notes higher than usual. "My neighbor Mrs Okonkwo just called me. She said she saw your picture on Facebook."

"Good morning Mama."

"She said you were with Emeka Okafor."

"Yes Mama."

"At Eko Hotel."

"Yes Mama."

A pause full of many things.

"You looked beautiful," her mother said finally. Quietly. "Your father would have been so proud."

Adaeze's throat tightened without warning.

"Thank you Mama," she managed.

"Are you eating well in that house."

"Mrs Fashola feeds me very well."

"Good. A woman needs to eat well." Another pause. "This Emeka. He treats you with respect."

It was not quite a question.

"Yes Mama," she said. Because it was true. Whatever this arrangement was he had never been anything less than respectful. Distant sometimes. Difficult to read always. But never unkind.

"Good," her mother said firmly. "Call me tomorrow."

She hung up.

Adaeze sat with her phone in her hands in the Sunday morning quiet of her room in the Ikoyi mansion and thought about her father and the pawpaw tree and the life that had brought her here to this particular moment.

A knock at her door.

"Come in."

Emeka opened the door. He was already dressed. Of course he was. She was not sure this man owned pajamas.

He held up his phone. On the screen was one of the i********: posts.

"You have seen them," he said.

"My friend sent seventeen messages before 7am."

He came into the room and sat in the chair by the window. She pulled her knees up on the bed and they looked at each other across the Sunday morning light.

"Does it bother you," he said.

She thought about it honestly. "No," she said. "Does it bother you."

"No." He set his phone down. "My PR team wants to release a brief statement confirming the marriage. Nothing detailed. Just confirmation."

"That is sensible."

"They will want a photo as well. Something controlled rather than leaving the blogs to keep speculating."

She nodded. "Also sensible."

He looked at her. "You are very calm about this."

"I grew up in a house where my mother handled everything quietly and efficiently," she said. "I learned from the best."

Something moved in his expression. Warm and brief like sunlight through cloud.

"After breakfast," he said. "If you are comfortable. A few photos in the garden. Nothing formal."

She looked at him sitting in the chair by her window in the Sunday morning light. This man who knocked before entering. Who moved over on piano benches. Who ate her mother's jollof rice and told his grandmother it was genuinely good.

"After breakfast," she agreed.

He stood to leave.

"Emeka," she said.

He turned.

"The comments said you looked happy in the photos," she said carefully. Watching him.

A very long pause.

He looked at her steadily.

"Lagos talks too much," he said.

But he did not say they were wrong.

He left.

Adaeze looked at the empty chair by her window for a long moment.

Then she smiled at absolutely nobody and went to get ready for breakfasts