Chapter Thirty: Risking it all

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It was pitch black, drizzling and chilly.

Yet the people standing before Benson seemed entirely unbothered by any of it.

Though it was almost midnight, Chibolya compound seemed to have just woken up. Loud bar music blared from somewhere deeper in the maze of shacks and corrugated iron fences. People sat outside their doors chatting loudly with their neighbours. Children played skip rope in the rain, their laughter sharp and high-pitched in the darkness.

This was the kind of place where questions were not asked. Where transactions happened in the spaces between official records. Where a man could disappear and reappear depending on who was asking.

The man wearing a torn vest that had thinned with one too many washes stood with his arms crossed. He blew out smoke from the marijuana stick between his lips as he counted the money in the briefcase before him. His fingers were thick and stained. His eyes were the colour of wet concrete.

He finished counting and looked up at Benson with something that might have been respect if it had not been so entirely devoid of warmth.

“One hundred thousand kwacha and not a penny less. Impressive,” he stated flatly.

“You have the money,” Benson said, his voice steady despite the hammering in his chest. “Can you now let her go?”

The man stepped forward and blew smoke directly into Benson’s face. It stung his eyes. He did not blink.

“You need to double this.”

Benson stared at him. For a moment, the only sound was the rain pattering on the corrugated iron roof and the distant thump of the bar music.

“We had an agreement,” Benson said carefully. “You said you would let her go for a hundred thousand.”

The man smiled. It was not a pleasant expression. “Well, I changed my mind. Got a problem with that?”

The vein on Benson’s temple twitched. Once. Twice. He forced himself to breathe.

“I don’t have that kind of money.”

“Then we are done here.” The thug snapped his fingers. A short, sharp whistle cut through the night.

A scarier and more menacing man emerged from the shadows. He had crisscrossing knife scars running down both sides of his face like a map of violence. His shoulders were broad enough to block out the light from the single bulb hanging above the compound entrance. His hands hung loose at his sides, relaxed, as though they had done this many times before.

“Show our guest out,” the leader said, already closing the briefcase with clear intention of keeping the money.

As the scar-faced man strode toward Benson, purposefully revealing the gleaming knives tucked into his waistband, Benson’s mouth went dry. His heart began to pound against his ribs like something trying to escape.

The scarred man grabbed him without ceremony and began to drag him away. His grip was iron. His pace was relentless. The compound blurred around them.

“Wait,” Benson shouted desperately over the huge man’s shoulder. “Wait, please.”

The leader thug paused. He raised his eyebrows, a gesture of mild curiosity.

Benson’s mind raced. He had come with one hundred thousand kwacha, every penny he could gather without selling the farm itself. He had thought it would be enough. He had prayed it would be enough.

“Fifty thousand kwacha,” Benson said quickly, the words tumbling out. “I can top up that much. It is all I have. Please, just let her go.”

The leader considered this for a moment. Then he shook his head slowly. “Not good enough.”

They were almost at the gate now. The scarred man moved with purpose, hurling Benson like he weighed nothing. Panic clawed at Benson’s throat.

“You can keep the truck,” Benson blurted out. “It is worth more than the money you requested.”

The scarred man stopped. He looked back at the leader.

The leader was quiet for a long moment. He lit another cigarette. The flame from the lighter illuminated his face, casting sharp shadows across his features.

Then he gave a short whistle.

The scarred man stopped dead. He unceremoniously dropped Benson onto the hard ground. Benson landed on his side with a thump, the impact driving the air from his lungs. But pain never registered. Relief washed over him in a wave so powerful it nearly knocked him unconscious.

He could not believe it had worked.

Benson quickly moved forward on trembling legs. He tentatively placed the truck keys on the table. His hands were shaking. He clasped them together to try to still them.

Another whistle.

A side door opened. Another man emerged, dragging a figure with him. He roughly pushed the person to the ground in front of Benson.

Benson stared at the woman before him.

She was not the woman he remembered.

Gone was the glamorous social media personality, the woman who had walked through university like she owned the ground beneath her feet, the woman whose every post had been carefully curated to show a life of effortless perfection. In her place stood someone else entirely.

Her skin was covered with grime. Her hair was matted and tangled. Her clothes were torn and stained with things he did not want to identify. She smelled of fear and desperation and things that made his stomach turn.

She was barely recognisable.

Benson bent down to help her to her feet. His hands were still shaking. He could not make them stop.

Yolanda could hardly look him in the eyes.

This was the man she had disdained in university. This was the man who had nothing going for him except academics and a pretty face. This was the man she would have looked through in a crowd without a second glance. This was the man who, when the entire world turned its back on her, was the only one willing to help her.

She could not reconcile the two truths.

Benson pulled her to him, his arms coming around her carefully, as though she might shatter if he held too tight.

“You are safe now,” he whispered into her hair. “You are safe.”

She did not respond. She simply stood there, trembling against him, unable to speak, unable to move, unable to do anything except exist in the moment where someone had chosen her when choosing her meant losing everything.

Behind them, the leader thug watched with the detached interest of a man watching the end of a transaction. He pocketed the briefcase. He pocketed the truck keys. He turned and walked back into the shadows of the compound.

The bar music continued. The rain continued. The children continued to play skip rope in the darkness.

The world did not pause for the weight of what had just happened.

Benson held Yolanda for a long moment. Then he pulled back just enough to look at her face. Her eyes were hollow. Her lips were pale. She looked like someone who had been to the edge of something and barely made it back.

“Can you walk?” he asked gently.

She nodded, though the movement was uncertain.

He kept one arm around her waist as they made their way out of Chibolya compound. The rain was still falling. The night was still cold. But with every step away from that place, Benson felt something shift inside him.

He had crossed a line. He knew it. There was no going back from what he had just done. He had traded his truck, his freedom, his future, for a woman who had never once looked at him the way he was looking at her now.

He did not regret it.

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© Ponda