XIIII: Consequences

TELI’S GARDEN

“Good morning, Teliwe,” Edna greeted warmly as she stepped into the house, a neatly packed basket in her hands. She handed it to Teliwe the moment she crossed the threshold.

“And merry Christmas.”

Teliwe closed the door behind her and led Edna to the kitchen. She had been pounding spices in the mortar, the fragrant aroma of crushed peppers and herbs filling the air. She set the basket down on the counter, brushing flour off her hands.

“Sorry, the kitchen’s a mess. I wasn’t expecting anyone,” Teliwe murmured, her voice carrying a faint edge of embarrassment.

Edna’s eyes swept over the clutter with gentle amusement before settling on her. “Chonta told me what happened. Are you okay?”

Teliwe let out a dry laugh. “It’s the story of my life. Pain and rejection? I’m used to it.”

“No one should be used to that,” Edna said firmly. “It’s her loss. Live your life, Teliwe, and don’t give her the power to hurt you. My door is always open. A place to call home, or friends who’ll have your back — whenever you need it.”

Teliwe allowed herself a small smile. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome, love. Anyway… I came to invite you for Christmas lunch, if you’re free.”

Teliwe shook her head. “Can I take a rain check on that?”

“Do you have plans?”

“No. I just… I’m not in the mood to be good company.”
Edna nodded, understanding flickering across her face. “I had a feeling. Enjoy the basket, though.”

Teliwe escorted her to the door, a soft laugh escaping her lips as she watched Edna leave. Once alone, she allowed herself a private moment of amusement. Edna’s well-meaning attempts to set her up with her son were… endearing, in their own way.

Her thoughts drifted to the handsome stranger she had given herself to almost two months ago.

The memory of that night — the reckless, intoxicating mix of lust and submission — made her cheeks flush. Her fingers instinctively fanned her face, the thrill of the memory sending a shiver down her spine.

Teliwe shook her head, a small, wicked smile tugging at her lips. Some things, she thought, were too delicious to forget.

🕸🕸🕸

Meanwhile, at the Benedict residence, Clere wrapped her arms around her parents, holding on a little longer than usual.

It had been a turbulent couple of years. There was a time they had thought peace was a luxury they would never taste again.

Charlotte handed her a glass of eggnog.

“So… how is everything coming along?”

Clere didn’t miss the tone. She knew exactly where this was going. Her parents had never been thrilled about her taking over the company. In their perfect world, she would have been a trophy wife — elegant, adored, financially protected by a powerful husband.

“Everything is fine, Mom,” she replied, taking a slow sip.

“Remember we had an agreement…” Charlotte began gently.

Clere swallowed irritation along with the eggnog. She knew they meant well. She just wished they believed in her as fiercely as she believed in herself.

“I know,” she said, forcing patience into her voice. “You don’t have to remind me every five minutes.”

Over her dead body would she ever hand the company over to someone else. She had sacrificed too much. Bled too much.

“I know you’re capable,” Charlotte continued softly. “I just don’t like that ruthless world you’re stepping into.”

Neither did Clere.

But someone had to step up.

She reached for her mother’s hand. “I’ll be careful.”

The words had barely left her mouth when her stomach lurched.

She stiffened.

“Clere?”

“I’m fine,” she said quickly — too quickly.

Another wave hit.

She rushed from the room and into the downstairs bathroom, barely making it before she bent over the toilet.

Her mother knocked and pushed the door open a crack.

“Honey? Are you alright?”

“I’m fine,” Clere managed between breaths. “Must be the eggnog.”

Charlotte didn’t look convinced.

Two hours later, Clere stood alone in her bedroom bathroom, staring at the pregnancy test in her trembling hands.

Two lines.

Clear. Unmistakable.

Her breath caught in her throat.

“No…” she whispered.

The room suddenly felt too small. Too quiet.

Her mind flashed to Ian.

To that night.

To everything she had already sacrificed.

Her grip tightened around the plastic stick.

This could not be happening.

But it was.

🕸🕸🕸

Edna pulled Easineya aside while the rest of the guests enjoyed Christmas lunch. Laughter and clinking glasses filled the room, but her tone was anything but festive.

“Easi… what exactly do you think you’re doing?”

Easineya blinked. “Doing?”

Edna’s eyes shifted meaningfully toward the living room. “Why is Nacilele here?”

“Oh.” Easineya shrugged as though it were the most ordinary thing in the world. “She’s my friend, Mother. Just because she broke up with my foolish brother doesn’t mean I have to exile her.”

“For peace to exist in this house,” Edna said quietly, “you need to stay out of your brother’s affairs. Don’t manufacture situations.”

“I’m not manufacturing anything,” Easineya replied, wounded innocence dripping from her voice.

Edna didn’t buy it. She knew her daughter too well.

“Lemba is in love with another woman,” she warned. “Nacilele is only setting herself up for heartbreak.”

Easineya scoffed. “He’s in love with a ghost.”

“Don’t play with fire,” Edna said firmly. “For everyone’s sanity, leave this alone.”

Easineya crossed her heart dramatically. Edna shook her head and walked away, unconvinced.

From across the room, she watched Nacilele glide toward Lemba.

The cream plunge blazer dress. The thigh-high boots. The confidence that was just slightly too deliberate.

Lemba stood by the window, phone pressed to his ear.

“Hey, stranger,” Nacilele purred when she reached him, lifting her wine glass.

“Nasi?” He ended his call quickly, tension settling in his jaw. “I didn’t know you were invited.”

“You sound disappointed.”

He didn’t answer.

“I’m here to apologize,” she continued.

“For what?”

“For the other day.” She hesitated. “I lied. It was your birthday. I didn’t want to ruin it.”

A flicker of something crossed his face. Regret? Sadness?

“I see.”

“No, you don’t,” she pressed, her composure cracking just slightly. “You hurt me, Lemba. But I still love you. And I want you back.”

“Must we do this here?” His voice lowered.

“If we must.” She drew closer. “You may have stopped loving me. I haven’t stopped loving you. And I don’t care who you think you’re in love with. I’m not giving up without a fight.”

“Nasi…” He exhaled slowly. “Don’t make me lose the little respect I still have for you.”

She laughed softly — no humor in it.

“Pride? Who needs pride? If losing my dignity gets me back my man, then so be it.” She lifted her glass slightly. “Merry Christmas.”

She walked away.

Easineya, waiting across the room, met Lemba’s eyes and gave him a look that was almost a challenge.

Lemba rubbed the back of his neck and sighed.

The coming days were not going to be peaceful.

🕸🕸🕸

SERAFINA TRINITY MEDICAL

Dr. Easineya strode down the corridor with measured confidence, heels clicking softly against the polished floor. Her crisp white suit was impeccable, handbag resting on her forearm, a cup of steaming coffee in the other.

“Good morning, Dr. Zimba,” the nurses greeted in unison.

She nodded, her gaze steady, acknowledging them without slowing her pace.

“Good morning, Doctor,” her secretary said as she entered the office, notebook in hand, falling into step.

“What’s on my schedule?” Easineya asked, placing her coffee down.

“You have a hysterectomy at eight. Dr. Malata won’t be in, so you’ll need to cover her afternoon reviews.”

“Mm,” Easineya murmured, flipping through her planner.

A soft tap at the door made them both look up.

A woman stood in the doorway, bundled in layers, sunglasses hiding her eyes. She hesitated. “Dr. Zimba… do you have a minute?”

The woman removed her glasses. Easineya’s brow rose in mild recognition.

“Miss…Benedicts?” she said, trying to place the familiar face of the fallen heiress.

Clere stepped fully into the office. Easineya gestured toward the chair, but Clere ignored it, standing stiffly, hands fidgeting at her sides.

The secretary slipped out quietly.

“I need you to do a test for me,” Clere said softly, almost in a whisper.

Easineya arched an eyebrow. “A test?”

Clere’s voice dropped even lower. “A pregnancy test… off the record.”

For a heartbeat, Easineya didn’t move, her face calm. But her sharp eyes didn’t miss the tension coiling in Clere’s shoulders, the subtle fear in her voice.

“Off the record,” Easineya repeated, her tone neutral. “Understood.”

LATER…

“Congratulations, Miss Benedict. You are ten weeks pregnant.”

The words felt surreal.

For a second, she forgot how to breathe. Heat rushed to her face, then drained just as quickly, leaving behind a bitter, sickening twist in her gut.

Pregnant. The word eched in her skull like a verdict.

BENEDICTS RESIDENCE

‘Clere?” Charlotte’s voice floated toward the car from the porch.

Clere sat in the back of the chauffer driven car, staring blankly at the sonogram in her hands. She hadn’t even noticed when the car had pulled into the driveway.

”Clere?” Charlotte called again, worry creeping into her voice as she covered the distance between them and tapped on the tinted window.” Honey, is everything okay?”

The sound seemed to snap Clere out of her daze.

”Mom?”

She blinked, disoriented for a second, then quickly reached for her handbag on the opposite seat and stepped out of the car.

Charlotte studied her daughter carefully. “Are you okay? Is everything alright at the office? What happened? I’ve been calling you for a long time.” She pulled her poncho tighter around her shoulders as a chilly breeze swept through the yard.

“I’m fine, Mom,” Clere replied softly, forcing composure into her voice. “Let’s go inside. It’s getting cold. It looks like it might rain tonight.”

Charlotte didn’t look convinced, but she followed her daughter into the house.

“Tomaidah,” Charlotte called to the maid as they entered, “bring a cup of warm water for Clere, and tell the kitchen to hurry with dinner preparations.”

“Yes, ma’am,” the maid replied, hurrying off.

As they stepped into the lounge, Bernard wheeled himself in from the study.

“Clere,” he said firmly, “I was just on the phone with Rodney. He says you haven’t been to the office all day. You missed the meeting with the Tunisian investors.”

Clere lowered herself into an armchair, crossing one leg over the other.

“It’s just one meeting, Dad. Besides, everything has already been set and finalized,” she replied dismissively.

Bernard frowned. “The company is still in its recovery phase. It’s crucial that our partners and investors meet you personally.”

“Dad,” she sighed, “my team is more than capable. If they can’t handle something that simple, then they have no business continuing to draw salaries from the company.”

She glanced down at her manicured nails, absently worrying at them.

“There’s something I need to talk to you about.”

Her tone changed. Serious, heavy.

Both her parents exchanged a look. They had noticed her distant mood the moment she stepped out of the car.

“What is it?” Bernard asked, concern replacing his sternness.

Clere inhaled slowly.

“I went to the hospital today,” she said quietly.

Silence fell.

Charlotte stiffened. “The hospital? Why?”

“I’m pregnant.”

Charlotte, slowly withdrew her hands as though she had been burned. Bernard’s face went rigid.

Charlotte stood up. “What do you mean you are pregnant? How did that happen?”

“You have never dated. How could this have happened?” her father asked in disbelief.

Clere’s voice trembled. ”It was a party…I was drunk…things got out of hand.”

Bernard’s shoulders, already burdened by six relentless years of corporate battles and hospital corridors, seemed to sag further.

Charlotte, whose light had been fading under the weight of it all, closed her eyes as if bracing for another blow. They had fought enemies in boardrooms and at sickbeds but they had never imagined fighting this within their own home.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered, her head bowed.

Bernard, knuckles white from gripping the wheelchair, took a deep breathe. “What’s done is done. What we need to do is correct the wrong. Who is the boy? Is he aware? Call him now. The two families need to met. A church wedding is out of the question but a civil wedding at the civic centre is imperative.”

“Your father is right. You will marry before you begin to show…” Charlotte shot to her feet and went to grab the phone off its cradle. “There’s so much to do and so little time. The earlier we get this done the better. Here.”

Clere looked up staring at the phone in her mothers hand but did not reach for it.

An uneasy feeling settled over Charlotte when Clere did not reach for the phone. She looked at her husband worriedly before calling out tentatively. “Clere?”

“I’m sorry,” she whispered dropping her gaze to her hands in her laps.

“Clere, get the phone and call the boy,” Bernard ordered.

“I can’t,” she whispered, “I don’t know who the father is.”

Charlotte gasped as if struck. “Oh God , Clere, what have you done?” She lowered herself into a chair as if her knees had given way.

Bernard’s jaw tightened while Charlotte pressed a trembling hand to her chest.

“I’m sorry.”

A sob escaped from Charlotte as she covered her face.

Bernard’s jaw tightened. his fingers dug into the arm of his wheelchair until his knuckles turned white.

”All those years,” he said quietly, his voice tinged with barely suppressed anger. ”All those sacrifices.”

Clere lowered her gaze. ”I never meant for this to happen.”

Bernard reached for the teacup beside him and flung it across the room.

it shattered against the wall behind her. Hot tea splashed across Clere’s arm. She didn’t move.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered.

Bernard let out a hollow laugh, fury burning in his veins. “Sorry? If I could buy back the dignity that you just trampled on, every time you said sorry, i would die a happy man.”

“Bernard, what do we do? The shame…oh god, what will people say  about us?”

“You should head back to your room,” Bernard said his shoulders sagging with the weight of the situation.

Clere nodded and headed back to her room daring not to meet her parents disappointed faces.

Please forgive me, she whispered to herself.

They felt blindsided. Of all the things they feared for their daughter, this had never crossed their minds but the lie was better than the truth. Clere knew if her parents found out that she had been impregnated by Ian Anderson-the man responsible for the misery that was their lives-they would die from shock and disappointment.

Later, alone in her bedroom, Clere stood before the mirror and pressed a trembling hand to her still-flat stomach.

Tears slid down her cheeks.

“Ian,” she whispered.

Rage burned hotter than fear.

Even as her palm rested over the tiny life growing inside her, all she felt was anger.

She picked up her phone and dialled.

“Detective Monde,” she said when he answered. “Tell me you’ve good news for me.”

🕸🕸🕸

TELI’S GARDENS

Teliwe was helping her men offload plants from the van when a delivery man came to her with her assistant.

“Teliwe, you have a delivery,” Arnold called out to her.

Teliwe removed her gardening gloves and signed for the envelope. The moment she saw what was inside, her expression hardened. Disbelief gave way to fury.

“The nerve of that man!” she hissed as she hailed a cab.

BAROTSE PLAINS HOTEL

Teliwe marched to the executive floor of Barotse Plains Hotel. She beelined for Pumulo’s office, the soft soles of her pumps barely making a sound.

She bee-lined for the boardroom where she found him with Sibeso and three other people she had never met before.

The secretary jumped to her feet.

”Excuse me, miss. This floor is out of bounds.”

Teliwe didn’t even look at her. She pushed the office door. empty.

Her jaw tightened. she swerved to face the secretary.

”Where is he?”

Her voice was low. Cold. Leaving no room for lies.

The secretary intimidated by her fierce look swallowed. ”He’s in a board meeting-wait.!’

But Teliwe was already halfway down the corridor.

‘Miss! You can’t go in there! Security-”

Teliwe didn’t slow down.

Bang!

She pushed open the boardroom door with force.

Pumulo stood abruptly. “Teli…”

The slap landed before he could finish her name. The room went silent.

She shoved the envelope into his chest. “How dare you, Pumulo!”

Gasps echoed around the table.

“Teli!” Sibeso exclaimed, hands raised.

“Aunt… you know her?” Nacilele whispered, wide-eyed.

“Yes,” Sibeso said carefully. “She was… she is your cousin’s friend.”

Pumulo stood, stepping toward her. “I can explain—”

“Don’t,” Teliwe cut in, voice low but shaking with fury. “Keep your explanations. I don’t want to hear a single word.”

He reached for her hand. She pulled back sharply.

“Stay away from me,” she spat.

No one moved. They had learned better than to interfere.

“I just wanted to make things right,” Pumulo said quietly, voice trembling.

“There is nothing you can ever say or do that will make what you did right. Nothing!”

He looked down. “I’m sorry.”

Teliwe’s eyes narrowed. “Your apologies mean nothing. Nothing.”

She turned on her heel and left, her footsteps echoing through the boardroom.

—–

Teliwe was already at the elevators. The doors slid open, and she stepped inside.

Sibeso sprinted to catch up, heart pounding, but the doors closed just as her fingers grazed the frame.

All she could see was Teliwe’s blazing glare burning through the glass – ice and fire in one look.

Not willing to give up, Sibeso bolted for the stairs. She raced down four flights like her life depended on it. Breathless, she reached the bottom just as Teliwe stepped out of the elevator.

Teliwe’s eyes were fixed straight ahead, her jaw tight, ready to pass by without a word.

Sibeso lunged and clamped her hand on Teliwe’s wrist. Nsemiwe was just coming around the corner when she came upon the scene.

”Teli, wait..’;

Teliwe flinched slightly at the touch but didn’t break her icy composure.

“With all due respect, Mrs. Akokwa…” she said, her voice sharper than a blade.

Sibeso’s hand fell instantly.

She flinched at the coldness in Teliwe’s tone. She had only ever been called “Mrs. Akokwa” once — when Pumulo had first introduced them. Sibeso had urged the girl to call her “mother,” seeing in Teliwe the future wife of her son, the mother of her grandchildren.

But then came Nsemiwe… and the bankruptcy.

“Teliwe, can you spare me a few minutes?” Sibeso asked, her voice trembling.

“You tell your son to leave me alone,” Teliwe said, and walked away.

Sibeso called after her, but Teliwe didn’t look back.
As she turned to head upstairs, Sibeso caught the sharp glare of her daughter-in-law. She froze for a heartbeat, then stepped aside and got into the elevator.

—-

She found Pumulo anxiously pacing the boardroom. Pumulo cursed under his breath when Sibeso shook her head at his unasked question.

“Son, what did you do to upset her? Have you been bothering her?”

“Sibeso, what is going on here? Who is that girl?” Inonge, Nacilele’s mother, asked.

“Her name is Teliwe. She…she is… Pumulo’s ex,” Sibeso said. Nacilele sank into her seat at the news.

“What did you do?” Sibeso asked

“I sent her tickets for an all-expense-paid trip to Zanzibar,” he said as he sat down, defeated. He had not expected her to react the way she had.

His sentence was followed by a chorused outcry of disbelief from his family. They were having the emergency board meeting that Teliwe had interrupted to see the way forward with the estimated pruning of over a thousand workers, and his careless spending did not sit well with them.

“Get over yourselves. A friend just repaid a debt he owed me. I thought Teli would make better use of it. I was wrong.”

“Oh, honey, you know Teli better than anyone. All she needs is time.”

Pumulo grabbed his car keys and walked out. By the time the family was getting home, he had not yet returned, and he wouldn’t pick up his calls.

NYAMBE RESIDENCE

“Aunt, do you think Pumulo still loves the girl?” Nacilele asked as they had dinner. She had been able to get Sibeso to tell them about him and Teliwe.

Nacilele needed to know all there was to know about her rival for Lemba’s heart.

“He never stopped loving her,” Sibeso said quietly

“Oh, there is my traitor of a family,” Nsemiwe said as she walked in, clapping her hands mockingly.

“Oh boy,” Inonge murmured as the others groaned. “It’s going to be a long night.”

“So, where is your son? Is he with that slut?” Nsemiwe demanded.

Sibeso chuckled, calm and unshaken. “Oh, that’s where the difference is clear. Teliwe is a lady. My son respects her—he would never disrespect her like that.”

“Wow! You are one crass mother. I am warning you and your son: I won’t take this lying down. I own all of you. I will pull out my investment. Let’s see if you can survive without my money!”

“Oh please,” Sibeso said, standing tall, eyes locked on the woman who had brought chaos into her family. “I am getting tired of your threats. Go ahead, pull out your investment if you must. Poverty is not the end of the world- we’ll survive. And you know what’s funny? You’re the one who will end up losing more.”

Sibeso turned and walked out, leaving Nsemiwe fuming, just as Pumulo stumbled in, whiskey bottle in hand. Bikusita rushed to steady him, helping him into a chair, while Sibeso froze in place, tears filling her eyes.

Pumulo, who had never touched alcohol before marrying Nsemiwe, now slumped in shame and pain. The realization that she had sold his soul to protect her lifestyle pierced Sibeso’s heart, tearing it to pieces.

Nacilele, returning with a bowl of water, began dabbing his forehead. Inonge slipped off his shoes. Sibeso dragged herself to Pumulo’s side.

“Oh, Pumulo, why are you doing this to yourself?” she whispered, her voice cracking.

“I had a good woman. The best a man could ever have… and I let her go. I want to forget. I can’t live with her hating me as she does. I… I just want to forget…” Pumulo sobbed, his drunken stupor leaving him raw and exposed.

“Oh God… what have I done? I’m sorry, my son,” Sibeso sobbed, kneeling beside him and taking the bottle away.

“I had a good woman, Mom. Teliwe… she was the best thing that ever happened to me. Now I am stuck with Jezebel.”

Nsemiwe, still fuming over the bathroom incident from weeks before, huffed and stomped off to her room, vowing to get even with the gardener.

🕸🕸🕸

BAROSTE PLAINS HOSPITAL

Three days after Clere discovered she was pregnant with Ian’s child, the man himself lay sprawled next to a girl who couldn’t have been more than fifteen. The same girl Clere and Monde had scouted weeks before on Atlantic Road, the infamous pimping street.

A sharp knock at the hotel room door jolted him awake. This was the very room where he had once negotiated Clere’s virginity in exchange for the company.

“Goddammit, I’m coming,” he growled, reaching for his robe.

He gave the girl a spank on her firm behind, promising himself another round once he dealt with whoever dared disturb him.

He had instructed his people: disturb me only if my mother—who had died twenty years ago—was on her deathbed.

He glanced at the girl beside him with a predatory satisfaction.

Soft, silky skin. Wild, just like he liked them. He was about to turn her and have his way with her when the door exploded off its hinges.

Four officers stormed in. One dashed to the girl, who, astonishingly, had slept through the chaos.

“What is this? Do you know who I am?” Ian barked.
One officer held up his badge. “Ian Anderson.”

“Yes? Then you know who I am. Leave immediately or—”
He was cut off as cuffs were slapped on him.

“You are under arrest for soliciting a prostitute and for sleeping with a minor.”

“What?” Ian stammered, his gaze snapping to the girl on the bed. Foam bubbled at her lips.

Paramedics rushed in, performing CPR.

“Take the damned cuffs off me! I demand release!”

It didn’t take long for the medics to determine she had overdosed. Ian refused to speak, thrashing as officers restrained him.

A glance at the table revealed a familiar clue: drugs. Half a kilo of cocaine lay in plain sight.

“Add drug possession to the list,” the officer noted grimly.
Ian sank to the floor, robe clinging, seething. “Tell those idiots to get these off me!”

LATER…

His lawyer, bald and stocky, leaned closer. “Ian, do you even realize the gravity here? The girl is a minor and a sex worker. Drugs were found in your possession. This is serious.”

“Do I look like I care?” Ian hissed. “I pay good money to make all this go away.”

Rough hands dragged him to his feet. The lawyer wiped sweat from his brow; if this didn’t end his career, nothing would. Ian was escorted down the service stairs, away from the prying media vultures, his protests fading.

Outside, a crowd of journalists jostled for photos, shouting questions. Clere watched silently from her van, Monde at her side.

As the van drove away, cuffs visible on Ian’s wrists, Clere allowed herself a small, victorious smirk-the first since discovering she was carrying his child.

Clere didn’t look away as they pushed him into the van.

🕸🕸🕸