The air hung thick with the scent of roasted maize and diesel fumes, a familiar cocktail in Lusaka. You stood backstage, your heart a drum solo against your ribs. The stage lights bathed the set in a warm orange glow, mirroring the sunset painting the sky outside. Tonight's play, a reimagining of Shakespeare's 'A Midsummer Night's Dream,' was your favorite. It wasn't about fame, nor money. It was about the magic of stories, the raw emotions that resonated between actors and audience. It was about escaping the reality of your life, even for a fleeting moment.
You weren't a star, not in the Hollywood sense. You were a local actress, known in the circles of Lusaka's theatre scene, adored by the regulars. You were good, people said, maybe even talented. But fame, the kind that came with fat paychecks, was elusive, a mirage shimmering on the horizon. You were broke, constantly battling the gnawing hunger of bills and overdue rent. The reality of your situation was a stark contrast to the fairy tales you breathed life into on stage.
Producers, those who held the keys to the kingdom of fame, wouldn't offer you roles. Not unless you were willing to play a different kind of role, an unspoken one. The price was always the same: your body. You had rejected them all, each time a dagger to your pride, a reminder of your vulnerability.
But your dreams were bleeding, gasping for air. You were tired of the struggle, the constant fear of losing your tiny apartment, the shame of asking for help. One day, during a particularly brutal performance, a shadow fell across the stage. A man in a crisp suit sat in the front row, his eyes fixed on you. He was old, his face etched with the lines of time, but his gaze held a glint of appreciation.
His name was Mr. Chiluba, a wealthy businessman, a titan in the Lusaka market. He came backstage, his smile a beacon of hope in your desperate world. He offered you a life, a life where you could act without the constant struggle. He would support you, your dreams, your future. He had everything you lacked, money, power, connections.
The whispers started almost immediately. 'She sold her soul for money,' they said. 'She's a gold digger.' You heard it all, the judgment dripping from their tongues like venom. Your friends, the ones who had always promised to stand by you, were the loudest. They had chosen stability, the security of a 'normal' life, and now, they were struggling. Their marriages had crumbled, their dreams had faltered, and they saw your choice as a betrayal, a reminder of their own failures.
But you had made your choice. You married Mr. Chiluba. He provided you with a life beyond your wildest dreams. You had a beautiful house, a stable income, and the freedom to pursue your passion. You had two children, both your pride and joy. You were acting, performing for a wider audience, your talent finally blooming under the spotlight.
The world saw your success, but they didn't see the sacrifices you made. The loneliness that hung like a shroud in your luxurious home, the constant fear that your love was a facade, a transaction. Your heart ached for the friends you had lost, the life you had envisioned, but you had made your peace. You had chosen, and you were living with the consequences.
One night, after a performance, you sat in your comfortable armchair, a glass of wine in your hand. You looked at your children, their laughter echoing through the house. A pang of guilt pierced your heart. Was this what you had truly desired? Was this happiness, or was it just the illusion of it?
You were a successful actress, a wife, a mother. But you were also a woman who had made a choice, a choice that had come with a heavy price. You were a story sculpted by ambition, desire, and the relentless reality of survival. You were a testament to the complexities of life, the difficult choices we make, and the consequences that follow us, like shadows, even when we are bathed in the warm glow of success.
