The heat of Lusaka clung to you like a second skin. Even the shade of the mango tree outside the house offered little respite. You watched Mr. Patrick, his jovial laugh echoing through the house as he bantered with your madam. He was a ray of sunshine, his warmth radiating like a beacon, pulling you in.
He was everything you longed for - a man with a heart of gold, a gentle hand, and eyes that sparkled with mischief. You, a young woman barely out of your teens, had found yourself drawn to him from the moment you started working as the househelp in their home.
Every morning, you’d wake up with a silent prayer, wishing you were the one he woke up next to. Every evening, you’d watch them dance in the living room, their laughter filling the air, and you’d ache with a silent envy. He was so kind, so attentive to your madam, and you wished, with a fervent hope, that you were the one receiving those gestures.
Your madam, a woman kind and generous, never suspected your secret longings. She treated you with respect, offering you opportunities to learn and grow. But each time Mr. Patrick showered her with affection, you felt a pang of jealousy, a deep-rooted ache in your heart.
One night, the yearning became unbearable. You couldn’t bear the silence of your room, the echoes of their laughter lingering in your ears. You found yourself drawn to the study, where Mr. Patrick was working late, the dim light casting shadows across his face. The opportunity felt too tempting to ignore.
Your heart pounded in your chest as you confessed your feelings, your voice barely above a whisper. He looked at you, his face shocked, his eyes filled with bewilderment. Then, the warmth faded, replaced by a coldness that sent shivers down your spine. He spoke, his tone firm, his words cutting through your hopes like a knife.
“This is wrong,” he said, his voice laced with disappointment. “You need to respect me and my wife. I love my wife, and nothing will ever change that.”
He told you to leave the room, to never utter those words again. The shame, the disappointment, the crushing weight of his rejection left you breathless. You retreated to your room, tears blurring your vision.
The days that followed were a blur of awkward silences and strained interactions. Mr. Patrick, once so easygoing and approachable, became distant, avoiding you at all costs. You tried to stay away, to keep your head down, but the memories of his rejection clung to you.
Your madam, perceptive and kind, sensed the shift in the atmosphere. She asked you if you had done something to offend her husband. You lied, your heart twisting with guilt, unable to confess the truth.
The tension became unbearable. You felt suffocated, trapped in a home that had become a prison of your own making. Your heart ached, and you realized you couldn't stay. You needed to escape, to find solace in the familiar embrace of your village.
You told your madam you needed to visit your mother, a convenient white lie that allowed you to flee the situation. Back in your village, you confided in your mother, the weight of your heartbreak spilling out. She, a woman of wisdom and experience, took you to a herbalist, a man known for his mystical remedies and love spells.
He listened to your tale, his eyes twinkling with an understanding that sent a shiver down your spine. He requested a piece of Mr. Patrick's clothing, a tangible link to the man you desired.
You returned to your madam's house, your heart pounding in your chest. You snuck into Mr. Patrick's closet, stealing a shirt, a small piece of his essence. You returned to the herbalist, the stolen shirt clutched to your breast like a holy relic.
The herbalist took the shirt, his hands moving with practiced ease. He chanted in a language you didn't understand, the words echoing around his small hut, the scent of incense filling the air. You watched, your hope flickering, your anxiety mounting. He had promised to cast a spell, a powerful potion to capture Mr. Patrick's heart, to make him see you as more than just a househelp.
But as you left the herbalist’s hut, the weight of what you had done settled upon you. You had crossed a line, a barrier of respect and boundaries. You had delved into the realm of manipulation, seeking love through a forbidden path. As you walked back to your madam’s house, the sun setting over Lusaka in a fiery blaze, you couldn't help but wonder if this stolen love would come at a price.
