The back gate of ZIA was a rusted, secondary entrance used mostly by the landscaping crews and students trying to avoid the heavy traffic of the main entrance. It was tucked behind a row of overgrown bougainvillea that dropped bright pink petals onto the cracked pavement.
Leya stood there, her cello case leaning against her leg. She told herself she was only here because she didn't have a ride home—her aunt was working a double shift at the clinic—but the way her heart hammered against her ribs told a different story.
A low rumble of an engine made her look up. A battered, silver hatchback pulled to the curb. It wasn't the sleek, black SUV that usually picked Zazu up.
The window rolled down. Zazu was behind the wheel, wearing a faded t-shirt instead of his school blazer. "Get in before Musi sees us and decides to make a documentary about it."
Leya hesitated. "Is this stolen?"
Zazu laughed, a real, unpracticed sound that made him look even younger. "It's my cousin's. He's a mechanic. He lets me use it when I need to be... well, not Zazu Tembo. Come on."
Leya climbed in, the interior smelling of old upholstery and peppermint. As they pulled away from the manicured lawns of Longacres, the city began to change. The wide, paved roads gave way to the narrow, bustling streets of the outskirts.
"Where are we going?" Leya asked, watching the roadside markets whiz by. Women were selling pyramids of tomatoes and charcoal, and the air was thick with the smell of roasting maize.
"Somewhere honest," Zazu said.
They stopped in a district called Kalingalinga. It was a maze of cinderblock houses and brightly painted storefronts. Zazu led her down a narrow alleyway to a heavy metal door painted a vibrant, peeling blue. He pulled out a key and swung it open.
Leya stepped inside and gasped. It was a warehouse, but the walls were covered from floor to ceiling in canvases. Some were massive, abstract splashes of copper and deep blue; others were intricate sketches of faces—people from the markets, miners with soot-stained eyes, children playing in the dust.
"You did these?" Leya whispered, walking toward a painting of a woman wrapped in a chitenge, her face a map of quiet strength.
"My parents want me to be an economist," Zazu said, closing the door behind them. The noise of the street muffled instantly. "They think I spend my afternoons at the library studying macro-trends. But I come here. This is the only place I don't feel like I'm being audited."
Leya turned to him. "Zazu, these are incredible. They're... they're real."
"That's the problem," he said, leaning against a worktable cluttered with charcoal sticks and palette knives. "Real doesn't sell 'National Unity.' Real doesn't look good on a campaign poster."
Leya walked to the center of the room. She felt a strange ache in her chest. For years, she had blamed the Tembos for everything she had lost. She had imagined them living a life of golden perfection, untouched by the mess of the world. But looking at Zazu's art, she saw the same isolation she felt.
"Why show me?" she asked.
"Because you're the only person who looks at me and doesn't see a hero," Zazu said, his voice steady. "And because I think you know what it's like to have a life that was decided for you before you were even born."
He walked over to a corner and pulled a tarp off a smaller canvas. It was a sketch of a girl playing a cello. The lines were hurried but captured the exact way Leya had looked in the music room—hunched over, vulnerable, and fierce.
Leya felt her breath catch. "When did you...?"
"Yesterday," he admitted. "I couldn't get the sound of that note out of my head."
Leya reached out, her fingers hovering just inches from the charcoal lines. "People in London used to tell me I was lucky to leave. They said Zambia was a sinking ship. But coming back... seeing this... I realize I wasn't the only one who was sent away. You're still here, but you're just as exiled as I was."
Zazu stepped closer. The light from the high, dusty windows caught the gold in his eyes. "Maybe we can be exiled together then."
The tension in the room shifted. It wasn't about family names or copper mines or silver coins anymore. It was just two fifteen-year-olds in a dusty warehouse, realizing they weren't as alone as they thought.
Then, Zazu's phone buzzed on the table. The screen lit up: *MAMA - CALLING.*
The spell broke. Zazu looked at the phone, his face hardening back into the mask. "I have to go. If I'm late for dinner, she'll send the security detail looking for me."
"Of course," Leya said, her British accent returning like a cold front. "The Prince mustn't be late for the palace."
"Leya, don't," Zazu pleaded.
"It's fine, Zazu. Thank you for the tour." She picked up her cello case, her heart feeling heavier than the instrument. As they drove back toward the city, neither of them spoke.