The ZIA auditorium was a cavernous space of velvet and polished teak. At night, with only the emergency lights on, it felt less like a school and more like a tomb.
Leya sat center stage, her cello a dark silhouette against the rows of empty seats. She wasn't practicing the concerto the school had assigned her. She was playing something disjointed—staccato notes that sounded like rain hitting a tin roof.
"You're late," she said, without turning around.
Zazu stepped out of the shadows of the wings. He had swapped his school blazer for a heavy hoodie, his hands shoved deep into his pockets. "I had to wait for the night watchman to finish his rounds. My mother thinks I'm at a late-night debate prep."
"The Prince of Zambia, sneaking around in the dark," Leya murmured, a ghost of a smile touching her lips before she suppressed it. "If you get caught, I'm the one who gets expelled. You just get a stern talking-to."
"I won't get caught," Zazu said, sitting on the edge of the stage, his legs dangling over the orchestra pit. "Play it again. The part that sounds like the Kalingalinga markets."
Leya hesitated, then drew her bow. This was the piece she was writing in secret—a mix of the rigid classical training she'd received in London and the rhythmic, soulful pulse of the Lusaka streets she remembered from her childhood.
As the music filled the hall, Zazu didn't just listen. He pulled out a piece of charcoal and a scrap of paper, his hand moving in sync with her bow. They didn't speak. For the first time, they weren't a Tembo and a Kapiri; they were just two creators trying to make something that wasn't a lie.
"The board won't like it," Zazu said when the last note faded. "They want *Vivaldi*. They want to feel like they're in a European capital, not in Africa."
"Then they shouldn't have invited a Kapiri," Leya said, her British accent returning, cold and defensive. "I'm not a lounge act, Zazu."
"I know you aren't. But you need to be smart. If you go out there and offend Musi's father on purpose, you're handed them the scissors to cut your scholarship."
Leya stood up, her cello case clicking shut with a finality that echoed. "Why do you care so much? Is this some kind of guilt trip? Are you trying to balance the family ledger by saving the poor orphan?"
Zazu stood up, his face hardening. "Stop doing that. Stop assuming everything I do is about my parents. I'm helping you because you're the only person in this entire city who looks at me and sees a person, not a political career. If you leave, I'm back to being a statue."
The air between them was thick, charged with the kind of tension that usually leads to a fight or a mistake.
"You're not a statue, Zazu," Leya whispered, her voice losing its London edge. "Statues don't have charcoal stains on their fingers."
She reached out, her hand hovering near his, but before she could touch him, the heavy double doors at the back of the auditorium creaked open.
A flashlight beam cut through the darkness, blinding them.
"Who's in there?" a rough voice shouted. It was the head of campus security.
"Run," Zazu hissed.
He grabbed Leya's hand—not her cello, but her hand—and pulled her toward the stage-left exit. They sprinted through the dark corridors, their breathing loud and synchronized, the thrill of the escape momentarily drowning out the weight of their names.
They reached the back gate, gasping for air, the cool night wind hitting their sweaty faces. Zazu didn't let go of her hand.
"Friday night," he panted. "Don't play what they want. Play what makes them uncomfortable. It's the only way they'll respect you."
Leya looked down at their joined hands, then up at his eyes. She realized then that this wasn't just about a scholarship anymore. She was starting to owe him something that couldn't be measured in Kwacha.
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