The InterContinental Lusaka was transformed into a sea of copper silk and white orchids. This was the "New Zambia" at its most polished—a room full of people who had spent the last decade rewriting the country's history.
Leya stood in the wings of the ballroom, her cello case between her feet. She wore a simple, sleeveless black dress her aunt had altered from a thrift shop find. She looked like a shadow in a room full of neon lights. Through the heavy velvet curtain, she could see the Tembos.
Mwansa Tembo was holding court near the stage, laughing with the Minister of Mines. Beside him, Chileshe Tembo looked like a statue carved from obsidian and gold. They looked untouchable.
"They don't bite," a voice whispered behind her.
Leya jumped. Zazu was standing there, looking stifled in a formal tuxedo. His bow tie was perfectly straight—no doubt his mother's doing—but his eyes were restless.
"They don't have to bite to be dangerous," Leya said, her British accent returning as a reflex. "They just have to exist."
Zazu stepped closer, glancing toward the curtain. "My mother is already asking why the 'Kapiri girl' was chosen for the solo. Musi's father spent the cocktail hour whispering in her ear. You have to be perfect, Leya. Not just good. Perfect."
"I'm not doing this for them," she said, though her hands were cold.
"I know. Do it for the girl in the music room."
The lights in the ballroom dimmed. The hum of conversation died down. The school's chamber orchestra took their seats, but the center stool remained empty for a beat too long.
Leya walked out.
The silence that greeted her was heavy. She saw the way Chileshe Tembo's glass paused mid-air. She saw Musi's father lean over to whisper something to the Headmaster. She was a Kapiri on a stage built by the Tembos. It felt like an execution.
She sat down, the cello cold against her legs. She looked out into the crowd and found Zazu. He wasn't sitting with the dignitaries; he was standing at the back, his arms crossed, watching her with an intensity that made the rest of the room blur.
The conductor raised his baton for the Vivaldi piece they had rehearsed.
Leya took a breath. She looked at the gold-leaf ceiling, at the expensive watches and the smug smiles. She thought about the council flat in London. She thought about her mother's letters from the facility.
She didn't play Vivaldi.
She struck a low, jarring chord that vibrated through the floorboards—the same raw, mourning note she had played in the music room. The orchestra hesitated, confused. The conductor froze.
Leya didn't stop. She launched into the piece she and Zazu had rehearsed in the dark—a frantic, rhythmic melody that captured the chaos of the city outside these walls. It was the sound of the markets, the dust, the struggle, and the pride. It was beautiful, and it was undeniably Zambian.
The room was paralyzed. This wasn't the "safe" classical music they expected. This was a confrontation.
As she hit the final, soaring note, she didn't wait for applause. She stood up, gripped her cello, and walked off the stage.
The silence lasted for five seconds before a single person started clapping.
It was Zazu.
Slowly, others joined in—mostly the younger guests and a few faculty members—but the front row remained frozen. Chileshe Tembo's face was unreadable. Musi's father looked livid.
Leya ducked into the dressing room, her heart hammering. She started packing her cello with shaking hands.
"That was suicide," a voice said from the doorway.
It wasn't Zazu. It was Chileshe Tembo.
The woman walked into the small room, her presence so commanding that the air seemed to vanish. She looked at Leya, her eyes scanning the cheap fabric of her dress, the scuffed cello case, and finally, her face.
"You have your mother's stubbornness," Chileshe said, her voice like velvet-wrapped steel. "And her penchant for theatrics."
"I played what was true," Leya said, forcing her voice to remain steady.
"Truth is expensive, Leya. Usually more than a scholarship can cover." Chileshe stepped closer. "My son thinks he is helping you. He thinks he is being a hero. But Zazu doesn't understand that some debts can't be settled with a song."
"I don't want his help," Leya lied.
"Good. Because if you continue to be a 'distraction' for him, I won't need a school board to vote you out. I'll simply make sure there is no school left for you to attend."
Chileshe turned to leave, but stopped at the door. "The performance was... impressive. But don't mistake my compliment for an invitation. Stay away from my son."
She vanished, leaving Leya alone in the dim light.
A moment later, Zazu appeared, breathless. "Leya! That was—"
"Go away, Zazu," she said, not looking up.
"What? Why? The Headmaster is actually talking to the board, they're impressed—"
"Your mother was just here," Leya said, finally looking at him. Her eyes were hard. "She's right. This isn't a movie, Zazu. We aren't going to be friends. We aren't going to fix anything. Every time you try to 'save' me, you just make the debt heavier."
"Leya, I don't care what she says."
"Well, I do! Because I'm the one who loses everything if this fails. You? You just go back to being the Prince." She shoved her case past him. "Stay in your palace, Zazu. I'm going home."
She brushed past him, leaving him standing in the hallway of the hotel his parents owned, more alone than he had ever been.
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