The boardroom at the Zambia International Academy didn't just hold meetings; it held court. High up in the administrative wing, the room was a fortress of polished rosewood, glass, and the stifling arrogance of men who believed they were the architects of the nation.
At 9:00 AM sharp, the air was thick with the scent of expensive cologne and the rustle of high-yield bonds. Musi's father, Arthur Monde, sat at the head of the table. He was a man who looked like he was made of sharp angles and expensive tailoring. He tapped a gold fountain pen against the table, a rhythmic, predatory sound.
"The business is simple," Arthur said, his voice a smooth baritone. "The Kapiri debt has moved from a moral failing to a legal liability. With the destruction of the data last night, we move to seize the collateral and finalize the expulsion. Do I have the signatures?"
"Not quite," a voice rang out.
The heavy double doors swung open. Leya walked in, her cello case slung over her shoulder like a quiver of arrows. Behind her was Zazu, his expression a mask of stony, untouchable calm.
"This is a closed session, Miss Kapiri," Arthur snapped, his eyes narrowing. "Your presence here is a trespass. Security!"
"Actually," Zazu said, stepping forward and dropping a heavy, leather-bound volume onto the table—the 1992 Charter from Mrs. Mulenga's archive. "As the Secretary of the Heritage Society, I'm here to exercise our right of oversight. And as for the trespass..."
Leya stepped up to the table. She didn't look like the girl who had been hiding in the music room. She looked like the woman her mother had sacrificed everything for. She pulled a single, notarized document from her blazer pocket and slid it across the polished wood.
"That is a Reversion of Title notice," Leya said, her British accent ringing out with the clarity of a bell. "Signed and stamped by the Ministry of Lands twenty minutes ago."
Arthur Monde picked up the paper, his smirk remaining—until his eyes reached the third paragraph. The color didn't just drain from his face; it evaporated.
"What is this?" he hissed.
"It's a history lesson," Leya replied. "In 1992, my mother didn't donate the land to the school. She donated it to a Trust—a Trust that stipulates the land must be used for the 'Advancement of the People.' By attempting to seize my aunt's home for private faculty use, you violated the terms of the Trust."
"The land doesn't belong to the Board anymore, Mr. Monde," Zazu added, leaning over the table. "It has reverted to the heirs of the Kapiri estate. Which means, as of nine o'clock this morning, the Zambia International Academy is sitting on private property. Leya's property."
The room went into a tailspin. Board members who had been nodding along with Arthur seconds ago were now whispering frantically.
"This is a technicality!" Arthur roared, slamming his fist on the table. "I built this wing! I funded the labs!"
"And you did it on land you didn't own," Leya countered. She leaned in, her voice dropping to a dangerous, steady whisper. "I'm not interested in your labs, Mr. Monde. But I am interested in the resignation of the Chairman. If you sign a letter of stepping down today, I will grant the school a ninety-nine-year lease for the price of one Kwacha."
"And if I don't?"
Leya looked at the cello case, then back at him. "Then I serve the school an eviction notice by noon. I'm sure the press would love to know why the most prestigious academy in the country is being shut down because its Chairman tried to steal a flat from a clinic worker."
Arthur looked around the table. He looked at the other board members, but they were already looking away, distancing themselves from a sinking ship. He looked at Zazu, and then at the door, where his own son, Musi, was standing in the shadows, watching his father's empire crumble.
With a trembling hand, Arthur Monde picked up his gold pen. The silence was so heavy you could hear the ink hitting the paper.
As the meeting adjourned and the members scurried out, avoiding Leya's gaze, Zazu walked over to her. The adrenaline was still humming between them, an electric current that made the air feel thin.
"You did it," Zazu whispered. "You didn't just save your scholarship. You took the whole school."
Leya looked at the empty chairman's chair. She didn't feel like a victor. She felt like a girl who had finally stopped running. "We took it, Zazu. But look at the door."
Chileshe Tembo was standing there. She hadn't been part of the meeting, but she had seen the aftermath. She didn't look angry; she looked like a general who had just lost her best soldier to the enemy.
"A brilliant move, Leya," Chileshe said, her voice echoing in the empty room. "Lombe would be proud. But remember—when you own the land, you own the people on it. And the people are a much heavier debt to carry than the money ever was."
She turned her gaze to Zazu. "Your father is waiting for you at home, Zazu. He isn't interested in your signatures. He's interested in your loyalty. Choose wisely."